Mission: Impossible (or How to Date in a Place like Mauritius)

She meets me at my house. I have now become her alibi.

Her Mom knows me and, more importantly by far, knows my Mom. That is why she was allowed to visit me in the first place. But she is not there to see me, not really. We engage in a little chitchat here and there, we laugh about certain things. She's a little nervous.

We walk over to Plaza, the city centre of the glorious town of Rose Hill - a place I could faithfully call my hometown, at least for 6 years. It isn't my hometown anymore, but I know that place too well. If I ever go back, I'll remember the way to Plaza. It's hard to forget.

Image: http://cache.virtualtourist.com/912663-Rose_Hill_The_Plaza_theatre-Rose_Hill.jpg

Plaza is a beautiful town hall. In my mind is it Rose Hill's pride and joy; a complex of offices and a gorgeous opera house which I have attended and performed at. Behind this colonial wooden structure is a parking lot, and small garden. The lot is full of old, crumbling low walls and trucks. The garden has high hedges.

Do you know what all of those are perfect for? Why, the secret rendez-vous!

And that is what we are doing. We are meeting a boy there. She has been waiting for a good two weeks to see him and hold his hand, so she is very eager and impatient. She blushes at the very sight of him.

He's a skinny guy with spiky, gelled hair. I think it's gross, but he is her Adonis, so what can I say? I smile, say hello, and go for a walk. This is their time, not mine.

Rose Hill is full of places to walk. I go into stores, maybe walk to the post office which is right by the bus station. An old woman sells boiled peanuts but I never buy any from her. I am, as always, severely tempted.

After about an hour of wandering or reading in Le Cygne bookstore, I go back to Plaza. I shyly walk by the many couples who are attempting to be unseen, but it is all very obvious. They are there to make out, and I am there to see if my friend is finished, because she needs to get back to my house soon. Her Mom might have called while we were out of the house. This is the age of telephones, not cell phones...

I see her sitting with her beau under a tree, against a mouldy-looking wall. It's gross, but they don't care. They are in love, and this is just the first step to them being together...forever.

No, it isn't. They will have a fight in a few months, or maybe in a few years, that will end in tears. She will probably end up getting an arranged marriage to a guy from a "good family" and he will hate her forever. He will text her many times a day before she gets engaged, because he cannot believe it is over. She will cry late at night sometimes. Her new husband might be good to her, or he might not. It never ends up the way you think it will.

The Muslim dating world is hard to navigate. It is unforgiving and, at times, heartless. The Muslim-Mauritian community may be the same in many ways, but when I was growing up there my friends and I had nothing but heart. We loved our girls and boys with all of ourselves. We didn't care about race, religion, or age. We just fell in love over and over, fully and crazily. This was a time of hormones and raging emotions, and Mauritius may have stifled us. We were young and full of love, but we had to do everything in secret. While it may have been exciting, the consequences could be dire.

I am unhappy with the knowledge that Mauritius hasn't really changed yet. The same mentality still exists.

I hope other Mauritians are still acting as alibis. As hated as we might have been by the righteous, weren't we a necessary evil?

The Unreal Concept of Dating in the Muslim World

Oh, boy. Dating. In any culture, it's really, really hard.

It's a great way to meet new people, even if you are not looking for strictly romance and a whole lot of commitment. It's a way to find out about a new area, to make new friends, and have fun experiences. I've been to a lot of fun places because of dating. It's a way to lighten your wallet, taste new foods, and have eye-opening (or dreadful) conversations with people who want the same things you do (I hope). All emotional attachment aside, dating is (or should be) fun, lighthearted, and a way to make a potential connection of some kind with another human being. It's nice.

Never in my life have I ever dated a Muslim. I cannot tolerate Muslim dating in the least, and the Muslim men I have met who I might want to date either a) end up scaring the heck out of me (I will show you later) or b) are married/engaged with twenty kids. The better Muslim men who I have had connections with are either not progressive enough, or taken. Apparently, the Muslim world is out to prove to me that happiness with a Muslim man is not possible for me at this point in my life.

Now, I am not going to talk about arranged marriages, being set up, etc. etc. That is a different way of looking at life; one that is not mine but one that I respect. There is nothing wrong, in my opinion, with meeting a nice guy/girl through the family in this "traditional" way. I think in certain aspects that it makes more sense! In a close knit family, having input from the people who love you might be the best way to find a partner. They know you best. I do not want it for myself, but I think it is reasonable as long as the person is not pressured or forced into marriage.

I am instead going to talk about Muslim dating. I am also talking about Muslim dating from the point of view of myself, and probably many female Muslims out there. Indeed, stereotypes will be engaged in, generalisations will be apparent, and one or two people may raise their arms in anguish and shout, "BUT, Ms. Burdened Mary, not ALL Muslim men are like this! Some of them are awesome! Look! I'm married/engaged/dating/the mother of a GREAT Muslim man!" Well, good for you. I'm talking from my miserable experiences; the bad side of things. I am aware of individual differences.

Some of us Muslimahs want to casually hang out with an attractive male. That is, apparently, the most wrong, immoral, indiscreet, SLUTTY thing you can ever do. Yes, we are all skanks for wanting to find a soulmate in a casual atmosphere, with conversation, food, and maybe a movie or something. Obviously we just wish to use our wiles to seduce poor, poor Muslim men who are naive and defenceless against our wicked charms!

Oh, come on.

This is the first issue with wanting to date in the Muslim world: the huge discrepancy between the role of men and women. Men are expected to take charge, and women are not supposed to want the attention. We are to be demure, shy, reserved and sweet. We should accept the advances we get but are damned if we show our own feelings of attraction too much ourselves. We are pressured every time we meet a man into showing affection, but once we do it...that's it. We are impure and not innocent anymore, so the man moves on!

Let me give you an example that is way too familiar to you if you have dated or have read/heard about someone dating a Muslim man. A young girl, age 18, meets a guy at a falafel restaurant in New York City. He is handsome, and older at about 26 years old. He is Arab, and a Muslim. The girl is Muslim too, and is flattered by his friendly, seemingly open manner towards her in the store. She is Arab, and has moved to the city for studies - it was nice to find a face familiar to those at home. They exchange phone numbers and the girl floats on could nine out of the store with a delicious falafel- and tahini-filled sandwich.

The next day, she calls him. He jokingly says, "Wow, you seem eager to meet me." She says, "Well, yes. Do you not want to meet me?" He goes silent. He says, "Okay. I'll meet you. See you in x place at x o'clock."

They meet at this place, which is a dark restaurant in a seedier neighbourhood. She is dressed nicely, and he is in a t-shirt and an old pair of jeans. They sit down, he looks at her, and throughout the meal he smiles with a glitter in his eye. She smiles back, and they flirt, albeit shyly from her end. She's not too used to flirting and is really just acting on impulse rather than on calculated thought, at least most of the time. By the end of the meal, he has his foot next to hers under the table, and they indulge in a small, yet meaningful, game of footsie. It's like they've been dating for a long time...

He offers to walk her to her bus stop, being a gentleman in her eyes. She is glowing with happiness. That is, until they start walking. He runs his hand down her back as they walk, his hand getting lower and lower. She is uncomfortable, and flinches away oviously. Suddenly, his tone of voice changes to a low growl as he stops.

