Glory Ho

In the early days of my pregnancy, I read Loving Frank, historical fiction which details the affair between architect Frank Lloyd Wright and Mamah Borthwick, a feminist at the turn of the century. It was magnificent. Everything I devour. A story with some truth. Real people from the past. Womanhood. Choices. Tragedy. Bits of my local Boulder. But most of all, it was a follow up feminist meets motherhood tale.

Growing up, I always thought I would be a Mom. Wasn’t that what women did? At the time, there were no childless couples in my small world. Kate Chopin’s The Awakening stirred my senses a bit in college. The heroine had children, but she dared to be as interested in her own passions as she was in them, and that was considered a scandal. Her conclusion was important. She said: I would die for my children, but I would not give my life for my children. This seemed to say that it was possible to have kids and maintain your self, too. I ran that by my Mom once as we were driving along I-80. She agreed wholeheartedly. And I was relieved.

As I evolved through my 20s, I always felt that feminism didn’t really work for me–couldn’t I be a good Mom AND my own person (with possibly a career) too? Why did feminism have to bash motherhood and why did motherhood have to bash feminism? Why was everyone so extreme? But this was the 90s, when a career just seemed like a good idea. I had yet to evolve.

From there, I began to settle into life, becoming enthralled with various pursuits–triathlons, non-profit volunteerism, book clubs, local feminism history, my own business and Buddhism.  I became so interested in life, that I realized I would fill it up–even without kids. It was strange to consider, but the notion eventually sounded normal instead of neanderthal. I met people without kids. And I liked them. I hadn’t made any decisions, but I realized that I had a choice. My mother, afraid to pressure me, encouraged me to do what was right for me. “Maybe you guys won’t have kids. That’s fine, too.”

Then we left the country. The idea of kids hovered overhead, sometimes part of the smog we inevitably breathed, other times, the very stars we wished we could see. We talked endlessly about future plans because that’s what you do in the Peace Corps. Would we live in DC and work for the campaigns? Teach English in Korea? Spend time in India? Move back into our house on Emerson?

It was such a paradox. We KNEW we wanted kids, but they were always the leftover screw after you thought you’d successfully put together the $99 entertainment center from Target. Where did they fit? But at that time, any ideas about home were far too surreal for concrete plans and we knew nothing could really happen until we were within a two mile radius of a Walgreens anyway. We’d successfully put it off again.

But Wanderlust or Bust opened portals to worlds we’d never even pondered. And although deep down, I knew the answer, there was a shift in my thought pattern that took me from “generally agreeable” to “ready”.

At first, I thought it was when a sick, sixteen month old Ugandan baby called Innocent fell asleep against my chest when we were living in a thatch-roof hut in West-Central UgandaLake Nkuruba teaching daily Social Studies classes and evening computer classes to orphans. But that’s not right. It was a week or so later, when we visited Sarah Burke, a Peace Corps volunteer. She was young, with naturally curly blonde hair, a subscription to Sun and a very optimistic aura. I was taking in her modest African bedroom–you know, the predictable photo of girlfriends gathered on the beach, demonstrating their loyalty through linked arms and tilted head smiles. And instead of reminding me of my own college memories, I instinctively thought: I hope our daughter one day has a bulletin board filled with the celebration of good friends and good times. I was thinking about a daughter I would one day have. I was instinctively projecting my own hopes onto someone other than myself. And I wasn’t pregnant.

That was the hour I first believed. The hour I first knew for sure, that I wanted to create a new life. Creation, no matter what you’re working with, is what life’s all about anyway. Right Brent?

We’d been dreading Cairo for a long time. Pyramids or not, it didn’t seem to please many people. Matt and Olivia vowed never to return. Koubi and Carey advised us to see the required wonders and get the hell out. Everyone told us that the chaos, the hassle, the pollution and the traffic was just barely worth our time. In Jerusalem and Jordan, the tourist trail had been inevitable. To find feeling, we’d had to look a little harder. So it went with Cairo.

And suffice to say, I hope I never find myself there again.

