أنا أعيش في أبو ظبي

We were sitting on opposite couches in the den.  He was annoying me, and I’m pretty sure my eyes were rolled so far back in my head they could have gotten stuck if I’d held it just a little bit longer.  “See, look at her,” he said pointing to Mommy cooking dinner in the kitchen.  “You need to be more like her.  You’re too moody.  She’s so even keeled.  That’s why we’ve made it this long.”  Even keeled.  I can do that.  Nine days of even keeled Shan.  Why not?  Everything’s prepared.  The itinerary’s set.  I’m in control.  Even keeled.  Tears.  Stop it.  What are you crying for?  They’re not even off of the plane.  Too many emotions at once — excitement, anxiousness, eagerness.  Be anxious for nothing, but by prayer and supplication……  You’re putting this pressure on yourself.  Breathe.  Even keeled.  Why was that the standard?  He’s moody, quick tempered and hot headed, too.  I got it from him.  Breathe.  Reading.  That should help me calm down.  It’s a good thing I always have a book. 

20 minutes.  That’s normal.  Passport control usually takes a while.  It’ll give me time to finish this chapter.  40 minutes.  Ugh!  Where are they?  Even keeled, Shan, remember?  An hour.  The plane landed an hour ago.  No, bladder, not now.  I’ll miss them if I go.  Maybe they forgot a passport.  Crap!  Bathroom.   Back to the exit.  Did I miss them?  Inside.  Outside.  Inside again.  There they are!  Go figure, last ones off of the plane.  They don’t even see me.  Closer. Closer.  Closer.  “Shan!” 

It was normal.  We were us, as usual.  Laughing, joking, telling stories. 

Hosting friends and family across the world comes with big responsibilities, and I don’t always handle them too well.  I prepare, prepare, prepare and sometimes over prepare myself to the point of exhaustion.  It’s a lot of pressure knowing that you’re the reason that anyone has spent a thousand dollars (per person) to fly across the globe, and you have to ensure that they have a good time.  I began preparing for my family’s visit in late October.  I budgeted, planned, re-budgeted, tweaked plans, booked visits, mapped out directions and still —— everything wasn’t perfect.  However, all that mattered was that they were here.  Well, except for Daddy. 

“I’m going to take you to Global Village while we wait for Daddy’s flight to arrive.”  Two hours later, Daddy’s flight arrived.  We were at Global Village.  Three hours later Daddy began thinking something happened to us.  We were at Dubai Mall.  By the fourth hour, he was sitting at the coffee shop eating.  When I walked into the airport and  found him sitting at the table, I was shocked. 

“How long have you been here?” 

“Just four hours,” he said with a slight chuckle and leaning in for a hug.  Woah, he’s really calm about it. 

“Four hours!  I thought your flight landed at 9:55.  I figured it’d take you a while to get through passport control so I estimated you’d be coming through the gates around 10:30, maybe 11ish if the lines were bad.” 

“No, I’m fine.  I was good.  I had internet, money and some food so I was straight.  All I could do was wait.”  Even keeled.  Who’s this Daddy? 

“Please don’t tell Mommy.  She’ll be so upset that she got the time wrong.”
 
“Nah, I won’t.” 
 
We were only 20 minutes into our drive before he spilled the beans and we had the running line for the week, “How would you know?  You didn’t wait at the airport for four hours.”  We all burst into laughter, and although it was only two hours and 20 minutes it probably felt like an entire day considering that he was in a strange land where men wear “dresses” (kandoras) and women step out looking like the grim reaper.  Leave it to Daddy to make jokes out of the misery of waiting.  There wasn’t a hint of anger or the flush red face that I was used to seeing when he was vexed.  Instead, he was different — even keeled and just along for the ride. 

He was different, but it all felt so familiar. 

Over the next nine days, Mommy, Daddy and Lauren had the opportunity to experience the UAE as I had planned.  After waiting in the airport four hours (as he tells it) past his evening arrival, Daddy was up early the next morning.  He was pacing around the house and eager to get out and see.  He’s jet lagged and doesn’t even know it. 

“Daddy, do you want to walk to the store with me?” 

“Yeah, let’s go.” 

We stepped out into the morning sun and began walking.  “It’s not really that hot.”

“Just wait, you’re saying that under the carport.  I’ll see what you say when we start walking.”