"Why are you running away from me now," he asks, "why are you suddenly shrinking?" She says, "I like you, but you are making me feel weird." She couldn't think of a better thing to say than weird. Uncomfortable would be too accusatory, in case he didn't realise he somewhat crossed a line, and if she said I don't like what you are doing, it would be way too awkward.

"Oh, I see." He faces her and looks her right in the eye. His stance widens, and his shoulders look suddenly twice as broad, just for a second. "Now all of a sudden you are a pure and innocent Arab! The way you were before, you were like a looser girl, like an American. What did I do wrong?"

Offended by his words, the girl feels heat in her face. Pure and innocent? Loose? Those are not words that went into her mind throughout the whole date. Now she just wanted him to leave, but they were near the bus stop. She realises that she is all alone, with this man she did not know.

She is lucky. He says, "I don't know you or what you want. Good night." He walks away from her, leaving her in the dark. It's better this way, she thinks. I am glad he is gone. She takes the bus home and she feels safe, and the questions in her head are too much for her. What did he mean? What did he think I wanted? Did I act like a whore? I don't remember!

I want to tell her, and every other woman with those questions every day, that she did not act like a whore, nor did she do anything wrong. Whether he was Arab, Indian, Mauritian, whatever, it doesn't matter - he was a Muslim man from a Muslim culture that did not expect a woman to be forward in the least. If she were quiet, unresponsive, and never looked at him in the eye whatsoever, she would have been doing what was right in Muslim society's mind, but she would have been boring, wouldn't she? She wouldn't have been acting as herself. She would have been a great wife, but not a partner or a friend.

But guess what? Us ladies, whether we are Muslim or not, we don't just want to date to become wives. Some of us would like to to end that way, but dating is about having fun and, as I have said, making real connections. We cannot shield ourselves completely, lie or conceal for the sake of reputation, and then expect to be able to have a genuine relationship based on trust and love. It doesn't make sense!

The Muslim dating world, if that even really exists, puts too much emphasis on face, the idea that we need to protect our reputations. It's all about what we should do, and not at all about who we are, or emotion. It has gotten to the point where everything is ridiculous. If you dare make up your own moves, forget it. You'll be forced out, and alienated. I'm sick of it; that's it.

A Bond by Birth: A Childhood Object Described

Wherever I lived, I had to be a big girl.

I cry because my mother or father is yelling at me? If I do it in front of them, it ends up becoming embarrassing later.

I cry because my heart is broken? Never in front of my family or friends.

I cry because I am leaving a country where I made great new friends? Never, EVER in front of my family, and coincidentally never in front of my friends, too.

Maybe the coincidence isn't a coincidence after all, you know. I've been made harder, like stone. I listened to Simon & Garfunkel's I am a Rock when I was about 13 and I thought...Wow. This song is life. MY life.


I don't feel that way anymore. I feel that if I should cry, let me cry! I am a human being who deserves to be sad. I deserve to look forward in my life and not backward. I cannot get over the past, however, if I keep everything inside. My friends would love to help me, as I would love to help them no matter what. Why not show them my feelings? Why not cry?


I can't. I'm 21 years old, and I can cry at movies like I have lost everything I have ever loved, but if you make me sad, or if I feel sad for another, even more devastating reason, you will not see me cry. Books, songs, movies, random news stories and photos will make me cry. Sometimes, you'll be around when that happens. That'll be your lucky day, because otherwise, I am a rock, I am an island. And a rock feels no pain, and an island never cries.


--


Tomorrow, I have an extra Saturday class. I am supposed to bring an object that is from my childhood or that represents my childhood before I turned 10 years old. I honestly have nothing from that time frame anymore. I do not have, in my possession, anything that old. I have some scanned photographs that I might share, but that is the only thing I have.

I will not share these with you, because some of them involve my family and the last thing I want to do is show a picture of my family on the internet. That would be risky and unfair to them. But I will describe a picture to you that I think I might share tomorrow.

I do not know how old I am, however, I am very little. Well, little as in young, but I was a big baby! I was enormous! My large, black eyes made me alien-like and frightening, even to me today! They are soulless. My mother's father hold me up while my father's father grabs on from the other side. They are standing beneath a framed Islamic inscription on a blank cream wall. My grandfathers are smiling, animated, alive. They are excited to be holding me.

But what I will probably not mention tomorrow is that even as a baby, I was emotionless and blank as that wall behind me. I don't even have a hint of curiosity. I am staring, but at nothing at all, just towards the camera so that the lens can capture those dark, dark eyes. I am wearing a ridiculous pink outfit, but I might as well have been naked. I was either a blank slate waiting to take on the world, or the zombie I am afraid of becoming today.

It is strange to me how emotional and happy people are with a new arrival like me into the world. I have never been that excited about babies, although I must admit that when my niece was born, it was an entertaining idea for me to think about being an aunt. However, in general, my interest in children has waned. My interest in life, however, since that picture was taken, has grown immensely.

I am studying really hard so that I can understand the way cultures interact. Right in that photograph, I am seeing a forced alliance through marriage between two very, very different cultures. My mother's father looks so different from my father's father. One is white and American, one is dark and Mauritian. They are both a part of me, and they are both insanely beautiful. They have different personalities that reflect in their eyes and postures. My mother's father is looking at me with a cheeky grin of all white teeth, his hair pushed back in a messy parting. He is charming, funny, and loving. My father's father stands just a bit straighter, his hair neater, and he wears a sweater-vest and tie. He is also smiling, but directly at the camera. It looks like he is in the middle of a laugh. He looks so proud to be the grandfather of a third girl; I can see it in his Caspian blue eyes.

I can see cultural differences, but what I see even more now is how similar these two men become, together in this frame. Sure, their physical features are different, extremely different, but their expressions are connected. That day, in that photograph...they were connected by me. It's hard for me to think of that, but I know it is true. The picture was taken to actually celebrate me, and it took me so long to get it.


--

So what if I grew up all moody and cold? So what if I went through moments and periods of sadness and solitude? I hid my feelings, but today I am not the same. I love that I am alive. I mean something to someone, even more than one someone. I may be working on expressing my feelings outwardly, but I will one day prevail even if it is not today.

One day, I will be able to cry in front of someone and it won't feel weird or awkward or wrong. There is a time and place for everything, and my time and place for open expression is in an intimate area, with a friend or family member. I can do this; I know it. It may not be soon, but it will be a day described as a turning point in my life.

My Identity in the Form of a Graduate Paper

I had to write a paper about my identity for a class in this new Intercultural Relations degree I am aiming for. After writing it, I knew it needed to be posted here. So here it is...

Enn Ti Zacko Blanc

“Where are you from?” is the most irritating question in the world, in my opinion. This is due to the fact that my nationality or birthplace has nothing to do with who I am. Depending on my mood, the position of the moon, and the blowing of the Eastern winds, I have different answers.

When I am in the company of good-natured, jovial people, I laugh and say, “It’s complicated!” Sometimes, the rest of the group enthusiastically proclaims that they would love to hear this complicated story that I had just advertised. Sadly, they missed the point of my laughter – to me, it was a social queue meaning “I’m laughing because I don’t really want to talk about it and because it is, in fact, way too complicated.” A few times in my life, the other people recognize that I am trying to shy away from the subject and either poke and prod me for at least a little about myself, or they respect my desire to stay silent on the topic. When the latter happens, I breathe a huge sigh of relief.