I must admit, the chaos was initially intoxicating. Black and white lada taxis, some with the horn of a 1930s jalopy, others mimicking a low train whistle, honked and gunned and weaved through intersections. Turbans and gallebeyas created a city of sheesha-smoking ghosts, who went inside from the alley teahouse five times a day to pray, careful to keep up their forehead rug-burn. Women emerged at night, arm in arm in arm, to shop and stroll. Their luridly colored halters and headscarves, layered atop long-sleeved shirts coordinated well with mango and raspberry ice cream cones from the crazy bakery, where you’d think they were selling American visas instead of dry macaroons.

The gender-separated subway cars were kinda funny–even if the ladies sometimes stared icily at my whorish clothing and bare arms. Flat-bottom family-filled boats fished up and down the River Nile, while the corniche served as a lover’s lane every Saturday afternoon. Food was cheap and good–sometimes twice a day, we savored the “mixed sandwich”, falafel, fuul (mashed beans) salad, eggplant and French fries for about 45 cents. Our $7/night, rooftop hostel, despite its vibrating 1950s washing machine, packs of cats, lazy clerks and 5 x 5 rooms (the only thing funny about this is that you think I’m kidding), was a garden oasis for evening beers and cool breezes. And Michael’s traditional dress and hat were a hit, to be sure.

But Egypt was undoubtedly dark. Overcharged on everything from books to chocolate bars, buying anything was a battle. The art-deco architecture, once nouveau, was furry with dust, yet bistros still asked minimum cover charges for mere fingerprints of faded charm. Garbage and dirt piled wherever no one was living—on rooftops, like weedy, wilted wreaths around the hundreds of satellite dishes, or on the spiral staircased fire escapes, which hid in the vertical tunnel of every building. Policemen wore bright white uniforms and with the truly perilous Cairo traffic, it’s no wonder. They mostly stood around smoking. And Egypt was too clever for a tourist’s good. By creating non-existent jobs to boost employment, poor Egyptians are paid almost nothing to distribute tissue, push buttons and close doors. In turn, those same clerks beg for tips from you. And for reasons which remain unclear, on every restaurant bill was a service charge, which, incidentally, has nothing to do with your server’s tip.

An errand to buy more tissue or fresh water was an obstacle course of brazen sexual harassment and offers for directions which instead led to a papyrus or perfume shop. And our time there, three weeks in total due to some flight and planning debacles, was not what I would call “fun”.

However, as we approach our 150th day of travel, it is quite evident that travel and work have a few things in common. Just as the managers who taught you the most are rarely the ones who would waste an hour playing foozball on break, the most intriguing cultures, those which provide the most lessons are not always the giver of good times.

I would never recommend Cairo, but I will never regret it. More is coming. . .

We’re not the guided tour type. Museums are not our thing. Quite frankly, they are for people who prefer to be led and handheld as they walk through an unfamiliar neighborhood. Which is fine. For everyone else.

But in Jerusalem, there was just too much relevant history to avoid the whole cross-bearing, guilt-smothered enchilada. I mean, there are places here like Nazareth. Gallilee. Bethlehem. Judea. Jericho. We wanted information, explanations, theories, anecdotes and answers.

My first attempt to fling myself off the nearest religious rooftop came after we spent an hour and a half worth of walking and busing to reach the beginning of our tour, when we were actually STAYING in the heart of the Old City, the subject of our tour.

My second came when I realized the size of our tour: Fifty people.

Number three came when the information being offered was nothing more than I’d already read in my nifty Lonely Planet Guide.

But the final blow arrived when we were led into a tourist shop, handed out baskets and assured of the handmade status of each carved cross and turquoise bracelet.

As the tour continued, I foolishly attempted to soothe myself by connecting to the others in this predicament. Surely they were also disappointed in this $42 complete waste of time and money. Surely they wanted to commiserate with me. Surely they would accompany me to the tourist office to complain. Yet it was clear from their very zombie-like stares and video-cam screens that the tour had met their expectations.

