Karma Payback
When I started this blog, one of the first posts I wrote was about getting an upgrade. This trip, it was karma payback. I booked a ticket and paid online, and later when I tried to reserve my seat online, I kept getting an error message. When I got to the airport, (confirmation in my hand, thank God) the clerk said my reservation had been cancelled. I had paid extra to have an upgradeable ticket, and to be able to change dates if I need to – it took the fixer-guy over an hour and a half to figure out how to re-instate my reservation.
And I asked for an upgrade – I have thousands and thousands of frequent flyer miles; I don’t need a free ticket but it helps on the night flights to be in business class because you can lie down and sleep! Makes a difference when you have a long way to go. But they didn’t give any upgrades – and when I got on the place, the entire business section in front of where we were sitting was . . . EMPTY. Go figure!
In Europe, I asked for an upgrade for the next leg – not free, I am willing to cash in miles, but the snotty desk clerk told me my ticket was the non-upgradable kind. It doesn’t do any good to lose it in those circumstances, but I was steamed. What did I pay extra for??? When the guy who fixed my reservation fixed it, I guess he didn’t put in the right code. I’m screwed.
After the next flight, which was very long (had a good seatmate, though, quiet, like me, but when we talked it was about books and families and comfortable stuff) I went through immigration and because this was my fifth trip back home this year, when I filled out the immigration form, I listed that I wasn’t bringing back anything. And I wasn’t. I barely have the right clothes. But that got the attention of customs, and I got the full inspection, which after you’ve been travelling for more than 28 hours is annoying. They were cordial enough, but they went through everything, suitcases, carry-ons and purse, very thoroughly. And found nothing.
Last, but not least, I went to pick up my rental car, only to discover I don’t have my stateside driver’s license with me. After half an hour of desperate searching (I am an organized person; things are where they are supposed to be! but it wasn’t!) I offered her my Kuwait license, which she couldn’t read and said she couldn’t accept, and then, miracle of miracles, I came across my old Germany driver’s license. A German license is good for life. And, thanks be to God, she accepted it. And on top of that, for some amazing reason, using a German license made the rate even better than renting in my own state with a state license. Again – go figure.
And I just figure all of that is karma payback for all the good luck I have had in previous trips. We have a saying: Every monkey gets his turn in the barrel. I guess it was just my turn.
Tradition of Aunthood
We have a tradition of aunthood in my family. I remember my aunts with so much admiration and fondness. They took me to art museums, taught me about having lunch out with the ladies, taught me about civic commitment and good works, set examples for us with family celebrations, dinners, and even contests. We had an annual dinner on Christmas at which we each, no matter how young, had to come up with a poem for someone whose name we had drawn at the feast of Thanksgiving. Oh, the laughter! And each of us had our first exposure, at that time, of having to speak publicly, as we read our poems.
And now, my sisters and I get to be aunts in our turn, helping to raise, and now mentor, one another’s children – children? Young adults!
As my son and I were IM’ing the other day, I came up with a dream team – all our young people in the next generation. My superheroes.
LawNOrderMan: He wanted to be Superman when he was young, and put away the bad guys – now he is a felony prosecutor.
AmbassadorGirl – she speaks several languages fluently, gets published with regularity and loves living in Beirut and Damascus.
GlobalGuy – he holds nations accountable by exposing them, in graphic detail, to the rest of the world.
BrethalyzerLady – She manages a state-wide program and instructing others how to install alcohol detecting devices which disable cars.
BioGenius – Fearless explorer of the human body on a molecular level
EnviroGirl – Working to make the world a better, cleaner place.
Can you feel my pride in this next generation? Not that we are willing to pass the torch yet, but we feel such joy in seeing these young people achieve their full potential. WooooHoooooooo!
“Ill be there for you”
We Go Back a Long Time
I was a freshman at a big university, back home after years of living overseas. Never have I felt so alien as trying to figure out how I was going to survive in my own culture. I was really homesick. I missed my old life.
My first day in French 203 a group of laughing, talking girls walked in, one girl, a blue-eyed blonde, the center of it all. I hated her immediately, mostly for being so happy when I was so alone and so miserable. The semester dragged on.