On a bad day, when I have had it particularly rough, I respond to the question with a sharp “It’d take way too long to explain.” My tone of voice is not of the easy-going, carefree Khadeja in the last situation. Instead, I am pointedly irritated by the question and it is obvious. Again, some still ask for more, some stay silent, and others just smile and try to turn my nasty spark into a kind of joke. Again, the latter allows me to let out a sigh of relief. I like it when people use lightheartedness to improve a situation. I usually feel guilty, no matter what their response is. They are only trying to make conversation.

In the end, there is one thing that one may notice about these two polar situations. The truth is, I do not enjoy explaining my background in one fluid paragraph or flow of words. I need to break it up, little by little, over the course of many conversations. This is mainly because the first explanation I try to give does not encompass the vast amount of knowledge I need to portray to my listener. Sadly, the first impression counts for many, many people.

However, there is a question. What do I do when people ask for more or practically beg for some kind of answer? I am a fickle lady, one who cannot take too much begging before I start to feel bad. In the end, I give them something indeed, but up to this point I think that what I have been answering is incorrect.

Before today, I used to give them a rundown of the places I have lived in throughout my life. I was born in a suburb of Chicago, near to where my father was born. My mother was born in Mauritius, a small island off the coast of Madagascar and the land of the dodo bird, which is now extinct due to a plague of Dutchmen and rats. When I was one and a half years old, my father accepted a job opportunity in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. Since then, I have become a forced nomad, as my parents (mostly my father due to his job) made us pack our things and leave on many occasions. At one point, we moved back to Saudi Arabia, but this time to the holy city of Makkah. We used to go to the Friday Jummah prayer at the Masjid Al-Haram, and we would see the Kabah at its centre. It did not occur to me, when I was so young, that there are millions of Muslims that would never get to see the Kabah due to health or financial reasons, but there I was. At another point in time, much later, I was living in Mauritius. My father moved back to Saudi Arabia alone – this was the time right after the tragedy of September 11^th, 2001. Foreigners in Saudi Arabia were being targeted, especially international schools, so my father did not want my sisters and I to have to live that kind of life. After my years in Mauritius and graduating from secondary school, I went back to the United States with hope in my heart and dreams of a great, free university life. I thought I would finally begin to find myself…

Instead, I got even more lost. Is it not apparent why none of that chunk of story matters? What does it say about where I am from? I think it says very little, if anything at all. It took me 21 years, but now I see that who I am does not lie with the countries I have lived in, no matter what anyone tries to impose upon me. I am from none of these places, in the end. The longest I have ever lived in a country was in Mauritius, but even there I was not accepted fully into the society. Even with a Mauritian mother, the fact that I had a white American father mattered more. I feel President Obama’s pain when people constantly label him as a black president when, in fact, his mother was white. This is the kind of uphill battle I am constantly involved in, but in this battle I have no armor to speak of. It is as if everyone is better equipped than I am.

When I was in Mauritius, people chose what I was – I was that weird English-only-speaking girl who tried too hard to make friends. In every other country, I was labelled as an expatriate testing the waters but never going in too deep – except the United States. Here, I am an exotic, interesting woman who has lived in places most people would never dream of visiting. I am sometimes scrutinised, and at others idolised merely for existing. Back in Mauritius, for an extremely long time, I was the epitome of everything that the society hated: a “white” girl who claimed to be a Mauritian, but who knew nothing of the culture itself because she only began living there at the age of eleven. To be honest, I feel like I am an intruder upon the cultures I visit, and that the Mauritius got it right. In the Creole I claimed as mine, I am enn ti zacko blanc ki envi rentre kott les pli grand noirs[1]. The harsh truth is that I don’t fit in anywhere.

However, when it comes to my flexible, unknown identity, I can at least say this: the ti zacko blanc (little white monkey) was able to, and is always able to, coexist peacefully with the pli grand noirs (bigger black ones). Sometimes, we even become friends and share experiences.

My identity is an endless ocean, with life and death as well as stagnancy and waves. It is a mixture of colours, textures, and movements of things dead and alive. How can I possibly describe it? Where could I possibly start? I feel sometimes that I am incapable of doing so, because I am but a small creature; floundering, swimming and gasping for air in this sea of emotions and experiences. And the imposed labels that have been forced on me are like oil rigs, tankers, and fishermen who plunge into my sea and destroy me.

---

[1] A little white monkey that wants to be with the bigger, black ones.

Using Travel to Forge the Link

This weekend, for the Eid celebration, I went to Chicago.

The events unfurled as follows, starting on Thursday, the 9th of September:

Sitting in my room, trying to watch My Name is Khan without bursting into tears, I decide to pause the DVD I ordered from Netflix and call it a day. With everything that has been going on, with the threat of Qur'an burnings and Park 51 nonsense, watching My Name is Khan is a bad idea in the first place. All of a sudden, in the middle of me drying my eyes, I see that Mom is calling me on my cell phone..

The conversation basically starts like...
"Khadeja, do you want to come to Chicago?!"
"Umm...okay!"

She buys me a ticket mid conversation and sends me a receipt. That's the short version of what happens. In reality, it takes about 3 phone calls for the tickets to be bought, as well as a lot of mumblings on the part of both myself and Mom. Usually, when we get excited, it's hard for us to do things systematically. This usually infuriates the likes of my Dad, who likes things done in order and efficiently.

Finally, the last conversation my Mom and I have ends something like...
"Okay, we'll see you tomorrow then!"
"Yeah! I will!"

That very night, I book a taxi to the airport that night by searching for taxi services in Google and calling the first name that catches my eye. I then decide to read the reviews - again, doing things out of order, willy-nilly, because of entrenched excitement. To my dismay, the company I choose instinctively has the worst reviews, citing terrible manners, customers being ripped off, and dirty taxis with cigarette butts littered on the seats. One guy wrote a scathing paragraph about how the cab driver he had was mad at him for being 2 minutes late to catching the taxi - by the driver's watch, mind you - and he berated the customer constantly throughout the 20 mintue drive to the airport. Ohhhhh boy.

I wake up at 6am the next morning although the taxi is supposed to come by 9. I initially plan to wake up at about 7:30am, which would give me plenty of time anyway. I decide to skip the shower and take it when I get to Chicago, for some reason - I am lazy all the time, but let it be known that most of my laziness occurs in the early morning hours when I do things at a quarter of the speed. I instead waste time on the internet, reading threads on the Something Awful forums, where I have lurked for years. I ended up rushing in the shower for 5 minutes because I realised I had nothing better to do. I wear my Eid dress, one I bought the day before from a thrift store (it was vintage!) and I love the way it looks on me. The oranges, browns, and 70s patterns evoke a feeling of bliss and inner hippie, something that has been apparent in my clothing of late for some reason.

I go outside and end up waiting only 5 minutes for the cab to arrive. The driver ends up being awesome. He is a hilarious Greek guy (from Macedonia!) named Steve who talks about all the girls he chased in his youth before settling down with his, and I quote, "amazing woman." It warms my insides after I laugh at the stories of his various conquests. He really, really loves her, and his children and grandchildren. He reminds me a bit of my own grandfather, the one I am about to visit, who also had his fair share of women in his youth - and still brags about it. While I should be offended somehow, I like Steve's cheerful nature and sugary words about how good-natured he thinks I am for laughing and not taking him too seriously.