The only thing worse than disappointment is finding no one who can relate to your complaint.

And no, there is no dirt-deep lesson about this story except do not take guided tours.

See my in misery here:

Mesopotamia (modern day Iraq) means between two rivers. In this case, the Euphrates and the Tigris. This ancient land was where agriculture (hey, maybe we should grow something and then eat it! Or sell it!) and writing (hey, if I write it down now, I can look it up later!) were actually INVENTED. First it was the Sumerians as early as 23rd Century BC, then a ruler by the name of Nebuchadnezzar (have you seen the Matrix?) presided over the Babylonians.

I don’t know how to say this, but I mean, that’s kind of a big deal.

Today, a taxi drove us to Dohuk today in Northwest Iraq. We rode through long stretches of sandy wasteland, squat cinderblock villages and checkpoints with Barzani photos. We passed the road to Mosul and Baghdad. (We were 30 miles from Mosul, if you must know.)

We whizzed by a celebrating wedding party in the cracked landscape. A community of mud huts with a proud UN Flag was a refugee camp for PKK families. Dohuk was happier, more hospitable and more articulate than Erbil. Whatever message we implicitly received along its streets had been carved into the air with care and pride. The town was at the foot of one-dimensional, movie-set mountains, much like the Flatirons from Highway 91. Below, the pink, blue and yellow houses of a Christmas-tree sheltered 1970’s train set city lacked only the open-book roofs to make it a Rocky Mountain mining town.

The next day we rode further north. As the grassless, rocky foothills of the depressing landscape became mountains, they formed the long backsides of a stegosaurus or brontosaurus. Amedya was a village on a plateau pedestal, with the carved white gates of Mosul, now cracked and neglected, serving as a shepherds cliff-side refuge.

A family (I think three of these women are wives) in Amedya. Nothing too new. We were served food and drink in two different homes–sometimes a stone shack, other times a furnished house. Everyone was bewildered, but kind.

On this one hundred and thirty fourth day on our life in the Middle East, cultural differences had become mere nuances. The dash of sugar thrown into the stew, the right clogs with an outfit.

Until we visited Lalesh, the principal holy site of the Yezidi people. While the Yezidis are ethnically and culturally Kurdish and they speak Kurmanji, (Northern Kurdish), their religious beliefs distinguish them from Iraqi’s Muslim majority.

Yezidism, with flavors of Christianity, Islam and paganism , believe that they are all descendants of Adam, rather than Eve. They worship Melek Taus, a peacock, which they consider to be the leader of the archangels. Just as this archangel was given the choice for good or evil by God himself, (he chose good) the potential for both exists in human beings.

Are you still with me?

It gets better, or rather, worse. Superstitious laws of purity govern the Yezidi community with a freshly scrubbed and fierce hand. The color blue cannot be worn. Stepping on the threshold of any temple is forbidden. Spitting on any of the four elements, earth, air, water or fire, is considered impure. Perhaps most narrow-minded, is that Yezidi communities believe that contact with non-Yezidi people is polluting to the spirit and soul. Sharing such items as dishes or blankets with outsiders is forbidden. They do not allow converts and marrying outside the religion is viewed as cause for exorcism from society or honor killing. Sometimes, as a YouTube video exposed, in the form of a public stoning. In 2007, Du’a Khalil Aswad was stoned to death for her involvement with a Muslim boy. I still shudder at the thought.

This is not an uncommon practice and not confined to the Yezidi region of Iraq.
However, as Michael learned about the roots of Mormonism in Under the Banner of Heaven, as we stood within the circle of Christianity’s parables and miracles in Jerusalem and as we’ve struggled to focus on the ever-blurry line between the culture and religion of Muslim countries, one thing has become apparent. All religion, at face value, without promotion, politics or emotion, to someone equipped with an average amount of reasoning, sounds a little wack. Yet we must respect the beliefs of those we encounter.

Yezidism is no different, right? This is what I try and tell myself.