Both, Mommy and Daddy were interested to find out what my life was like over here, and they’ve never run short on questions.  I wanted to answer their questions through experiences.  I opted for a walk to Carrefour because that’s how I learned about my neighborhood.  I walked it.  Before I got a car, I’d make the one mile walk to Carrefour in order to get exercise and investigate my surroundings.  Of course, I could have taken a taxi, but it’s not the same as walking the neighborhood.  Daddy had a lot of questions about the neighborhood so I figured the best way to answer him was to show him in the same way that I had learned it.  After turning the corner and passing the second stop sign he retracted his statement about the heat, “Shit, man, it’s hot.” 

“See, I told you to wait until we started walking.” 

“I thought we were going right around the corner or something.” 

“It’s just up ahead where you see that big tower.” 

Pointing at the road up ahead, Daddy said, “We have to cross this street?”

“Yeah, it’s just over a mile from my house.  This is the walk that I used to make a couple times a week before I got a car.  It’s really not much further.”  There it was again.  He gave an interested, but resigned look and trudged on.  Old Daddy would have criticized my decision to walk.  I smiled.  I was enjoying this walk more than he’d ever know.  He was even keeled and just along for the walk. 

It was calming.  We were us, the grown up us — not bickering or fussing.  Shannon and Daddy.  Laughing, joking, telling stories…and sweating.

The week went on and Mommy was Mommy and Lef was Lef, but Daddy, Daddy was different.   I didn’t exactly succeed in nine days of being even keeled Shan, but it didn’t seem to phase Daddy when I did have a meltdown.  In my moments of highs and lows he kept me settled.  That role was always filled by Mommy in the past.  It felt a bit odd to sort out my feelings and emotions with him, but it happened as we sat in Nando’s waiting for our order.  He made me see when I was overreacting about a misstep in the itinerary or putting too much pressure on myself to control things that were out of my control.  Daddy even joked politely when I was freaking out.  It was almost as if all of those times that I’d said he needed to consider his delivery method when talking to me had made a difference.  None of his sentences began with that notoriously firm, “See what I’m trying to get you to understand is.” 

It was interesting.  This is Daddy.  Still laughing, still joking and  still telling stories, but even keeled.

After Global Village, the Dubai Mall Fountain Show, Al Qasba, the Blue Souk, a desert safari, a day at the Rotana pool, Emirates Palace, the Corniche, Ferrari World, dinner with the Iskandrani family, bobsledding on the mountain, driving up the mountain, the Grand Mosque, beers with the Abu Dhabi crew at Captain’s and a stay at Atlantis I asked them what they liked best.  Lauren looked at me and seriously said, “Our car moments.” At first I was offended, This heifer did things she’d never have the opportunity to do at home and she’s telling me the car rides were the best part?  I’d spent so much time and effort organizing an action packed trip and she thought the most enjoyable moments were the hours spent in the car.  It baffled me. 

In the weeks since then I’ve come full circle and now see it from Lauren’s perspective. Lauren had an innocent view of what was important.  She wasn’t influenced by the money that I or my parents spent because it wasn’t her money.  She wasn’t aware of the time and effort because she didn’t have to gather any information or book any reservations.  She wasn’t swayed by the must see and must do lists because she hadn’t seen them.  She was happy about the time that we spent together doing all of the things that were familiar in this bizarre place where people kept staring at her and everything seemed too crowded.  We snapped sleeping pictures of one another, we had serious conversations, we planned our Harlem Shake videos, made up new volleyball chants for her and her teammates, we teased each other and Daddy followed every sentence up with, “How would you know?  You didn’t spend four hours in the airport.”

We were us, as usual.  Laughing, joking, telling stories.

A few weeks after their visit, I was Skyping with Mommy and telling her everything that I noticed during our time together.  I explained that Daddy was still Daddy, but his mannerisms were more patient.  He was who he wanted to be and who he’d grown to become.  I realized that while I was growing up, my Daddy was also growing into his role as a father; and although his disposition may have changed, his personality was still the same.  He was still Daddy just even keeled.  He’d always admired those traits in Mommy and over time and through life’s lessons he’d been shaped and refined. 

This trip helped my family connect to my life abroad and understand why I enjoy being here, but for me it was an eye opener to see how much each of them have grown since I’ve been away.  My most enjoyable moments were spending time with my Daddy and understanding why he always wanted me to develop a demeanor that resembled my mother’s.  Simply put, an even keeled person is great company.