I get to the airport rather early for the flight, especially since I get my boarding pass and go through security checks very smoothly. The passport checker looks at my passport and asks, in Russian, whether I speak Russian. I understand him due to some basic vocabulary, but had to say no as I do not actually speak the language. The man was Brazilian and was speaking Portuguese only a second before switching to Russian to ask the question to me.

At my gate, I ned up alternating between playing Plants vs. Zombies and reading The Last Living Slut: Born in Iran, Bred Backstage. It is 2 hours before I am able to board my flight to Chicago's O'Hare airport. The American Airlines "wing" is interesting, with some fun neon work on the wall. I did not think of taking a picture only because the book was engrossing.

I finally get onto the flight and end up being seated between two rather attractive men: one big, burly, and obviously on his way to some sort of business meeting, the other shorter with a gorgeous smile and a self-help book. The book I am reading has racy pictures of rock stars and the author, who appears on one full page in lingerie and a sexy pose, pushing her breasts together and puckering her lips seductively. I feel awkward looking at it next to these two men, but I want to understand this woman whose story I was reading; I want to be engrossed in her physicality which makes up so much of the book - and believe me, it is very important. In retrospect, it is hilarious. I end up finishing the book within the first hour or so of the flight anyway, leaving me with nothing but my iPod for the rest of the time.

I arrive in Chicago with barely any sleep, but slightly earlier than scheduled. I take an American Taxi cab over to my grandparents' house in the suburbs. I arrive there before my parents and, while talking to my grandparents (who are in this case my father's parents) I receive an Eid Mubarak phone call from my other set of grandparents who live in New Jersey, my mother's parents. It is then that I realise why it is I took this trip.

The details of this trip are mundane, and most of them have blurred into a blob of grey in my mind. The dance I have always done through the security checks with only my passport, boarding pass, and carry-on entertainment as my partners now contain steps I have memorised through years of practice. I am now a world-class performer! I have been on airplanes since I was 1 1/2 years old, I have been travelling without my parents since I was 16, and I will keep on travelling for years and years.

It is lonely being on an airplane for hours and hours; it is boring at an airport with the same duty free shops, the same exorbitant food prices, and the same families, businessmen, well-dressed women and tourists walking around like zombies at the shopping mall. It's no longer thrilling, or exciting, or amazing. The only exhilarating thing is being on the airplane during takeoff and landing near a window. I will never get tired of that. However, I take my second flight back here and it's as if I just took a bus to downtown Boston and back.

But when I was with my family, my crazy tumultuous family of mixed beliefs, cultures, backgrounds, and aspirations...I feel everything in the world at once. I feel things that are fantastic as well as depressing in the span of about 10 minutes. I walked again through the grey, personality-free corridors of another airport for the reward. When it comes to my life, the monotone of travel is always met with the colour and vibrance of the destination. When there is a chance to reforge old bonds on the anvil, it makes everything even more worthwhile.

The Fashionable Marginalisation of Peoples

Yesterday I went to the supermarket to buy food. When choosing what to wear, I decided to let myself feel inspired by reading I had done the night before about the Rastafari religion.

Mauritius is home to a very small community of actual Rastafarians. However, Bob Marley, reggae, and ganja are symbols familiar to all Mauritian people, and the Rastafari way of life is appreciated by many who live on my small island. Some are taken in by the peaceful way of life while others take on the fashion as their own, especially amongst the Creole (those of African slave origins). Of course, the music is loved by people of all religions who find it to their taste.

I swear I saw a dude who hung out in my Mauritian hometown who used to wear this same hat!
Image: http://bit.ly/bYfPLO

In this way, the Rastafari religion and culture has permeated and become a part of many Mauritian cultures. It is not a strange thing to see someone who is not actually "Rasta" dress in the colours or in a Bob Marley t-shirt walking around the streets of Mauritius. So, today, with that same spirit and feeling inspired, I wore my "Rastafari" t-shirt emblazoned with a sparkly Ethiopian lion and decorated with the gold, red green and black.

The Ethiopian Lion is used as a Rastafari symbol as they revered Haile Selassie, the Ethiopian King.
Image: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Flag_of_Ethiopia_(1897).svg

I accompanied it with my Africa necklace (with black beads and a dark wood pendant of Africa as its centrepiece) and a green headband, and there I was! Totally irie and all so good. I put my red earphones in and went to that supermarket I mentioned earlier. I didn't have a care in the world.

When I was at checkout, the woman scanning my items looked at me kinda funny, then asked me where I was from. She noticed my Africa necklace and Ethiopian lion and was visibly confused. I don't look like I could come from Ethiopia, I suppose, and for all I know, she was from around there. I told her I was from Mauritius, and as is the case with most people, I was met with a blank stare. I first tried to explain where it was, and then instead opted to just say, "We have a few rasta there and we love reggae!"

I am so glad and grateful that she smiled and said, "I like it!" - of course referring to my outfit. The truth is, when she showed interest in what I was wearing, I immediately felt foolish and a little ashamed. I immediately thought of one of my pet peeves and realised I had become what I didn't like.

What I am talking about is the way that "Westerners" take fashion of different cultures, ignore the actual meaning and symbolic nature of these items of clothing, and decide to use it as theirs. I am talking about hipsters wearing the Islamic crescent and star, "hippies" wearing the Om symbol, and the most irritating to me of all: the youngsters and celebrities wearing the ghutrah or, as it is known in the US, the keffiyeh.

That scarf thing is known as a keffiyeh.
Image: http://bit.ly/aJHSLg

For those who do not know, let me just give you a short explanation of what the keffiyeh means to some people: it is a symbol of resistance, it is a show of support for Palestine, it is a cloth used by many Middle Eastern countries and cultures, and it is a symbol of unity of all Arab cultures. It was once used by many races and religions in the Middle East, even Jewish people even though it is now seen as a pro-Palestinian tool.

When I used to see skinny model types in New York City tie one of these around their necks, I would burn with rage. To me, this was disrespect for a whole political movement and area of the world. Apparently, people can appropriate whatever they want in the US and dilute a culture. I saw it as a symbol of conquering. I saw it as proof of pure commercialisation and world domination. Frankly: I did not like it.

Wasn't I doing the same thing when I was wearing my "Rasta" stuff? Even though I was not wearing an item that reminds us of conflict, I was using a symbol that was important and spiritually meaningful to a culture that was really not my own. I may feel kinship for some Rastafarian ideals, but it they are not mine. I may like the music and the colours, but that does not make me immediately Rastafarian. It doesn't give me the right to take what is theirs. I was a mockery of their ideology, wasn't I?

We, as human beings, have been picking and choosing from other cultures for so long. Look at the turban - it has become bastardised. For some, it was just a means of covering the head and protecting it from the sun. For others, like the Sikhs, it was a religious item of clothing that showed the world who they were and their pride for their people. Then, it was a fashion item. Look at it.

Image: http://www.houseofwigs.co.nz/images/gloria%20turban.jpg

Later on, especially now, the turban has become a representation of Islam and Muslims. What a shame. All of those people around the world, from Russia to India, who use the turban in their own specific ways, with their own special fabrics and colours, are completely discounted because of a Western interpretation of what a Muslim "looks like" or dresses. It is all wrong. Is this the road that the keffiyeh and other cultural or religious dress are travelling on? The road to complete, devastating distortion?

I am seriously worried. Where do we draw the line? Sometimes I love wearing clothes that belong to other peoples, not necessarily of my own. I would love to own an African dress from Ghana because I love their fabrics and colours, but I also know that the colour choices are very important to the people who make the fabric. Does that mean that I shouldn't buy the fabric and wear the dress? Can I only buy and wear the clothes of countries I belong to?

