100 words a day

The break-up was temporary.  It only lasted 2.5 days.  During that time he ran into an ex who actually had cheated on him.  I didn’t know that had happened, and it explained his trust issues.  I think it also made him realize that I’m not her.  Whew.

We just returned from a week-long trip to Thailand.  It was full of adventure:  snorkeling, white water rafting, parasailing, and zip-lining as well bowling, target shooting, shopping and bar-hopping.  Just as nice was holding hands in public and giving each other kisses on the street.  It was fun to be a normal couple.

So he’s an Arab.  A hot-blooded, jealous Arab.  With an ego.  I am a sweet, naïve Western girl.  When I befriended another Saudi guy, I laughed off his over-protective comments.  When I had my new friend over to my place – without a chaperone – he was pissed.  I think I can be trusted, but I later understood how that might hurt him.

After an unfortunate series of events the next week, it turned out that I had invited the new guy to a concert and forgotten about my boyfriend.  I didn’t even want to go, frankly. 

He broke up with me.

I went hashing in Riyadh for the first time.  For those of you who don’t know, ex-pats all over the world get together to form “drinking clubs with running problems.”  Two people act as hares and mark a trail; everyone follows after them.  Afterwards, you eat and socialize.

We went to the outskirts of the city where large red sand dunes intersected with white rocky hills.  We were far enough out that we couldn’t be spotted by passers-by so women wore shorts and (gasap!) tank tops.  It was a nice group, good exercise.  I wish I had discovered it sooner.

On virtual Saturday morning, I walked to the compound’s Starbucks to start my day off with a latte.  I called a close friend in the States and sat outside the franchise while I talked to her for twenty minutes.  Then I went in and placed my order.

“For here or to go?” he asked cautiously, remembering me from last week.

“Here.”

“You’ll have to sit inside.  The outside patio is for men only.”

“I’m going to sit outside.  I already sat outside for twenty minutes.”

“The religious police are nearby.”

“I don’t care.”

“Enjoy your latte with the religious police.”

As you know, I’m working in Saudi Arabia.  In this country, the only recognized religion is Islam.  Some of us non-Muslims somehow manage to sneak in, but my office is still majority Muslim.  Probably 80%. 

So why did my colleague think it was appropriate to bring two dozen Easter eggs, candy and a whole big brunch for everyone to celebrate?  Yes, it’s sweet, and it’s nice to share our holidays and culture, but sharing has its limits.  I think sharing crossed over into insensitivity when she greeted some of my co-workers with, “He has risen.”  I almost peed my pants.

Remember that town in the movie Footloose?  No one could have any fun there.  Now imagine if that little town were a whole country.  I think they would call it Saudi Arabia.

Last week, one of my friends called me in the middle of the night.  She was at a jail with an acquaintance of ours.  She’s a diplomat and has immunity, but he was arrested.  The charge?  Dancing in the car.

They do that for fun – and to put smiles on people’s faces.  The charge may be upgraded to “being with an unrelated female at night.”  The punishment?  Lashes.

The  pre-recorded voice came over the PA system.  “Duck and cover.”  We do drills a lot, I thought, but this one sounded different.  Then a human voice followed the announcement.  “This is not a drill.  Duck and cover.”  I ran to my desk.

Several minutes later, the voice said, “There was a confirmed explosion outside the compound.  Keep your head covered.”  I was shocked.  It was happening.  I borrowed a friend’s cell phone and texted loved ones.  It was 4 a.m. EST.

Agonizing minutes later, the voice returned.  “It was a controlled explosion for a construction site.  Please stand up.”

It was only 11 in the morning, but suddenly it looked like dusk.  All of space turned a dark gold color, like we were all wearing tinted glasses.  Even the locals were shocked at how day had become night. Captured on film, it looked like a tsunami sand wave, one of the worst sandstorms in a long time. 

Those who had to go outside donned face masks, reminding me of the SARS epidemic.  The airport closed down.  The post office closed down.  The whole city has been covered with the finest, softest, most powdery sand ever.  We need some rain.