In spite of all of the rare experiences, Lauren helped me to see that our time together was what was important.  The morning walk with my daddy, laughing in the aisles of the grocery store and the lemon competition at the dinner table don’t necessarily top riding a camel, holding a falcon or sliding through a shark tank.  Instead all of these experiences are like patches on a quilt and together they tell the story of us.  

We were us, as usual.  Laughing, joking, telling stories.

Dear Sallie Mae,

Guess what I did this weekend.  I had fun!  I had the kind of fun that you have when you go out for a night with your friends, spend an exorbitant amount of money, party until the wee hours of the morning, then sleep for an inadequate number of hours.  Of course afterwards you must stuff your face (with Tim Horton’s if it’s in the vicinity) and go back to bed for a friendly cuddling session where everyone that’s coherent climbs into bed together.  Yes, even if it seems logistically impossible to fit everyone into one bed somehow you and your friends manage.  You laugh, you talk, you look up ridiculous topics such as cat breading on someone’s iPhone and laugh and talk some more until a force beyond your control causes someone to move.  Burj Khalifa, The Address, Fibber McGee’s, the Paddyman, that pit stop at Circle K, the spilled wine fortune telling.  It.  Was.  A.  Blast!  I mean, atomic bomb, aftershock, jaw dropping, “Wow! We really did that!” fun.  It’s the kind of fun that makes you think and wonder why we don’t do it every weekend.  Then… I remembered you.  I remembered the money that was no longer in my wallet, I remembered that I’d be eating potatoes for the rest of the month, and I remembered my spreadsheet.

Before you get mad, let me explain a few things.  I don’t mean to make you sound like a Debbie Downer or insinuate that you object to fun, but I have very mixed emotions about the way that we interact with one another.  We were introduced to each other almost eight years and four months ago.  You were wealthy and though I was not poor, I didn’t have access to nearly as much money as you had.  Even though we weren’t friends and you barely knew me, you trusted me enough to offer to lend me a good chunk of change.  Similar to all give and take relationships, there were conditions to accessing your money and you’re pretty anal so you wrote them all out for me.  Thanks by the way, I really appreciate the time and effort it took you to do all of that.  I only wish I’d taken as much time to read all of it.  Fine print and financial jargon didn’t appeal to me at the time, but I skimmed it before letting you know what I was going to do.  I was only nineteen, and making decisions about large sums of money wasn’t exactly my forte.  You presented yourself as reliable and generous.  Furthermore, I didn’t have to write any essays or go through too much effort so I accepted your offer with gusto.  Getting back to my point about you and fun, you enabled me to go to the University of Maryland where I enjoyed the ideal college experience.  Everybody always talked about college being the best four years of your life and the importance of soaking it all up while you’re there, and YOU allowed me to do just that.  When I think of you I remember all of the wing nights at Santa Fe, the dollar beers at Cornerstone, Lupo’s before it became Thirsty Turtle, the privileged feeling of hanging out with Marae’s senior crowd as a sophomore, Courtyards pool parties, basketball games, route 1 riots, Byrd Blackouts, soccer games, Blockshows, Apples to Apples at Meg’s apartment, the All-Niters, Juke Joints, silly group cramming sessions in McKeldin, spring break in Miami, skiing at Flat Top Lake and all of the other countless times that you held out your hand so that I could experience fun with a capital F.  I am truly grateful for all of that because without your support I wouldn’t have those memories.  You were my silent partner.

Here’s where my mixed emotions come into play.  The aforementioned capital F is a double entendre.  Now that I’m out of school and trying to pay you back as quickly as possible, I have to limit the number of weekends that I can splurge on fun.  Every month I glance at my middle finger as I click to open the email reminding me about how much you expect in return for our initial agreement.  I’ve gotten used to your emails, and the figure isn’t as shocking as it was in the earlier years.  I’ve stopped flicking you off as often, but every now and then I regress.  