But then again...where do we belong? Are we not all citizens of the world? We should be allowing and appreciating diversity, in theory. This is a very important and difficult question indeed that doesn't have a direct answer. I don't know where to draw the line yet. For now, I think I should draw it at religious or political significance. I am not going to wear a keffiyeh for trendy purposes. I will not wear an Om necklace because I do not follow that religion. I will have to think carefully about the Rastafari-inspired top, although I feel the top was made more for fans of reggae music.

If you think that people don't mind others appropriating their culture or religion, think again. This link was posted on Facebook and when I read it, I felt horrified. I had read similar stories before, especially about Native Americans, because their culture has been so openly twisted for popular culture. It still exists in sports logos and Halloween costumes. Actually, I believe Halloween costumes are generally the worst. Look at their "Harem Girl" outfits. They even sexualise culture so shamelessly...

Enjoying a different flavour or culture is one thing. Taking it and changing it for your own benefit, especially for something as superficial as fashion or costume, can be hurtful. It may be meaningless to us, but it is meaningful to someone else. Yes, the woman in the supermarket liked my outfit, but a Rastafarian in another place might have laughed at me for being so ignorant or might have felt that their religion and way of life was being treated like a fashion trend rather than a real spiritual practice. I don't think I want anyone to feel like that.

A Foreigner's Guide to Surviving the Foreign

Having to adapt to a new place is hard. Having to do so all alone is absolutely terrifying. I know veyr well that navigating a place that looks and feels different to you takes a lot of strength, calm, and courage.

Since I have been here in MA, I feel like I have been successful. I have never been here before, and no one in my family has lived here either. One of the reasons I was feeling so damn anxious earlier is because I knew that I didn't know who to call if I ever got lost or...something worse. The truth is, it's really worrying when the people who can help you when you are in trouble are either a) Many miles away or b) acquaintances. I completely understand the uneasiness of being alone. I was very lucky to have good friends help me settle in - but that is not always the case for people first living on their own.

Of course, being in a new place is also extremely exciting! This is your place now. But first, you have to make it yours! Here is my little guide to surviving a new area on your own and doing exactly that. Keep in mind that I am sticking to a place which has a population of people who speak the same language as you.


1. Rely on experience


If you are trying to navigate a place for the first time, think back to any travels that you have had before: have you ever taken a vacation abroad with your friends, family, or by yourself? Have you ever been far away from home for a prolonged amount of time? What precautions did you take? Remember your past experiences; especially the moments where you screwed up. I am going to be the first to tell you that I hate remembering my cringeworthy experiences, but you have to learn from mistakes. You have made them before and they will be made again. Don't worry about it. Just make sure you remember not to repeat them.

If you have never travelled on your own, or have never had to stay in a strange place for too long, don't worry. Listen to other people. They have plenty of stories of their own! Talk to family members and friends about travelling itself (what it is like at an airport, what to expect when sitting on a bus for 6 hours, etc.) and also about how to use public transport in the area that you are going to. Even if they have stories of countries and cities that are not the one you are going to, don't worry - anything they tell you can give you an idea of how to reason with a new place; how to deal with challenges.


2. Understanding public transport means understanding the layout of your city/town


Public transport is a wonderful thing. You spend less money on gas and car maintenance, it is better for the environment, etc. It is also designed to be convenient for people who need to get to important places. Bus and train stops are usually based on landmarks that are used to help people understand where they are in relation to other landmarks.

Do you see where I am going with this? You can use google maps all you want, and drive to each desired location, but the truth is that you will not learn the about the soul of the city unless you understand its places of interest and public transport. Another thing you will learn is the nature of the people who live and breathe the city already - are they courteous, friendly, abrasive, or cold? Of course every person is different, but you'll get a general idea of what people are like in public - something that everyone going to a new place should know.


3. Use the resources around you, including information kiosks and local authorities


If you are extremely proud, introverted, terrified of people, or ashamed of yourself, you just have you grit your teeth and bear it. No one really likes to ask for directions or help, unless they are trying to distract or flirt with whomever they are asking (trust me on this one). However, you will need to do it sometimes. People who are just walking by may have things to do, or may not be willing to help, so if you see someone like a policeman, or someone who works for the transportation authority, asking them might be a better idea.

The reason I say this is because it is their job to help you. No question is a stupid question, I promise. Even if the answer seems obvious to them, so what? You're new here. It's okay. Please throw your pride out of the window and throw a little caution to the wind - if you are lost, or if something bad has happened to you, for the love of God ask for some help.


4. Keep in contact with people who care about you; you might need their help


Now this one is going to make me sound like a douchebag, but hear me out. Your family and friends love you (most of the time). You know who you can trust, and who you can't. You also know who you would immediately take a plane over to whenever they needed you, if you had the money and the means. Because you are sure of who you really appreciate, let them help you in your direst hours.

You darkest times aren't always about being lost or out of money; or anything to do with practical matters. When you go into a brand new place, you will need some kind of emotional support. You cannot do everything on your own.

You are sometimes going to feel very lonely, especially in the first few days or weeks when you don't have any friends in the immediate area. Even if you are a loner like me, sometimes you will want to rant about silly things just like you used to be able to when you had friends or family closer to you physically. Don't let the distance bring you down. There will always be somebody willing to listen to you, if you call the right person.

Sometimes the person who listens to you and is there for you isn't who you think it is. Don't be disappointed by the neglect of whomever you thought it would be - focus on the other person who surprisingly showed a lot of kindness and warmth. Use media you wouldn't normally use, either: Facebook and phone calls don't always work.


5. Write about your worries and fears in a coherent manner


Now you can probably see where I am going, and why I am writing this! You don't have to start a blog in order to write about how you are feeling. In fact, I think it is much better to write to a specific person with whom you feel more comfortable; someone who actually knows you well. If you don't really have that, then a blog might be a good idea - I know it has helped me! Or, perhaps, you could write a note on a social networking site like tumblr or Facebook - even tweeting about things can be therapeutic.

We all hate the narcissistic fools who tweet and Facebook constantly about their stupid woes and their nonexistent problems. However, being alone in a strange place is not a dumb reason to write. In fact, it is one of the best! Even if no one reads it, writing it down in a way that is understandable to you and other people helps you figure out what is really bothering you. The process of writing or rereading it might make you realise a) how small some of your problems are and how easy they are to fix, or b) how badly things are going and how much you need to figure it out now. Realising either of those things for yourself is the key to surviving.


6. Let yourself be a little overly prepared if you need it


Some of us are worrywarts who freak out at the smallest thing. We are the people who are scared of being lost, losing our keys, getting hassled in a bar, etc. Some of us are completely the opposite - we thrive on adventure, and let our hearts lead the way despite the dangers.

A little something I have learned through various means, usually religious, spiritual, and health-related is that you need to have balance in your life. You cannot let yourself be scared of everything, otherwise you will not get near enough to the water to test it. On the other hand, you should not throw yourself right into the pool if you don't know whether it is empty or not. You need to have the courage to put your toe into the pool to check the temperature (or presence of water!) but the rationality to not take it too far, or do it too fast. If the water isn't there, or it is scalding hot, you need to know when to get yourself away from the pool.