When he dropped me off, we kept the outer wall and front doors open as we kissed good night.  We heard a car on the street stop, and he went outside to inspect the scene.  Peeking  from the neighbor’s outer wall door, I saw a cop.  Then another police car came. 

I freaked out.  Dating is a crime here, and I thought he’d be arrested.  I tried to listen but couldn’t understand the quick Arabic.  He asked me to come out.  I spoke to the cops, and they told me I could go back inside.  Then they cheered him on.

A new coworker said she doesn’t like drinking alone.  We all laughed - newbie.  After a long day, I come home and have at least two glasses of wine to relax. 

Last week, as I was sipping a Bud, I challenged myself to a week without drinking.  The next day I didn’t have anything.  The day after that, I drank a lot.  Alone.  The following day I invited a guest over to partake. 

On the last day, I went home for a late lunch, thought about drinking, but refrained.  My colleague returned from lunch after having two Kahlua & creams.

I’m still in shock.  And sad.  And shocked that it isn’t out there yet.  I’m sure “they” are just gathering information, but it had better make the news soon.  On the surface it seems disrespectful.  Digging deeper it may be professional, even helpful. 

We all know.  Friends are cooperating, sadly, but hopefully there will be answers soon.  This is the biggest, and quietest, grapevine on the planet. 

Two in less than a year.  I don’t think that’s normal. 

It’s making me more aware – and fearful, though I don’t think I have anything to fear.  It is just the universe working.

As I left the party, I looked around the room.  There was only one person I recognized – a colleague – an  acquaintance, really.  Since he’s European, I kissed him on both cheeks before heading out the door.

My Arab boyfriend became enraged.  Thinking I had gone out of my way to say good night to someone else, a player who had greeted me earlier, he demanded to know why I “cheated.”  Finally, I yelled back.

I don’t want him impinging on my freedom, my ability to have friends of the other sex.  Obliging him would not have been a good precedent.

He sat in the police car and stared at us.  His beard was gray and longer than the window frame.  I imagined that he was carrying a wooden stick.

I tried not to care.  I’m above this.  They wouldn’t – can’t – hurt either one of us.  Still.  That cold, hard stare.

I called my driver.  I waited several minutes.  I called again, this time with panic in my voice.  “I’m at Starbucks with a man, and there are mutowwa – religious police – here.  I need a car quick.  I need someone to take me home.”

My driver arrived. 

He left separately, safely.

So I know the inauguration is tomorrow and I should be writing about something related to that, but I want to catch you up on me.  Last week was my birthday, and it was fabulous.  I wore my tiara to work and received red roses from a secret admirer.  Then my boyfriend took me to the nicest restaurant in one of the two skyscrapers in Riyadh – far above the clutches of the religious police – for our first real date.  He got me flowers, gifts, and a cake.  The following day I headed to Dubai and met up with several friends.

I’m not really engaged.  No ring, no wedding contract, just back to normal dating.  Well, as normal as it can be here, and glad that I have an initial seal of approval. 

That whole situation made me realize how quickly things could go so I decided to tell my dad that the boyfriend I mentioned a couple weeks ago isn’t exactly who he imagined.  My mom got a pretty good idea on Christmas when my boyfriend talked to her on the phone. 

Now it seems like they might get to meet.  He’s thinking of coming home with me in May!

New Year’s.  A time to think about your life, and your approach to it, in a practical way.  A time to decide upon changes for the upcoming 12 months and beyond.  A time to get engaged.

Last night, I had a few people over, and my boyfriend invited a family friend.  Later, after he drank two bottles of wine, he confessed he had been sent on a mission – to check me out – by my boyfriend’s father.  While everyone was outside smoking, I apparently passed the test.  And with my terrible Arabic, it seems I agreed to get married soon.  Oops.

This weekend I visited two of his stores.  This doesn’t sound eventful, but it was.  It means we were out in public together for the first time (granted it was with a chaperone), I got to see some of the places where he works, and I secretly asked one of his employees what he thinks of his manager.  Turns out he’s a dream to work for and makes his employees feel like family.  I couldn’t hear enough nice things about him. 