But I just can’t do it anymore. Throughout our travels, we are constantly forced to honor the religion around us. To adapt to misogynistic customs and oppressive rules. To listen with the polite expression of a guest and preserve what’s left of the tattered American image. And we’re usually doing this as they explain to us just what’s wrong with the United States.

Honor killings are wrong. And I’m ashamed that we wandered around with these Yezidis without pressing the issue.

I’d heard the stew-brewing controversy about the headscarf ban a few years ago, but I never really got it. I remember thinking: A majority of Turkey’s population are Muslim, so what’s the deal? The protests surrounding restrictions in French schools seemed to further submerge the issue in a murky bath of obvious modesty, yet nonconforming rebellion. Confused and not terribly concerned, I forgot all about it.

But a few trips to Istanbul during our Peace Corp service planted a couple quickly flowering plants in my ever-expanding, but weedy, garden of ideas. So what was the headscarf ban all about? Should women be allowed to wear these seemingly harmless hijabs in government-funded environments?

Our couchsurfing friend, Sez, thinks yes. But while he believes women should be able to express their own interpretations of the Koran in any way they choose, he also urged his own sisters, upon approaching adolescence, to abstain. Why? Because in Turkey, you must choose. Hijab-free, you can attend high school and university. With it, you’re forced to self-study. According to him, the Qur’an says merely to “cover yourself” but does not specify how. He feels they should not forsake their education for this amorphous rule–and that going without a headscarf does not make one less Muslim.

Now in Turkey for more than two weeks, I am no longer just reading a story about a clandestine book club amidst a Muslim community. Nor are my impressions captured within the confines of a two hour film about an American trying to escape her Iranian husband.

I understand now that this country is a lot more like Europe than the Middle East. A lot more like Greece than Iran. As I shop for groceries. . .as I walked home in the dark last night to the sound of the eternally haunting call to prayer. . .as I ride the subway with Ipod-clutching, paisley-pattern-covered, and generously eye-lined 17-year olds, I am here.

From this vantage point, complications fall away with ease. Clarity emerges. Just like in the US, some people go to church and some people don’t. Some find strength in the holy spirit, others in running triathlons and still others in restoring vintage pinball machines. It’s your choice. And similar trends shine through as well. When heading from Chicago to Sheboygan, bible ownership and potluck suppers probably increase. Similarly, Islam is more apparent in the village than in Istanbul. Women here just happen to wear their Allah-worshiping heart on their sleeve. I can see how it’s really none of anyone else’s business.

So, again, why the headscarf ban?

In short, so Turkey can maintain the glowing impression I’ve just received. Straddling the East West fault-line in many ways, they want to appear European, dedicated to secularism enough, to wash from their billowing, balcony-hung flags, any wrinkle of a potential return to an Islamic state–a place where religion and government are one, public hangings and stonings actually happen and women aren’t allowed an education. On the lengthy Turkish timeline, it was “just” a century ago that the Ottoman Empire fell and a guy named Ataturk led the Turkish National Movement, helping to establish a modern, secular Turkish democracy. And thank God (or maybe not, depending on your denomination) that he did.

In America, for the most part, we’re comfortable with yamikas, headscarves, beards, aprons, crosses or robes–whatever you deem spiritually fashionable. Maybe because religious freedom was one of our nation’s founding principles. Or maybe because there is no fear, in America, of returning to some Quaker or Christian state. However, America IS fond of what Michael calls “bright lines”; enforced laws drawn in the sand (or in our case, grass) which are relatively unsusceptible to corruption. And as much as I eventually warmed up to the benefits of a bendable rules in Bulgaria, defined lines, such as a ban on headscarves, are a characteristic of a developed country. One that works. Moreover, who knows how the United States would react (perhaps a la the French) if we had an overwhelmingly large Muslim population throwing a little too much religion into the classroom. It’s tough to say.

Strange, isn’t it that the very law which drives Turkish women away from formal education is the same one meant to make Turkey a more modern, more Western place. But so it is. And with neighbor Iran demonstrating the very Islamic state at the end of a slippery slope Turkey is struggling so desperately to avoid, I’m starting to get it. Why the headscarf is a halo of heated controversy. Why the ban is actually protecting women from a potentially worse fate. Why different laws work for different countries. Why Turkey is holding their ground.