The next quarter, there she was again, in French Literature. She walked in, saw me, and came and sat down next to me as if we were old friends. “What’s with that?” I thought, but there were a lot of students, and I guess I was a familiar face. I still didn’t like her. I didn’t like anybody very much.
But as the semester progressed, her smart-mouth sotto-voce remarks got me cracking up. I couldn’t help liking her in spite of all my determination not to. She was smart, and funny, and for some reason seemed to like me, even at a time when I wasn’t making much effort to be likable.
The third quarter, there we were once again, in Sociology. By this time, we knew that something was up in the grand scheme of things – This was a huge university, and you don’t end up in the same classes with anyone. We started meeting for coffee before class, after class, sometimes – skipping class! We became good friends. We never had another class together.
We graduated, and bought season tickets to the Symphony together. We would meet for a quick dinner, someplace cheap – we weren’t earning a lot. We would catch up on the latest boyfriend, the latest heartache, one another’s families. We each had our own busy life, but we made time for each other.
We married in the same year. We had our first babies within months of one another. No matter where I was in the world, we would write, we sent tapes, and I would visit whenever I was back in town. She also visited me, once with her husband (now ex) and many times with her children.
Our fathers are the same age. She called me night before last, my good friend, all these years. She knows Dad is in the hospital and I am coming back, she calls my mother and takes her to dinner sometimes, my family includes her in the family circle.
“No matter what you’re going through,” she said, “I’ll be there for you.”
All these years. She always has.
DWP – Driving While Poor – to Be Outlawed in Kuwait
I’ve been watching the blogs, and I haven’t seen a mention of this, not a whisper. In yesterday’s Kuwait Times, front page, is an article about the proposal that all cars over ten years of age be taken off the road. The intention is to reduce congestion on the road.
I am guessing this will not apply to collectors of classic cars. I imagine this is aimed at the poorest of the poor, driving what they can afford, and holding their car together with prayer, shoestrings and chewing gum.
If Kuwait had a good public transportation system, this might be part of a solution. As it is – do you ever see a woman on a public bus? Taxis are available, but expensive. Domestic workers tell us that when they have any control over their transportation, they only go with a driver they know and trust.
I would guess that most of the cars 10 years and older on the road are owned by people who really need them, to get their children to school, to get to work, and to get groceries, etc. Legend has it that all these old cars on the road were brought in after the 1st Gulf War and sold – at great profit – to people who previously had been unable to own cars. For the working poor, cars give a smattering of dignity and luxury to a life full of scraping by and saving as much as you can. Yeh, the POS car puttering along in front of you is inconvenient, but have a heart – people need their cars, unless there is a good, reliable, decent and reasonably priced public transit system available to men and to women, which there is not.
I am also hearing friends telling me about the rules about driver’s licenses being enforced – you must be working, or you must have a college degree . . . but it is only applied to some, not to all. . .
We Need to Talk About Kevin
This morning on BBC, as part of the coverage on the horrorific murders in the peaceful Amish country of Pennsylvania, they interviewed Lionel Shriver, author of the award winning book “We Need to Talk About Kevin.”
This is not a recommendation. Shriver’s book, which has won several awards for literary excellence, is not for the faint-hearted. It is a tough, muscular, bleak examination of a similar, fictional incident, written after the Columbine High School massacres.
My best friend and I read this book at the same time – it was a book club selection, paired with another book on a similar theme, “Early Leaving.” We ended up exchanging horrified e-mails every morning, discussing events in the book as if they were a part of our daily life, and speculating on where this was all going.
It is from a mother’s point of view, written to her husband, from whom she is separated after . . . .something . . . We don’t know what that something is. The book unfolds steadily and relentlessly. You want to stop. Truly you do, I am not exaggerating. The book rolls on, so dark, so ominous, you know it is leading up to something truly horrible. You don’t want to look. And you can’t stop reading.
“Why are we reading this???” we asked each other in agony. And we didn’t stop.
“Why did you want me to read this?” your friends will say, as you pass this book along, and then, shell shocked, they will come to you to discuss it. Most often, I didn’t even recommend the book, but friends would overhear other friends talking about it in hushed, horrified voices, and would insist.