I’ve always said it’s easy to be nice to your girlfriend, but a real mensch is nice to everyone.

I’m both parts passionate and practical.  When the two duke it out, I always let my head win.  It’ll keep me out of trouble.  The only time passion gets to celebrate a victory is if my intuition sides with it, the little voice inside guiding my reason. 

The last guy was a very practical choice.  We had so much in common, and I liked him.  The new one doesn’t make sense on so many levels, but it does on others.  Plus, there are more intense feelings, ones I haven’t felt in years.  And I think I hear the little voice.

Dating here is not easy.  First, there’s the fact that it’s illegal to date.  Unrelated men and women are not allowed to socialize together.  Then there’s lack of places to go.  Restaurants, yes, but no clubs, theaters, cinemas, etc.  Add to that the restrictions on driving, and of course, no drinking. 

This means our dates are restricted to our homes or our friends’ parties.  I – the woman who never wears a hijab in public – offered to wear a nekab (face covering with eye slits) so we could go to a restaurant together.  Unfortunately, he’s too afraid of the religious police.

After three years of saving and luring our dad to Florida, we finally let him in on the surprise:  the best vacation of his life.  Overall it was stress-free, but our Caribbean cruise had some bumps.  The weather was overcast every day except for one.  My parasailing trip was cancelled, I saw a shark while diving, and a sea urchin stung me.  Now I’m back in Riyadh, seven pounds heavier.  I wonder if the anticipation of the planning was almost as exciting as the vacation itself.  It’s like the day after a wedding – no more planning and no more money.

Last night was one of my favorite nights in Riyadh because I went to the Marine Ball.  It was my first ball.  I got all dolled up in a custom dress that I designed, and several people said I looked like a movie star.  I danced a lot and learned that a couple of my co-workers are romantically interested in me.  I wish I could play the field, but I’m a one-man woman.  It’s nice to know I have options if the current guy doesn’t work out.  If he does, it’s weird to imagine how different my life will be.

I can laugh at the absurdity of life here, or at least roll my eyes at all the double standards and hypocrisy.  But today, for a moment, I simply fumed. 

I live in a western compound and generally feel like I can do as I please.  On my walk to work this morning, in a long-sleeved, mock-turleneck skirt suit, some jacka$$ who hasn’t seen a woman sans abaya drove toward me, slowed down, leered, and then stopped.  For a moment, I was scared that he was going to think that all I was, in my professional outfit, was a “professional.”

First, I’m politely asked not to eat lunch until our clients leave – which sometimes is 4 p.m.  Today I was scolded for coming in late – at 9:20 a.m.  On ordinary days, I arrive before 8 to meet clients, and I work 10-12 hours.  (Not to mention the weekends I frequently work.) 

But today was a client-free day, when we can supposedly catch up on all our other work.  Since no one’s waiting, I assumed there was flexibility as long as I worked 8 hours.  I actually worked 11.

Her comments were unnecessary and demoralizing.  Does she have to micro-manage everything? 

College life was like an ocean compared to this fish bowl.  Last night, he came over, and we decided to go to one of the few places where we could socialize.  Within minutes of arriving I spotted my ex.  He was hoping to meet someone new.

Later, I bumped into an ex from four years ago and his current flame. 

Then my new guy freaked out.  His stalker ex was there and came over to talk to him.  And we ran into other girls who like him.  Maybe the metaphor is less a fish bowl and more a mine field.

Tonight was date #4, and it was a success.  We hung out at his place, a real retreat, and ordered the best pizza I’ve had in a long time.  We played chess again, and I won – for the first time ever.  We talked, we joked, we flirted.  I like it when he calls me “habibs.”  “Habib” means darling, and he’s anglicized it by adding the “s.”  Cute.

We’re seeing each other again tomorrow.  When I met him, I felt a little something but since I was with someone else, I never thought anything would happen.  I guess you never know.