My relationship with you has caused me to examine my character.  In an effort to get you off my back, I’ve started planning my expenses six months in advance.  Responsible? Yes.  However, I have these amazing, spontaneous, outgoing friends.  They’re like me in the sense that they relish in experiences.  They want to go, to see, to do, and they want to do it now, and I want to go with them.  But I can’t.  Unfortunately, my spreadsheet doesn’t leave too much room for spontaneous events that require me to spend money.  Therefore, I’ve found myself in situations where I don’t want to explain that even though I make enough money to live comfortably, I question amounts as small as thirteen dollars.  I’m embarrassed to say, “No, I can’t spend 50 dirhams at the golf course today” or “Sorry, it’s not on the spreadsheet, and if I don’t stick to the spreadsheet I won’t be able to give Sallie an extra $200”.  So instead, I find myself lying about my whereabouts or ignoring phone calls so that I don’t have to lie.  It’s quite pathetic behavior, but I find it necessary in order for me to experience financial freedom in the near future and avoid the shame of telling my active friends that I’m sitting on the couch for a whole weekend. I know you’ll say, “Shannon don’t rush it.  Just give me the minimum.  I’ve given you fifteen years.”  But, Sallie, I don’t want to give you my youth AND my money.  I’d rather pay you back as quickly as possible so that I can get back to fun with a capital F while I’m still young enough to enjoy it.

My dad tried to warn me about the downside of entering into an agreement with you, but when you benignly waltzed into my kitchen and offered me that first $25,000 it was such an easy path toward instant gratification.  My dream school, all expenses paid, and I wouldn’t have to think about it again until after graduation.  DEAL!  Daddy told me that I wasn’t seeing the whole picture, but how could I?  I’d wanted to attend Maryland since I was in eighth grade.  It was my number one school.  I took the full scholarship at Georgia State for a year, but campus life just wasn’t what I expected.  It didn’t suit the college experience that I had in mind.  Everyday I went to class feeling like I was settling for a second rate college experience, and if that period was supposed to be the best four years of my life I wanted it to be a grand ‘ol time.  It’s possible that I never really gave Georgia State a chance because I never wanted to go there.  Maryland was my dream, and I made it my mission to get there no matter what the cost.  I can’t say that I’d have changed my mind even if I knew the impact that interest would have on the principle, but at the very least I would have been more prepared to pay up if I’d seen an equation in bold print that showed what I’d be paying back after three years of fun.  Instead, you sucker punched me six months after graduation.  

It took me a long time to forgive you for the way things went down that night.  I was in tears because I was adjusting to life after college, dealing with the day in and day out of professional responsibilities and here you come to kick me when I’m down.  All throughout life I was spoon fed the American dream rhetoric.  You know it.  You reinforced it!  Study hard, go to college, get a good job and of course you’ll be able to pay back those student loans and buy a house and achieve anything you want….blah, blah, blah!  I didn’t have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of, but I had my degree—the one that you paid for, and were coming to collect on when I was in the worst financial shape.  It’s okay, I can see your point of view now.  You gave, I owed, and the joyride was over.  It was pretty matter of fact, but I didn’t see it that way at the time. 

Anyway, time has a reputation of giving way to perspective.  Now that I know that the best times of my life are not limited to my four years of university, I want to close that chapter by paying off my expenses.  At one point, I harbored a lot of resentment towards you, but I want to move past that.  I realize that I owe you more than money.  You’ve given me an education that even Maryland couldn’t provide.  Every one of my friends has learned a thing or two about responsibility since college, but we’ve all learned in different ways.  Some had their kids as teachers, others had husbands, siblings or sickly relatives.  I had you. I had to produce a check for you at the end of every month.  Not only that, you taught me lessons about money that Robert H. Smith couldn’t have taught on his best day.  You also enabled me to look inward and create a conscious thought process about the impact that money has on my relationship with others and with myself.  

In closing, I want to say thank you.  The fact is, our relationship is both a burden and a blessing, and I hope you can understand why my feelings about us are muddy.  Paying you off means that I have to undergo some austerity measures.  I don’t like it, nobody does, but it has to be done.  All in all, I know it’s for the best.  I mean it with the utmost sincerity when I say thank you.  I’ll always be grateful for the Fun that you financed and the knowledge that you shared with me.

Sincerely, 

Shannon

P.S.  I’ve enclosed a few pictures of my premeditated, spreadsheet planned Fun.  I’m not completely miserable.  

Hanging out at the Airpark!

New Year’s Eve at Barasti!

Cocktails at the Burj for Heather’s 30th!