The book is the scariest, most real book I have ever read. It hits at the heart of every mother’s secret fears – what if we have done something wrong while raising our child? What if our child turns into a monster? Do we ever really know anyone – our children? Our husbands? Ourselves? We are all so vulnerable in our mothering skills, so quick to blame ourselves for our children’s failings, and this book bravely explores that fear, that vulnerability, without taking the easy way out and giving easy answers.
If you read this book you will find yourselves talking about it months – even years – after you read it. It is a terrifying book.
And after you read it you will understand why my heart is breaking for everyone involved in this unthinkable killing in Pennsylvania. Were I some superstitious person, it would be so easy – it is clearly the devil’s work. I can’t imagine what this man could have been thinking, but he chose his victims – young, innocent girls – with purpose. My heart aches for his wife and children, who will bear this shame for the rest of their lives, and for his parents, who will wonder where they went wrong. My heart breaks especially for the peaceable Amish, revered throughout America for their simplicity and commitment in living their faith, who must try to find a way to forgive the man who took their innocent daughters’ lives.
Oklahoma Speed Trap
I was driving near sunset along the major east-west interstate highway in Oklahoma, with my son, sound alseep beside me. It was a gorgeous evening, and I had driven all day but wasn’t tired. Driving conditions were excellent all day, and I was so thankful. Perfect time for prayer. So I was praying all kinds of thanks when I hear a siren and see the lights in my rear view mirror.
I pulled over, not without reluctance. I had just made it past a whole line of big trucks.
“Lady, didn’t you see me??” the State Patrolman asked.
“No, I didn’t, where were you?” I asked.
“I was between those trucks you whizzed by! I can’t believe you didn’t see me! What were you thinking?”
I felt really sheepish. “I was praying,” I said, hoping the cop was feeling kind-hearted.
He wasn’t.
For the only time in my life, I had to leave my car and go sit in the highway patrol car while he ran my license and my son’s car license plates. As we waited for the results, he kept asking me questions.
“Where are you going?”
“We’re driving back home from my son’s college.”
“Where’d he go to school?”
“Florida”
“And where are you going?”
“Home” (A Western state)
(How long can it take to run plates and a driver’s license???)
“What year is he?”
“He just graduated.”
“What did he graduate in?”
I felt so humiliated. Tears started running down my face. I could see my son watching me in the rearview mirror.
“Criminology” I sobbed.
True story. Our plates and license came back clean, but it didn’t make any difference. It was the most expensive speeding ticket I have ever had to pay.
Dolphins in the Gulf
For the years that we have been living in the Gulf, we have heard people talk about seeing dolphins, but we have never seen any. Most people say “we used to see dolphins.”
My husband and I pray together every morning before he leaves for work. This morning, as we were discussing my father and my upcoming trip home, before praying, he said “are there dolphins in Kuwait?”
“What a weird question in the middle of all the serious things we are talking about, ” I thought to myself, and asked him why he asked that.
“It must be a log,” he responded, “but I am watching something appear and re-appear, and it reminds me of a dolphin.”
We got the binos, and to our unimaginable delight, it was a pair of dolphins, lazily swimming along, grazing on the fish who have been jumping the last few days.
In the midst of sadness and daily responsibilities, God smiles. It felt like such a blessing, seeing these graceful creatures going about their dolphin business. Our scripture readings for today remind us that there are miracles happening all around us, if we have the eyes to see them. We had a little miracle this morning. Thanks be to God!
“Only Trashy Girls Get their Ears Pierced”
“Only trashy girls get their ears pierced!” my Dad roared as the nightly battle at the dinner table commenced. Every night, I presented facts and evidence supporting my need for pierced ears, only to engage his fierce and fiery disapproval.
“No daughter of MINE will ever have pierced ears!” rang in my ears, but I wasn’t giving up. The battle raged on.
Meanwhile, my next youngest sister went out and got her ears pierced, and showed up at dinner with bright, shiny gold earrings. I was dumbfounded. Flabbargasted – and aghast. What would my Father do?
I expected rage. He looked at her is shock. I think he went a little pale. He was angry, but . . . so mild! She really looked cute in those new gold earrings.
“You’re grounded for a week.” he told her coldly. The rest of the meal passed in silence, my sister grinning and preening quietly.