Well.  There’s nothing like the next one to help you get over the last one.

That’s a philosophy I’ve never bought.  Better to  grieve, work through the pain, and heal like a starfish before allowing yourself to enter a new relationship, I’ve always thought.

And I did my grieving.  I didn’t think six weeks was enough to pay my dues, but since he broke it off so early, maybe the pain wasn’t as deep as I initially assessed.

All I know is I’ve  got good flip-flops.  What I don’t have is time.  Hopefully we can make the best of it.

Everyone knows now.  It’s been over a month, but I just started telling people a week ago.  They’ve been discreet, and so everyone still thinks we’re together.  Last night, it flowed out like an uncorked bottle of wine.  Damn, girls’ night.

“Are you and D.B. dating?”

“No.”

“Were you ever dating?”

A weird facial contortion, followed by a hushed “yes” and then tears. 

“What happened?”

“Well, it’s the opposite of your break-up.  You said love wasn’t enough.  We had everything else, but he said we didn’t have love.  I said love needs more than three months.”

We’ve agreed to disagree.

I’ve been in my own world for a while.  Experiencing, but not sharing.  The big news: the break up.  Still surprised by that.  It’s been a month.  I like him still, but refuse to be friends.

More big news:  went to India for 11 days.  Loved the Himalayas in the Kashmir region.  Never thought I’d see them.  Shopped way too much.  Been back a week and have worked too much.  So far, about 30 hours of over-time.  Time for another vacation.  The big family cruise is coming up in a month.  That’ll be fun.

Weather report: it’s finally below 100F. 

I started to get looks.  And then questions.  Which I gracefully dodged.  Finally, he questioned me.  “I don’t think it’s an issue…unless you’re trying to keep your options open.”

Advice columnists say that’s the thing to do.  And it’s difficult for this independent woman to be shackled to a ball and chain.  Plus, I don’t want everyone in this fishbowl to know my business. 

I also think he’s special.  And has real potential.  And I wanted to keep that to myself.  Even with friends, I didn’t want to discuss him, to overanalyze the situation.  I just wanted to enjoy it.

I flew home for a friend’s wedding. It was fun to wear colorful saris and eat tons of delicious Indian food – all vegetarian! It was great to see my college buds, relive old memories, and catch up.

It was awful seeing one friend’s profuse sweating and sudden change of personality. He morphed from dancing with a tie around his head to sitting down, withdrawn and tired. He must’ve taken heroin when he went to the restroom. I helped him to bed and confronted him the next morning.

It’s hard to be there for your friends when you’re 10,000 miles away.

I walked off the pier. I landed in the Red Sea. I saw some white fish and some brown ones and a splash of lavender coral. How exciting! After demonstrating some skills, I followed my instructor into the open water. As we moved out, it was a colorful feast for the eyes. Fish of every color, and coral like Queen Anne’s lace swaying in the salt water. One sense was overwhelmed, and it was odd to lose another – speech. So I pointed and took pictures. After two days of diving, I received my certification on July 4. I’m independent underwater.

Wasta in Arabic means an intermediary or connection.  Wastas can help you get anything.  Almost anything.  I had a potential associate swing by with the grandson of a former president to show how connected he is.  Sorry, Charlie, wasta doesn’t jive with me.

Until I needed something – a plane ticket to Jeddah for the long July 4^th weekend.  The airlines were all sold out.  I asked a colleague with a travel agent friend if he could help me.  The next thing I knew I had a plane ticket for the perfect days and times.

I’ll call it another cultural lesson.

It’s been over a month, and I still don’t have the days of the week down. It’s not that they’re in Arabic, it’s the English words I’m tripping over. You see, the weekend here is Thursday and Friday, but my mind keeps thinking Saturday and Sunday. So when my friend said he was coming back from his trip on Sunday, I assumed he meant last night – our equivalent of Sunday night. But he really meant the real Sunday, which I think is tomorrow. But I’m not really sure. So I have to check my watch. Thank goodness for my watch.