“This place is great!  Do you smell that?  Leather bound books and dusty covers.  I love it!  It’s a shame I can’t take pictures.  I’ll never be able to capture all of this with words.”  I looked down the center of the Long Room pondering how I’d aptly describe the setting.  I looked at the arched ceiling. It was so shiny that I stood there trying to decide if it was wood painted with a very thick shellac or if it was a high gloss brown paint.  I looked at the (approximately) 12 foot wooden ladders attempting to estimate the height.  I decided that it was probably my dad’s height times two, and subtracted six inches after looking at the slope of each ladder and figuring in practical measurements.  Who would really build a ladder that’s six feet six inches, anyway?  Eh, maybe.  I studied the faces on the white, marble busts and thought about walking down the Hall of Mirrors and losing Michelle.  Michelle and Mandy would love it here.  They’d know exactly what I mean when I say how good the books smell.  These students are so lucky.  They get access to these books for four whole years.  I’d come in here all the time if I were a Trinity student.  Not true, I’d probably take it for granted.  I moved closer to the ropes to look at the spines of the books and the big gold reference letters painted on the columns.  There were so many books and they were all crammed in so tightly.  There were two identical levels.  I thought of my summer working at the Atlanta-Fulton public library.  It must suck to reshelve and catalogue books here.  

Reshelving and cataloguing new books had it’s pros and cons.  I used it as a time to skim through books to find out if I’d want to read them.  If it was a good one I’d write down the title and plan to go check it out later.  By four o’clock the book was already on hold or snatched up by someone else, and that drove me crazy.  I’d spend the next few minutes finding out that my name was at the bottom of a waiting list for a book that had a waiting list before I even entered it into the system.  I looked at Damian, “It’s got to be great to be a student here.  You never have to worry about your book being checked out since you can only use them in here.”  Damian had more on the itinerary and wanted to get going.  I wasn’t ready to go.  This is crazy!  How did we even make it here?

Photo credits to thebestcolleges.org

It started as a bit of a joke according to him, but that’s not what I remember and Gerry won’t vouch for him on that.  I was on a date with DJ Chris, but I was bored with him.  I could have fallen asleep trying to have an engaging conversation with him.  When he had to get ready for work, I felt relieved.  He went to set up at Luce’s, but I told him I was going to run up to the Horse and Jockey to sit with my friends until the “party” began.  He offered to join me, and that annoyed me even more.  I thought about Daddy’s basic rules of men and economics.  NO MATTER WHAT YOU THINK AS A WOMAN, DINNER IS NOT FREE.  I guess I have to endure him a little bit longer to pay off my dinner debt, but he better not expect anything else because that dinner is a sunk cost now.  Things got awkward around Amanda, JP and Joe and luckily he decided to go back down to Luce’s.  I told him I’d meet him a little later.  I got up to go the toilet.  Walking back to my table, I said hello to Gerry.  He was sitting with a friend and a group of girls.  Shortly thereafter, a guy began saying my name at an embarrassingly loud volume.  I didn’t know who he was, but I wasn’t getting up to find out.  He continued, and I wanted it to stop.  People were looking at him and us.  I got up.  

“What?”

“Hi.”

“Hi.  Why are you screaming my name and what do you want?”

“I’m Damian.  I want to take you on a date.”

“You couldn’t even get up to speak to me.  No.”

“Come on.  Please.  My friends got in a fight with the guys you’re sitting with and I didn’t want anything to happen when I came over there.”

“Nice to meet you, Damian.  No.”

“What are you doing after this?”

“Going to Luce’s.  I’m actually on a pseudo date.”

“Take me with you, please.  I just have to pay my tab and I’m coming.”

Laughingly I said, “No, I just told you I’m on a date.”

I walked away and rejoined my friends.  Shortly thereafter we paid our tab.  I looked over and caught a glance of Damian asking for his tab, slipping his card in the black book immediately and telling the server that he was ready.  He looked over and mouthed something to me.  I tried to gather my things and move swiftly.  I didn’t want him going into Luce’s with me.  I may not like DJ Chris, but I’m not that rude.  