I’ve never been much for fantasy or science fiction books. Apart from an obsession with unicorns at a very young age, I just didn’t get it. But every few years, a new one lands on my nightstand. And every time, there seems to be some poignancy to its presence.

I read Gate to Women’s Country back in 2000, the result of a book club full of women very different from myself. These members dabbled in Dungeons and Dragons. Some crafted annual costumes for participation in the Colorado Renaissance Festival. Many owned a personal copy of the Star Wars Trilogy. They were well-read, good at HTML, lacked social skills and their intelligence often made my head spin. At 23, I sat in their suburban homes, with my hangovers and highlighted hair, desperately trying to avoid their cats. I’m sure most of them wondered how I got invited.

But they looked at life in a different way and Gate to Women’s Country helped me do the same. It’s about a “post-holocaust dystopia” which challenges the molds of traditional gender roles, exposes the weaknesses of violence and demonstrates the potential of feminist ideals in a primitive environment. I loved it. And I gained great respect for an author who could create a whole world of customs, myths and language. I realized what a different challenge it must be than writing about everyday life, relationships and tragedies. Though I did not know it at the time, the author, Sherri S. Tepper, was a former president of Planned Parenthood of the Rocky Mountains. It would be another two years before I began a five year volunteer career of lobbying, phone-banking, fundraising and rallying for this organization, but I know that somehow, this book unrolled a canvas of context for my future.

Then there was Wicked, which I wrote about a few months ago.

Last week, as a goodbye present, some Bulgarian friends (Ani & Michel gave us The Hobbit, a precursor to a little book-turned-film trilogy called Lord of the Rings. When Peter Jackson brought this story out of hibernation a few years back, it didn’t interest me much. All I knew was that I hadn’t seen Elijah Wood since the Good Son and there’d been no sign of Sean Astin since Goonies. But I was living with Boudreaux then. As a child, his father had read him most of the series. He was excited, so I went along, enduring hour upon hour of these epic productions. Again, appreciation and comprehension replaced my bewilderment. And as Homer Simpson once said to Lisa: Just because I don’t care, doesn’t mean I don’t understand.

Maybe I wanted to legitimately denounce these silly books. Maybe Poetry Thursday has made me a little more whimsical Or. Maybe. As someone who is likely to let practicality and haste squelch spontaneity and imagination, I knew it would be good for me.

And now I see how The Hobbit is an enabler. It leads me toward creation. Without excessive description, but using matter-of-fact, grandfather-in-the-Princess-Bride-poise, Tolkien tells me that goblins are good miners and that elves know all the gossip first and somehow make me believe it. And without fancy phantasmagoric adjectives, I am forced to conjure my own images of trolls, dwarves and talking eagles.

The story is about a cautious creature who has always preferred his own breakfast nook to a bodacious adventure. But because Gandalf the Wizard saw potential in Bilbo the Hobbit, and was compelled to test his courage and wisdom, he is on a quest to slay Smaug the Dragon.

I know, I know, I can hardly believe I’m reading it myself. But guess what? In the last few months, like Bilbo the Hobbit, B & I have become Internet hermits, audibly exhaling with relief as guests depart, gripping our bonneted tea mugs in sedentary comfort, reserving social interactions for those we truly adore. We take turns playing the hunter, foraging for food, and then hurry back to our hole. Like Bilbo, we have become too comfortable. Like him, we are now forcing ourselves into the unknown as we head toward Wanderlust or Bust, because that’s how we grow. Like the hobbit, we will undoubtedly find rain, bureaucracy, swindlers and spiders along the trail. But also hopefully, a little bit of treasure, too.