When I first arrived, I sorted my recyclables. I soon learned there was no need. There is no recycling here. This makes it both easy to throw stuff away – it all goes in the same place – and also difficult because I get green guilt. Of course people here probably don’t feel it. It’s not like there are any rain forests nearby, or even grass, to save.

And the cost of fuel? Foggedaboutit. It’s about a dime for a liter. Seriously. I’m going to see if I can find some barrels and bring back souvenirs for all my friends and family.

I ordered pizza the other day. The delivery guy had a difficult time finding me because the compound I live on has a lot of twists and turns. I waited for him outside and chatted with him as I took the pizza and he fumbled for my change.

Later that night, he called me. And sent two texts. He called again twice the next day. Man, you really can’t be Midwestern friendly here. It’s taken completely out of context. That’s why most women won’t even look at men. It’s also probably why women wear black cloths to cover their faces.

Last week a co-worker told me she could show me how to put on a hijab properly. Even though I never wear one, I’d like to know the right way to wear it. Yesterday I ran into her in the bathroom while she was putting on her hijab, a purple one which matched her shirt. She took it off and wrapped it around my head. She commented several times on how pretty I looked. Then she turned to put a different one on her head. I realized it was her way of trying to get me to wear a hijab.

I had to be at work early today.  Since there was a bit of responsibility on my shoulders, I couldn’t sleep.  I woke up early and decided it was time to treat myself to Starbucks.  I called for a driver to pick me up and take me there. 

The Starbucks seemed like any ordinary one except that I had to use a separate entrance.  In many restaurants, there’s a men’s entrance and a “family section.”  There was a room divider separating the two halves of the restaurant.  I was the only woman there.  I got a latte and a croissant.

A close friend is getting married next month, and I’m a bridesmaid. Well, sort of. She’s Indian and is going to have a traditional ceremony, and there aren’t bridesmaids in her tradition. However, she bought saris from the motherland for her best girlfriends, and we’re going to take a slew of pictures together.

She sent me material from India to have a matching blouse made. I found an Indian tailor here, and he took my measurements. Unfortunately he must’ve converted the numbers from inches to centimeters. He promises he has the same material and can make me another blouse. Inshallah.

Before I arrived, I looked forward to the call to prayer. I grew accustomed to it in Turkey and enjoyed its melodic sound. I was disappointed when it only faintly made itself known in my new environment.

While I don’t hear the sound as often, except several days at 5:03 a.m., I have felt its ramifications. Last week I left for a late lunch at 3:15. I arrived at Quizno’s, and it was closed. The workers were outside, and the shop was locked. I looked over at them. “Prayer time. We’re closed for half an hour.” No lunch for me.

We went to the grocery store last night and eventually made our way to the seeds and nuts counter.  It turned out we both wanted the same thing, pumpkin seeds.  He ordered half a kilo.  Then I ordered a quarter kilo.  The man behind the counter looked at my friend, then me, then my friend again.

“He’s probably wondering why you’re not going to share your pumpkin seeds with me,” I said.

“You know why he thinks that, right?” he replied.

“Yeah, he thinks we’re married since women here have to be escorted everywhere by a husband or male relative.”

Tonight, I felt like a debutante.  We were dropped off at the Ethiopian Embassy and proceeded up the red carpet.  At the top was the ambassador.  As he shook my hand, a photographer captured the moment on film.  Later in the evening, another paparazzo snapped me talking to an Ethiopian family.

The evening went well but had its share of awkward moments.  I dressed a little nicer than necessary and wore a sleeveless number.  Maybe 15% of the crowd was women so I felt some eyes on me.  One gentleman was bold enough to ask my age and marital status.

Moving to a new place is never easy, and it’s the little things that are the most frustrating. While I finally have a TV, no channels come in without a satellite dish. It took days to get the DVD player to work. I only found the internet jack after searching the house twice, moving all the furniture away from the walls. I don’t know which light switches match which lights. For the life of me, I can’t change my thermostat so I’ve been freezing for the past week. I’ve been wearing my abaya as a robe to keep me warm.