I went out the next day and had my ears pierced, too, so we could “serve our time” on restriction together. The next week, my Mom and youngest sister went downtown and had their ears pierced too. They didn’t get grounded.
Now he lies in a hospital bed, weak, old, and subdued, sliding between hallucinations and lucidity. What I wouldn’t give to see his fiery spirit back again.
Date Night in Kuwait
Because my husband’s weekend is Friday, Thursday night is our date night in Kuwait. We have a tradition of going out for a nice dinner together.
We used to drive our son crazy. We would say “Hey, want to go to Rio Bravo (Mexican) with us?” and about a third of the way there, my husband would say “You know, I just have this yen for sushi!” and I would go “Oh! Me too!” and our son would pipe up “No! No! No! That’s ‘bait and switch!’ No! That’s not fair!”
(Now he laughs and tells us that it runs in the family; that he and his wife do the same thing – and, he now also eats sushi. My sisters’ families tell me they do it too – it must be a family culture thing.)
So last night we were on our way to Biella’s at the Marina Crescent. But oh, the traffic on the Corniche! Maybe we should just eat Chinese in the neighborhood? What about the seafood buffet at the Crown Plaza? Or . . . finally we decided on Paul’s down at Fehaheel, and hoped there was a parking space.
They have a new mall opening just across the main street from the Al Kout Mall, Al Manshar, with a great big apartment building and a great big new hotel, a Chili’s, a Johnny Rocket’s and a food court – a few of the merchants and restaurants are already open – but only like 40 parking spaces???? Go figure! Even worse, it is right next to a beautiful mosque, so at prayer time, there is NOWHERE for anyone to park. And the driving in Fehaheel at night is crazy . . . minimally better than Gulf Road. Take another look at the photo – those two outcroppings are perfect for a bridge, a la Marina Mall – connecting one mall to the other, and sharing parking spaces.
At Paul’s in Fehaheel it was comfortable enough, with their fans, to eat outside, by the big shallow water-fountain pavillion. Great food – we had the Camembert – noisette salad, onion soup and the smoked salmon pasta, most of which we brought home because the soup and salad had been so good. Best of all was just being together, sharing our week and having a relaxed, delicious meal together.
And it was there I told him about my blog. I don’t like keeping secrets from my husband. I wanted to see if blogging was something I really wanted to do before I told anyone. Last weekend, when he was asking me to explain blogging to him, I was afraid he was on to me. He wasn’t; it was a co-incidence, but I knew someone was bound to figure it out sooner or later, and I really wanted to tell him. I was ready.
Last night when we got home I showed him the blog and he was amazed. It is so cool to have such a great evening together, great meal, great conversation, and, after all these years being married, to be able to surprise him now and then – in a good way. It was one of our best dates.
Breaking Out the Sweaters
This morning, checking the weather forecasts, I exclaimed to my husband “Wow! 100 degree (38 C) maximums for the next five days!”
“Break out the winter sweaters!” he exclaimed.
It’s a family joke. We’re from the same country, but different cultures. I was raised in a very cold climate, he was raised in a very hot climate. I need it to be cold enough to sleep; he sleeps in a nightshirt with an extra blanket.
When we were first married, he looked at me one night and said “Don’t you ever fry anything?”
I looked at him in horror. “No! – and you’ll live a lot longer! We only grill and occasionally saute!”
When I first met his family, they fixed all their best dishes for me.The food was wonderful, but used a lot of cream and lard and butter. Not used to eating such rich foods, I got really sick. Later, I did learn to cook several of the dishes that he grew up with, and he learned to like grilled fish and shrimp.
Although I do not think 100 degrees is “cool,” I am seeing changes in the weather – it is lovely at night, sweet for sitting outside. The color of the sea changed yesterday, from it’s normal jade color to a more blue color. There are huge flocks of birds, landing, resting and taking off – migratory birds? Two days ago, I could see silvery fish jumping in the waters, and last night, late late into the night, there were fishing boats just yards off the shore, with their lights gaily dancing up and down. I grew up on fishing boats – a part of me yearns to be out there with a line in the water.
Think I’d better go pull out the winter boxes.;-)
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