And as I round out the second half of the book, I learn that the Hobbit and his entourage of dwarves, due to unforeseen trouble, did not follow their “elf-road through the wood” as advised. “Only the river. . .” which they encountered due to the seemingly unfortunate imprisonment by the Elf King, “offered . . .a safe way from the skirts of Mirkwood in the North, to the mountain-shadowed plains beyond. . .So you see, Bilbo had come, in the end, by the only road that was any good.”

Let life’s events create your journey instead of sticking to the map, Tolkien says.

It seems a kindred kind of foreshadowing and a confirmation of our current mantra. It’s not about letting fate decide, necessarily. But it is about being open, physically and mentally to whatever comes your way. Sounds about right, because since we have no map and haven’t yet looked at the book, there will be nowhere to stray but straight into our own adventure.

I saw her first and I made that ultimate mistake. The one I made with both dogs. Meeting her eyes.I was always doing shit like that. Caught in a downpour with no umbrella and a twenty minute walk (too short for a taxi) my jeans were heavy and stiff. My hair damp, frail, attached to a wet head and confused on how to hang. I was every so often taking refuge beneath awnings, next to others.

It was at Famous Grouse that I decided to get dry and pick up some beer. In reaching for the door, I turned to commotion at 10:00. A brief exchange between two women. One disappeared. The other, well, there was something mad in her turquoise rain coat, scarf-knotted head, bare legs and wrinkled grimace. Something off. She stared into my eyes. I had an instant chill.

I quickly escaped inside to the shiny bottles and mahogany shelves and clear countertop of liquid warmth. I would be safe, here, in the second dimension of the looking glass. Beggars seldom pursued. But she saw my fear and followed and came right up to the counter saying loudly:

“Chesdeeset stotinki!! Chesdeesset stotinki!!” (Sixty cents! Sixty cents!).

The storeclerk screamed at her with sudden force that surprised me, obviously telling her to leave. She screamed back. I made my request and fumbled for my wallet. She moved in again, grabbing at my stotinki. I inched away, toward the shelf, now rather alarmed. The owner did more yelling. She changed her request and pushed.

“Dviset stotinki! Dviset stotinki!!!” (Twenty cents! Twenty cents!)

I could smell her breath and my hand was wet from her coat and I was panicky and I just didn’t even know what the hell to do. Of course, I had twenty cents. . .I did. . . .but there was NO WAY that I was rewarding this behavior. Didn’t they see that this was her strategy? That she beleaguered until people surrendered? That she used her age as a tool? That she was clearly evil?

It’s only now as my compassion takes over, that I stop to digest. She was hungry. Just like the UN Tour Guide had said in 2004–hungry people are angry people. If she needed this strategy to eat, then her life was worth helping.

But no, at the time, I didn’t do the right thing.

I pushed her out of my way, my morality and etiquette and values going at it like a street gang in my head, and she pushed me back. I grabbed my beer and was almost to the door, her just behind me, an unusual beggars bravado on her face, when she finally attempted to block my exit.

I hurled “Get away from me!!!!” into her face, moving out the door. It was horrid. I had never felt so simultaneously frightened and ashamed. And then I literally ran away, nearly crumbling, melting like an alleyfire’s newspaper, into Sofia’s cement, looking back every few steps like a character from some ridiculous Danielle Steele novel.

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

Orlando, FL on the Disneyworld-vicinity sand. It’s fun to feed the birds. Offer them bread. A toss for a catch. But soon there are dozens. Too many. Pointy beaks and a squawking sky. You haven’t enough food. There is a suffocating panic in the sea air. You run.

Tijuana, Mexico, age 14. White shorts and little coral coat. Hair in a side ponytail. Buying souvenirs you didn’t need. Protected by your parents. Drinking virgin margaritas. But then there were bundled babes in dark-skinned arms. Instrument-strumming singers. Those with a stump for a limb. You were so sorry, so horrified, so generous, so naive, so fumbling for change. You gave to them all.

Somebody tells you that those same bums are rich off the sympathetic tourists. That they’re in the how-sad-can-I-look business.

But you hold onto your idealism.