Okay this water/pool analogy is going on for too long. Basically, if you think you need to write down every little direction you read on mapquest, as well as print out a copy of the map with directions, and THEN keep repeating the directions to yourself and constantly checking all three are the same - go ahead. You'll look really silly at every intersection and on the bus, but you know what? At least it is getting you somewhere. After a few times on the same route, you'll get it and you won't need your safety blanket anymore. Safety blankets are not bad at first, but to create another corny analogy, they shouldn't keep you wrapped up for too long.




So, that is all I have to say for my survival guide. I am sure there are many other little things I could tell you: be careful with money, keep a phone on you at all times, etc. but those are things you have probably heard before. I tried to write about things that were just a little less obvious to the new traveller.

I think everyone should go to a foreign place, whether they know the language or not. The language barrier can be a fun and difficult thing to deal with, something I will write about another time. However, even with people who speak the same language, things can still be foreign to you as it is still a complete unknown. For those who fear the unknown, you will find that the best way to eradicate fear of what you don't know is to learn about it. Then, the unknown becomes...well...the known!

Finale: Sandcastles and A Full Closet

My new dresser with random toiletries and ceramic artworks I made for a class previously.

I am here. I'm in Massachusetts. This is my second day and I am content and exhausted.

When I first arrived, I have to admit that my anxiety was at its peak. I tried to mask my fear with laughter and jokes about my journeys with my best friend and his mother (who is indeed also my friend), who helped me settle into my new room in my new apartment. However, there was this terrible pounding in my chest the whole time. I am sure they could see my nervousness and lack of ease, but they were nice enough to be quiet about it and help me out. They are very, very good friends.

We arrived in the area of my new building and I was confronted with the fact that this was my new place to live and thrive. This was the place that I would have to not only get used to, but actually work with in order to get to other places in my life. This new, unfamiliar place was supposed to be my new home base for a while; a new brick in the road.

The first thing I felt when I got into my room was the harsh impact of missing my parents. You know how it goes - when you are with them, you complain and nag and are nagged by them, but when you are apart, it's the hardest thing in the world. When I was speaking to my parents on the phone for the first time since I got here, I burst into tears at hearing my Dad's voice. I was sitting in an ice cream parlour eating a very cold, very sweet crushed ice treat. He sounds naturally melancholic all the time, and when he said he missed me, I realised that he was so far away, and his voice got to me. It really dawned on me that I wasn't even just a phone call away. It slapped me in the face when I thought it was so late at night where he and my mother were, but where I was, the sun was still shining and the heat was still stifling.

That is the biggest difference here - although Saudi is insanely hot, Massachusetts is extremely hot and humid, which is hard for me to deal with, as I am not used to it. I prefer the dryness of Saudi in this way. My hair sticks to my back and no longer has the bouffant appearance it did in Saudi. I think the water I wash my hair with itself is different. The mineral content is not the same. Just like being without my parents is not the same. At least I do not need to drink that much water.

Many things are different; little things that take adjusting. I now have to make sure that no hair goes down the drain in the shower. I also have to schedule 2 times per week that I can do laundry. I have certain weeks of the month where I am in charge of cleaning the kitchen or bathroom. I have a room with a huge, huge closet but no desk whatsoever. I can't play Dragon Age until I figure that one out.

I think I can do this. I feel optimistic despite the change, especially since I had the help of my friends. They helped me so much, I don't know how to thank them. I bought them lunch, but seriously, what the hell is that? Their help means more than lunch - even if I do love food. And yes, I need to stop and say that the food was delicious - it was American-Italian, and for the first time, I ate full garlic cloves on pizza. Actually, they are insanely delicious and not too strong - a pleasant surprise.

I am glad for the help of these wonderful people, and for the kindness and consideration of the house owner. All of them understand just enough about how difficult it can be to move in from very far away into the unknown. The house owner even lent me bedsheets without me even having to ask. I still haven't seen her yet, and my thanks to her are only by email and very briefly over the phone.

If I didn't have these small blessings, right now I would be a wreck. I would be writing about the difficulties of adjustment as well as the sadness of being alone. Right now, I am alone in my room, but I don't feel alone in the world. My friends, and certainly my family, have made this new start a great success.

Some of the little things said by my parents about missing me did bring tears to my eyes. But then, I realise this is the wake up call - they need to know that I am okay, and I need to be genuine by making the most out of everything I have, so that in the end I really am okay. I also need to let them know regularly about the little things in life that I am up to. That is something that I did not do during the period of my undergraduate degree - 3 whole years. It was very, very wrong of me.

While things were very difficult at first, once I started speaking to other members of my family, things got better gradually. I spoke to my cousin and grandparents in New Jersey, and today I spoke to my sister and my aunt in Chicago. They showed concern for me as any family member would - asking me how I am, how I was feeling, and whether I liked my new area. It may seem like small talk and nothing special, but just knowing that they are at all interested is very meaningful and relieving. I have family, I have a roof over my head, and guess what, everyone? It feels really, really good.

So far, the time I have spent here has been put to use. Some of it is about resting from that long, almost sleepless journey across continents, but some of it is about putting together pieces of my new life. I needed to buy things I don't really think about too much - scissors, markers, envelopes, things like that. Then, there are new home things: bedsheets, air fresheners, cups and plates. I needed cutlery but all I could get was plastic ones - Kohl's only had these $40 sets and the ones in the supermarket were all plastic. In fact, I was FOOLED by Shaw's because they had cutlery in a packet that looked silver at first glance, but were really plastic! How dare they make me believe such lies?

In the end, I have everything I need for now. I have everything I bought above, and this morning I went on my own to a Greek grocer. He sells many things I am familiar with, and the closeness to Arab cuisine makes me feel warm and fuzzy somehow. As usual, the way to my heart truly is through my stomach - I hear it's in my blood. It really pleases me that I can buy hummus, greek yoghurt, feta (if I feel like it ever; I usually dislike it), pita, zatar bread, or any of the many frozen greek foods every day of the week - before 7pm. Everything in the immediate area closes around that time.

So, here I am. I'm sitting on my double bed. I'm leaning up against a wall. I'm looking at my poor excuses for decoration, while wondering what else I can do to make the room my own.

I tied my jingly scarf on the doorknob of my huge, endless closet that was able to fit 2 suitcases and my big green monster.

Like it was when I was leaving Saudi, I am full of mixed feelings. I'm sighing at the thought of eating soft, delicious Saudi lamb. I'm smiling at the prospect of tomorrow - I buy my books for my grad school classes, which is a small thing but a way to learn more about the lay of the land. I will eventually start classes in a program that looks more fascinating the more I learn about it.

I have a bright tomorrow, a wonderful family, and amazing friends. No matter how I feel, adjustment will be made easier with these three things. I am made safer from the desert winds by the shielding hands of my loved ones and the strength to put up my own hands; a strength bred within me from years upon years of constant change - the gypsy life which is in my title.

My Travels, Part Three: Lufthansa to Boston

Ugly Frankfurt airport from outside my airplane window.

On the second flight, from Frankfurt to Boston, I was able to charge my laptop and iPod, which I was so grateful for. I am lucky on this flight yet again because I have two seats all for myself - for a while, I let my computer charge in the comfort of its own Lufthansa seat.

Again, this is a nice plane! I like the Lufthansa business class a lot.

My short legs could not reach anywhere near to where my laptop bag was!