It was a busy day, and I didn’t get away for lunch until 3 p.m.  A male colleague and I headed out for a sandwich since the cafeteria had closed an hour earlier.  We were the only customers there.  My blood sugar was low, and I insisted we sit down and have a few bites before we walked back.

Minutes later, another customer came in.  “What?  A man and a woman eating together in public?  Tsk, tsk,” he said.  My stomach dropped.  I had forgotten that’s illegal.  Luckily, the man had studied in the States and was only making fun.

I went swimming today after work!  We have a pool on the grounds.  The call to prayer sounded as I was doing laps. 

The heat is dry and lessens as the sun sets, but it’s still pretty warm.  OK, I just checked the temperature, and, an hour after my swim, its 99F.  I guess I’m getting used to it.

I was surprised to realize that sunset is around 6:30.  I had assumed that since its summer and Saudi is hotter than DC, the sun would set later, perhaps around 9.  No, that’s not how living closer to the equator works.

I donned my abaya for my first trip outside the compound - to the grocery store.  I didn’t wear a hijab, or headscarf, though.  There were stares but no harassment.  My biggest shock was the cost of Morningstar products.  $7.50 for a pack of 4 burgers, twice the U.S. price.  When I was done shopping, the driver picked me up and took me home.

Home now is a 3-bedroom, 3-bathroom townhouse with living, family, and dining rooms.  It’s more space than I need.  It’s quiet, and without phone access or local or cable TV, lonely.  Luckily, I found the internet jack.

This place is laid bare.  Like I was never even here. 

Yet the memories linger.  Moving  from room to room, they hit me.  The parties, watching Lost and sipping merlot, the hookah incident, and Scottish.  I was here.  I lived here.

I lived in the greater here for a lot longer than I lived in this apartment.  And those memories are crashing on me, too.  Leaving makes me very sad.  I’ll miss my friends.  I’ll miss the familiar.  And I’m scared of the unfamiliar.

Yet I feel destiny beckoning.  I know this is all right.  I know I’ll be alright.

Everything’s moving quite quickly now.  Friday was my Arabic final, and I passed that bad boy!  Parts of it were tough considering I never expected to discuss the history and culture of Ohio, environmental issues in Saudi Arabia, or industrialization in Yemen.  Did you know Ohio’s culture focuses on music and fish?  Me neither, but that’s what my testers now think.

Last night was my good-bye party which was fun.  Today I’ve been cleaning and packing.  Tomorrow the movers come, and my mom drives my car back to Ohio.  Then I will clean my apartment, run errands, and attend meetings. 

We’ve been planning and saving for 2.5 years.  He loves the sun, buffets, and relaxing, and, except for Vietnam, he’s never been out of the country.

I made him get a passport before I moved to DC, “so you can visit when you miss me,” I joked.  Really, it’s for a family cruise for his 60^th birthday.

A week ago, we told Dad we’re taking him to Florida in November.  Since then, he’s called multiple times.  He found a hotel.  Today he specified the room number.  I’ve never seen him so excited, and he doesn’t even know about the cruise.

I’d feel much better about my Arabic if I believed my teacher understood me.  Last week we talked about Ramadan and the meals.  We learned the words for the meal eaten before sunrise and the one for breaking the fast – breakfast.

I asked my teacher if it’s difficult for women to not eat and then make a large meal.  She didn’t understand.  I switched some words and asked if it’s difficult to cook and not be able to eat.  She used both hands to form a V by her crotch and said in English, “What?  You ask about the period?”

I’m telling myself it doesn’t matter.  None of it.  Which is kind of true.  The only thing I really need is my passport and a visa to get there, and I checked that off my list last week.  If I don’t pack something I need, I can buy it; they have stores there.  If I don’t pass my Arabic final, they’ll give me a language waiver; besides, I’ll likely be using translators. 

So it doesn’t matter.  If I tell myself that enough, maybe I’ll actually sleep through the night.  That’d be lovely since it hasn’t happened in over two weeks.