Then, after 25 years in our world, you are creating a successful career, your jeep gliding past vagrants on those damn Speer Blvd. medians. Every day. Guilt is always there, in the passenger seat. But no, you learn that Denver is full of soup kitchens and half-way houses for these people. That a very high percentage of them are druggies and alcoholics. That your money will only feed an addiction.

One evening after a decadent dinner in Lodo, you decide that leftover food is the perfect gift. That if they’re really hungry, you’ll be helping someone. And one day you hear the sound of an accordion making your day a little bit brighter. . if people are making an effort, trying to entertain, you’ll give. And you decide, with satisfaction, that your own policy is taking shape. And you love structure. You hold on tight.

And you’ve made some peace.

Time passes. Yet, still, you’re torn. You don’t always have leftover food to give. And not all poor people are musically gifted. What about them? Well, they can find some water and wash my window! “Help yourself,” you think. At least try. Be creative. Be resourceful. Haven’t they any pride?

And you rest easy in your bootstrap-gripping world.

Then you volunteer at the clinic and you see very different kinds of women. And it makes you think. And at a Planned Parenthood meeting, a social working colleague confirms this fear you have. That in her experience, not everyone has the ability to help themselves. Not everyone knows how. Can’t you see? Not everyone was brought up with the stability, education and empowerment you were bestowed.

And you feel bad. Very bad.

Then on a filthy sidewalk in Antsirabe, Madagascar, in 2004, you make the mistake of giving away a pen. Children surround the landrover. They are worse than the seagulls. But they are not mean, only poverty-stricken. Your husband, your kind, generous husband scolds you to stop, to look straight ahead. To ignore their pleading faces. But. . .

And reality and practicality form an icy frost where pity used to bloom.

One sun-splashed afternoon at the sea coast, your husband gives a bunch of copper pieces (about 20 cents worth) to a crippled child in a town square. But the child gives it back, uninterested in such small change.

And cynicism arrives with a heavy gait.

Finally, you’ve just arrived in Sofia and you see people going through the garbage. Often. And you think, dear Lord, that woman is OLD. For that fact alone, here is fifty stotinki. But then, as life rolls the way it does, you get accustomed. You can’t give to everyone you see, and you don’t know where to draw the line, and so you start giving to no one.

And then something like this happens, with that mad woman and it really fucks you up. You decide, with an inner monologued promise, that when you feel like giving, you’ll give. When you don’t, you won’t. And that’s the only conclusion there is. And that’s all you can do. And even though it’s never come all that natural to you, you’ll work from your gut, because it’s the only guide you can find.

Occasionally. In the morning. I forget to put in my contac. I only wear one. My morning is not particularly hectic these days. But somehow, between temperature control, cheerios, my sneezing and utter denial of every responsibility except what’s on my laptop, this task slips into the rarely swept fake-gemstone-floor of my Bulgarian bathroom.

You might say its part of my routine, right? Well, I’ve never been very good at routines. I am simply not methodical. Because of my eerily effective memory, I don’t OFTEN forget things, but I certainly never do anything in the same order.

But I digress.

In the flat (I just love calling it a flat ), I can’t see for more than about ten feet so it’s not until I realize the stoplight is only a orangeish blur on my way to work that I realize my mistake. But the other night before bed after removing my contacs, I stood on our building’s stairway balcony. It’s so simple and cement and ugly that it looks like its still under construction. There is no rust-colored fire-escape ladder. No room for a table. No wire curly-cues. But it’s the only real place of quiet refugeand with a little imagination, it can be exotic.

As I looked down into the back parking lot alley, and all that was below–the cars and gravel and cement and garbage and broken bike and cats–I realized that it all looked much more beautiful than ever before.

Because without my contacs, it was blurry. Unclear. Like Bulgarian coversations. Like poetry. Like the future.

I’ve always been so big on communication and defined lines. I TELL people when I’m hungry. I TELL people when I’m happy. I want them to tell me too! Signs provide me with a sense of relief. (Thank GOD we’re going the right way–because what if we weren’t!!) Instructions! Let’s follow them! I am obsessed with maps and street names. I adore non-verbal cues. I am fond of feedback.