However, the takeoff was one of the worst I have ever experienced, and I think it may have been because I was seated directly behind "the nose" of the plane. It was awkward, shaky, and scary. I love the feeling of takeoff but this time, I couldn't wait for us to be stable!

Soon, it did indeed stabilise and I was left sitting in my seat, staring at the seatbelt sign. For some unknown reason, I was feeling EXTREMELY ill. My head was hurting, my ears were popping, but worst of all: my stomach was CHURNING. My stomach had been misbehaving for a while, but after that takeoff I felt even worse.

I have never, ever, in my memory, vomited on a plane ride. I've never even really felt that queasy. This time was totally different. I went to the bathroom before the seat belt sign turned off for like, the first time ever. Although I am clumsy and awkward as a person, I follow the rules in general. I understand that the plane is still shaky and we need to get the clear before we can move. But, well, DAMN! I felt horrible! I just couldn't find the dumb paper bag they give you to throw up in until I got back from the bathroom.

Oh, just in case you were thinking I spent the first few moments of the flight blowing chunks: no. I didn't throw up. Not even a little! It was a false alarm. However, I felt calmed down after a few seconds, just sitting there.

When I got back to my seat, I tried to silently apologise to the poor flight attendant who was sitting right there, watching me break all the rules. What is up with people seeing me do dumb/wrong things this trip? Anyway, he did try to stop me going to the bathroom but really - he couldn't drag me out of there. I went in anyway. For the rest of the flight, I smiled at him and was SUPER polite. I felt so bad!

I got my menu and looked at the choices I had in front of me. The only interesting thing is that I decided on a vegetarian main course even though I really, really wanted to get the lamb stew with polenta! I need to stop eating meat in general. I had been eating too much of it in Saudi.

Another more interesting thing that I realised was that the word for olive in Spanish is aceituna which is so similar to the Arabic word for olive, zeitoun. I know that Spanish and Arabic share a lot but it always creates a little spark in me when I see a relation.

When I was in Saudi, listening to Arabic music on TV made me realise the link between Spain and Arabic in terms of music. I know very well that Arabs can dance very well to Spanish music, and vice versa. If we look at one of my idols, Shakira, there you go! She blends the Latina and Middle Eastern very well. Hell, it's in her own name! The tie is linguistic, historical, and cultural. When studying Islamic architecture, I was really excited and interested in the Islamic rule in Iberia. It's so fascinating to me, to see the similarities in art - however, I always see that there is a different flair for each. I can't even describe it, but you can definitely tell when something is Spanish and something is Arab when it comes to dress, music, or food, or even the language - it doesn't sound the same.

Wow - I am REALLY digressing from my travels. Or am I? I go off on tangents in my head on the plane because I get bored and restless! I guess my ramblings are as much a part of my travels as the flight and the airports.

There isn't much you can do on a plane. You can rely on in flight entertainment, but that isn't always going to help. Emirates has channels upon channels of movies and TV shows and whatever to watch, but sometimes I look through the list and there is nothing I feel like watching! On this Lufthansa flight, there are a few episodes of things I could watch, but I don't feel like it, AND the movie selection is terrible. The newest in-stale-ment (get it? Hurr hurr) of the Shrek movie franchise? You've gotta be kidding me.

For the last hour and a half of the flight, they showed REALLY cheesy music videos on a central screen. Some were European, some were random like Jack Johnson and Michael Buble. I like those two guys, but I didn't really feel like seeing Johnson surf for a whole video or Michael Buble in the studio. I stuck to the iPod in general.

I could have read a book, but guess what? My only book on the plane was in the overhead bin. Remember what I said about the overhead bin and how I needed Herculean strength to get my case up there? No way in HELL would I get that down!

What I usually ended up doing was writing or playing Plants vs Zombies. OR eating, but come on! They GAVE me the food. I HAVE to eat it*!

I toyed with the idea of trying a fiction piece, but damn, do I suck at writing fiction. My settings and histories are always terrible. Maybe I should write about a real place…but then that might involve some research. Write about a place I know? If anyone from that place reads it, they'll be able to pick out all of my errors! That's supposed to be a good thing, but here's a secret (not really): I am terrified of criticism. That basically means that I need MORE of it because I can't just go living my life with everyone telling me I am perfect. That's living in a delusion.

One thing I actually did write was a whole thing about perfection and praise and how it can destroy a life. Maybe I'll expand on that for another blogpost on another day! I also wrote a very emotional piece related to Mauritius that I am actually SCARED to share. Like really, really scared that people will look at me differently and hate me. Hmmm…that ties in with yet another piece of writing…

Yes, the flight had been spent writing. Nothing else of interest really happened. Oh, that flight attendant who caught me red-handed earlier in my air crime seemed to be COMPLETELY confused by my only drinking water. He finally smiled when I ordered a coffee. What was that about?

Finally, after the flight of rather boring things, where I went 20,000 times to the toilet (what is up with me and the damn airline toilet?) I don't have too much to say about it. I DID eat very nice cake very, very quickly.

See that? Done in less than a minute.

Finally, I arrived in Boston and well...I am here. Tomorrow, you shall be hearing about that. What a long, long day it has been...so...tired...

Zzzzz...


*No I don't.

My Travels, Part Two: Frankfurt, Frankfurt, Frankfurt...

As I did not have internet for a while, I wrote and wrote and wrote to post whenever I had a chance. This is my edited version. I know it rambles, so I apologise in advance!

Blog entry starting at 8:38am Frankfurt time
There is apparently internet in this lounge here in Frankfurt airport, but I can't use it. It's a T Mobile service you have to pay for, which is cool, but it isn't working! I filled out the form for my credit card info, clicked…and got a message saying that I can't pay by credit card right now. Sounds like such bullshit, right?

Then, I decided, "HEY I have a Paypal account I barely use! I can barely use it again, right?" No, I couldn't, because guess what? Signing into Paypal...requires an internet connection. POOF all my dreams of using the internet in this lounge have been shattered! So has my dream of taking a shower. There is a waitlist and uh…I don't think I am going any time soon. Damn Germans and their…ability to make things more efficient!

Anyway, Frankfurt itself as I was flying over it was SO BEAUTIFUL. I wanted to jump out of the plane and into those fluffy looking trees. I love the way everything looks so tiny, like toys, when you fly over land. No matter how many times I do it, it never fails to amuse and amaze me. I think about how cool it would be to pick up one of the trucks between two fingers.

Ugly-ass Frankfurt airport

I am really disappointed with this airport. It's nothing special. It reminds me of the disappointment I felt when I arrived in Vienna's airport back in 2006. Ugh, that is maybe the worst airport ever actually, I don't even know if it is worse than this one! I just know that I didn't like it at all, and when I stepped into Vienna I felt SO annoyed. It was so ugly! Here I kind of felt the same way, especially with this lounge. It's so quiet and dead but it has so many people in it. Everyone is struggling to be quiet.

OF COURSE, that means I HAVE to have the bright lime green case with the faulty wheel that makes a super loud CLACK CLACK CLACK when I pull it. EVERYONE stares at me and again, OF COURSE they stare at me when my hair happens to be greasy, I smell, my breath smells, and my clothes are all rumpled because I slept on the flight.

It's actually pretty hilarious, now that I think about it.

Man, I just want to get on my flight right now. Um, I landed at about 7am and got to the lounge at 8:30am somehow! I am therefore spending only a little less than 4 hours in this boring, drab lounge. Thank GOD it is not longer or I would explode. I hope the shower will take a good amount of time, but then again I would feel bad because I know there are other people waiting on that list. OOF! I was looking forward to getting cleaned up and not stinking horribly!

What I am most amazed by is how quiet it is, and how I have not heard even one announcement for boarding yet. I guess I am just on my own here! Every lounge in the world that I have been to announces the flights that are boarding. Maybe this one does but I sure as hell haven't heard it yet. It isn't very nice, is it? That's it - I am just going to leave early. At like…11:15. It'll take me 20 years to walk all the way to my gate anyhow!
[NOTE AT 9:08AM] I am a douchebag. They made an announcement to get people to board their flight and I am a horrible person.

Ugh…the walk (and air rail ride!) here from the plane was not as bad as Dubai, but it was a long walk after a flight where I only slept for like 2 hours. I'm tired! That's why I am grumpy and want my shower. I also really need that shower because I felt bad for the woman who was feeling me up at the security thing. She REALLY felt me up, too - she must have liked me. Grabbed my breasts and everything. And I mean it - she GRABBED my breasts. Yes, they are real, lady! You could have just asked!

Okay, no, I understand the need, I am just kidding. I was not kidding about feeling bad for her though - she had to touch me all over the place while I STANK. Oof, my stench must have made her leave and privately vomit. I wouldn't blame her. I am so gross right now!

It's such a shame because when I went to the lavatory on the plane I was so please to see that I didn't look as horrible as I usually do. I guess that facial I went to yesterday really helped! It felt great when I was getting it, so it was totally worth it for that alone. Now, all of that is gone - I am gross, gross, GROSS. And did I say I was smelly? I don't think I talked about that enough.

Okay it is 9:37am and I practically ran and jumped like crazy when I heard my name called for a shower. They pronounced my name is "Khadaya" which is always a pretty mispronunciation. Hell, if that were my name, I'd be totally happy. The shower was AMAZING. It was a funny shower that sprayed in my FACE with hot water (I swear it was like Mr. Bean or some cheap comedy movie or something). I thought that I screwed things up because I saw that the water was escaping the shower…but there was a drain right outside which was meant for this kind of thing. Good on Germany for thinking about idiots like me who want to shower in their airports!

Obligatory picture of me in the mirror being grumpy and needing to shower.

I feel SO good right now, so much more energized. Another thing that makes me super happy is the fact that I have a BEAUTIFUL coffee next to me.

Mmmmmmm!

I had to take a picture because it is the prettiest thing in this whole airport.

I have written so much here in this Notepad document that I know I will be cutting a lot out of it. I hate it when I ramble and then publish it on my blog, but I love the actual rambling. If anyone I knew were right here and asking me about my flight, I'd be really babbly (is that even a word?) and I'd have so much fun talking about everything that is going on around me. I LOVE talking about airport experiences - the good and the bad. The good usually has to do with food and the bad generally has to do with stuff like crabby passengers, babies or BAD food. Or ugly airports with ugly ugly design.

Okay, I have to explain why I said babies: I HATE BABIES. I hate babies! I hate them as much as Glenn Beck hates Woodrow Wilson ("I hate that guy!") and that make me a horrible human being, I know. But babies are so, so, SO damn annoying. They sing to themselves in their annoying high pitched squeaky voices, they complain and scream and squirm and never do anything their Mom or Dad tells them to. I also think they look like little aliens. I totally looked like an alien when I was a baby, I know!

There is nothing, NOTHING worse than a crying baby on an airplane. NOTHING. There is nothing the parent can do, or the flight attendants, or anyone because that baby is just gonna cry and cry and cry and whine and make high pitched noises. It gets even worse when they are a little older and are starting to babble weird noises and sing irritating little songs or read out every word that they see because they just learned how to read ARGHARGHARGH. Makes me so mad! There should be a NO BABY section, just for me. It'd be a Khadeja section - with its own lavatory. Oh HELL yeah! My dream come true!

I didn't have a baby crying or being irritating on my flight but I have had it before and I am experiencing it right now in Frankfurt. There are babies everywhere at this airport! There was even a line for mothers with babies at the security! What is Frankfurt, Baby capital of the world? Oof! I hope that is only limited to the airport because Frankfurt looked so beautiful and I'd love to visit someday. Then again, if I didn't like the German-ness of Vienna, maybe I really won't like it. It is always worth a try, right?

Oh, by the way, speaking on annoying things - that irritating woman in the Riyadh lounge was on my flight to Frankfurt! Imagine my dismay as I saw her on the damn plane, going to MY lavatory! She was in first class, don't they have their own damn toilet? Hahaha okay, really, I didn't see her again and she didn't bother me. That's such a good thing. I have to admit though that I was terrified that I'd get stuck sitting next to her. That would have been such a nightmare.

On the flight, I did a lot of iPod touch blogging to condense for later. Now that I have limited time on my computer and on the internet, my editing has to go super fast! Let's see what I got:

Mmmm...legroom!

3:06am Saudi time and I am super duper tired. The Lufthansa plane is SO pretty and the seats and legroom are awesome in this business class! Considering how much cheaper it is than Emirates, I am so happy - and relieved. We are now 840km over ground although I might be wrong because I only just caught that info on the screen. I see that little plane on the diagram. It is right on top of Riyadh.

It is pitch black outside. When we took off Riyadh was a thousand orange lights. Is this the last time? I don't know now.

Anyway, I like this plane. I can't wait to see the lavatory! Yeah - that is what I look at, the damn toilet! What I really wanna do is see my exhausted FACE. I must look hideous right now!

I put on quite a show when I was getting settled - my huge lime green case (which all the attendants commented on) took the strength of the Hulk to get up into the overhead bin. Everyone was staring to see if I would topple over, I swear. If I were them, I would too! I didn't topple over though - I got it in there and when I got switched to a better seat (OH YEAH) I took it down and then wrestled it back to another bin! Hell yeah!

Ooooooh it's snack time!

Actually this was NOT a part of snack time but pre-snack time. It was lemon juice - with MINT. Much better.

3:22am and they just served the guy nearest to me red wine. Portuguese, I think. Well, whaddaya know? I thought that wasn't allowed on flights to or from Saudi!

I had canapes and coffee and a walnut pastry thing. The canapes were good: block of salmon, one with chicken breast, strawberry and olive (I think) and then roast beef and orange [NOTE: I was super wrong about what these things were!!! I looked at the menu and the "beef" was DUCK and the chicken was something else. Oops!] The walnut pastry [NOTE: It was BACLAVA, my favourite thing I just couldn't remember what the hell it was called in my insomniac state] was SO GOOD with that coffee!

Oooooh okay now we are over Al-Kuwait or something and nearing Tel Aviv. Woooo it is 3:31 and I should really be getting some sleep, dawg! [NOTE: Dawg? REALLY?]

Ok for reals [NOTE: Again - REALLY?] it is 3:41 and I don't wanna sleep juuuuuuust yet. Might just listen to music for a little while.

--

And from there, I just went to sleep. It took me a long time, but I eventually was able to find a good position. When I woke up, I ate the best muesli in the WORLD. I have never had such good muesli ever. It was creamy and sweet - and best of all, there were no raisins!

Now, I must really go. My laptop battery is dying and my internet time is running out. More of my travels will be revealed after I finally arrive in Boston. It is 10:52am and I will probably leave this lounge in 30 minutes or so.