As Natalie Goldberg says about her free-writing class: “. . . encouraged my writing students to just write and read: No good. No bad. After their initial enthusiasm . . .this non-criticism became unnerving. . . . . . .their main model was getting “corrected.” When I didn’t (say anything), there was empty space. That was scary. What was there to hold on to? Nothing.”

And this country’s not big on it either. They are masters at the blank face. And I’ve realized that I want so badly to know EXACTLY what’s going on–what the recipe says, every feeling in my husband’s head, what you don’t like about my guacamole, the actual address of the restaurant–that perhaps I am missing the bliss of the blur.

I guess I should start promoting my updates. . .This week’s includes:

SuperBad: A movie I haven’t seen, but with a director name like Judd Apatow, it has to be good (like Smuckers!)

NetVibes: Please blog-girlies, go there now. This is the ultimate tool to put all your favorite RSS Feeds in one spot–so checking in on your favorite blogs, news events, and weather is a cinch. You can even hook it up to your Yahoo Groups (hint, hint, SWB) and email accounts. I could be behind (as I do live in Bulgaria) but hopefully this is helpful for somebody. It really is fine holiday fun.

Expat Blog: If you click on that little suitcase, you can read my official Expat Interview. Thanks to Sognatrice over at Bleeding Espresso for telling me about the site.

A few days ago, we watched The Lives of Others. It was recommended by my dear friend Maury. We were up for a quality film. In the last two years, we’d seen a lot of Will Farrell, Steve Carrel and Seth Rogen. I have great affection for these guys, but. . .

Whether it was our PC crowd (college-ish), a lack of cinematic options (foreign films displayed only Bulgarian subtitles), or simply no supermarket checkout lines or billboards (from which to warn us about crap comedies), our standards had lowered. We were more easily entertained.

I’d read about this phenomenon before. In addition to the above excuses, because expats are so hungry for fresh American culture, they’re more easily satisfied with the Hollywood repeats. As long as the railings are shiny, the medians landscaped and the kitchen islands nice and big, viewers experienced a sense of relief. . .that somewhere, all was right with the world.

Up until now, I’d been okay with it. Before Peace Corps, I felt I’d become somewhat of a film snob–unable to just relax and enjoy. Too obsessed with the staged dialog, mediocre acting or formulaic plot. (I blame this directly on my friend, Amy, btw, whom I simultaneously worship for helping me understand a good film when I see one). But I needed balance. Just because I could appreciate the Esquire , shouldn’t prevent me from cuddling up to the Odeon.

And on a complete tangent. . .what a riddle huh. . .movies, poetry, art– its all subjective. . .who is to say? Who has good taste? Certainly not the Oscars. Then again, as Carrie Fisher once said: “Everyone thinks they have good taste and a sense of humor, but they can’t all possibly have good taste and a sense of humor.” (Thanks to this blog , I found that quickly) Wagon-wheel coffeetable anyone?

But I was ready for a movie that I’d be thinking about for a few days (rather than quoting for a few months). So back to The Lives of Others. It was well done. A film detailing the big-brother-witnessed lives of East Germans in the early 80s. The corruption, the secrets, the escapes, the informers. The power of a communist government. It specifically details one agent’s moral struggle when he realizes his subjects are real people with real lives.

Most importantly, the cinematography is so succinct, the scenery so free of anachronisms and the environment so drab with its hummus and carpet brown colors, that you actually feel like it’s an older film.

I went to bed wondering why I didn’t enjoy it more.

Maybe I just didn’t like it. But is it possible that the communist blocks and doors and woodgrain walls were as broken and crumbling as the Bulgarian world I live in? That I’m eager for shinier, happier people because their in short supply over here? That escaping America to see a depressing indie film is more exciting when you return home to a cupboard of polka-dotted dishes?

Maybe if I’d seen it at the Esquire, it would have splashed in distinctive contrast to the American world. Here, the movie was closer to the world I live in.

Thoughts?