He followed us, and walked hurriedly to catch up to me.  He did a little dance and I couldn’t help but laugh at him. Ugh!  That stupid dance.  That wouldn’t make me want to go out with you.  How am I going to lose him?  In the moment, I thought it was unfortunate that I couldn’t shake him.  Down in Luce’s, DJ Chris was watching me from the time we entered.  I tried to go up and create some conversation with him, but he was in full work mode.  Seeing that DJ Chris was fully engaged in crowd pleasing and spinning a mixture of tunes, Damian swooped in and took full advantage of the situation.  Amanda tried to warn him about Al Ain being a small town and taking his time and doing things slowly, but he wasn’t phased.  Slow was not his style.  He told me about his time in Al Ain, his girlfriend of four years that he’d just broken up with, his prior travels and continuously insisted on taking me on a date.  Eventually he was tired of plotting and wanted to put this whole thing to rest.  He wanted my number.  I thought he was interesting after talking to him, but I was starting to feel like the walls were closing in with DJ Chris watching me.  I went to tell DJ Chris an adapted account of what was actually happening and that I was going home.  Damian ran out of Luce’s.  I thought we were going to chat in the lobby, but he was miles ahead of me.  He rang my phone and told me to hurry up.  I took my time saying goodnight to everyone, not seeing the urgency in the matter.  When I got to the top of the stairs and didn’t see, Damian I thought I had dodged a bullet.  Great, I can go straight home.  Walking out to the taxi stand, I saw him turning to come back into the building.  

“Come on, I got you a taxi.”  

Wow!  That was nice.  What’s he doing?  Getting in with me?  Oh, I see where this is going.  Nope!  Not tonight, homeboy.  According to Daddy, I’m at least entitled to dinner.  I haven’t even agreed to a date.  The whole way home he pestered me about a date and since he agreed to drop me off first he’d surely know where I lived.  ”Okay.”  I agreed to a date thinking I’d be interested for a week or two, then I’d lose him.  Plus, he was fresh out of a relationship.  Four years, he’s just out having fun tonight.  No way is this going anywhere.  No worries.  He’ll leave me alone in a week.  It didn’t happen. 

It’s now been several dates, a month of total separation while I was traveling, a month of reacquainting ourselves, a month when we were inseparable, a few house projects, an airport scene with teary eyes, a trip to Copenhagen, never ending Skype sessions, a night out with the cousins, a scene out of P.S. I Love You, a brief meet and greet with one of the sisters, another airport scene and a moment to reflect on the highs and lows of it all in the Long Room.  I had to smile at the thought of how things began and how much our relationship has evolved. 

As we neared the staircase leading toward the gift shop, I was still reluctant to leave.  I spun around to take in one last look and tried to impress all of the fine details in my mind.  I may not have a picture (and it’s certainly not the first time because he prefers the experience over the visual representation), but it’s one more place to add to our story, one more page in our book.  Amongst all of the stories in the Long Room, I was only interested in one at that moment - ours.  I took his hand and listened to the creaking on the stairs as we left.

“Mohammed, fleus?  Do you want zatar or cheese?  Juice?”  He gives me a blank stare.  In an effort to get through the process quickly, I switch to Arabic.  “Hacier?”  He shakes his head and gives me that grin that says ‘Good job, English speaking lady.  Now you’re speakin’ my language, but it sounds kind of funny.‘  I go around the semi rectangle until I get to Khalifa.   “Khalifa, andak fleus?” He looks at me and because he’s cock-eyed it looks as if he’s looking at me and Ms. Amna.  She is sitting beside me leading the kids in a song.  Khalifa shakes his head vigorously and in the most peculiar voice says, “Mob andak flues.”  I think to myself.  Again!  Damn.  I taught his older brother Zayed last year.  At least three times a week I watched Zayed shake his head to tell me that he didn’t have money, and this year it looks like I’ll be doing the same with Khalifa.  Freeloaders! Does his mom think he eats for free?  I’ve learned that our ways aren’t their ways and asking questions is neither helpful or useful.  Just roll with the program, Shannon!  

Prior to coming to the UAE, I thought I was an open minded thinker.  However, in the course of a year I’ve learned that my point of view on many topics is constricted to a Western doctrine.  During my first week of school in the UAE I passed out the students’ sandwiches and asked Fatima, “What should we do for Zayed?  He didn’t have lunch money.”  She walked over to the table, picked up another student’s sandwich and said, “Okay, Ms. Sha-nun.  We bdr-ake.”  Humaid appeared to be happy to share with Zayed.  I thought, Hmm…his mother gives him money to eat a whole sandwich and he ends up sharing on account of another mother’s neglect.  That wouldn’t be my child.  As for his juice, she asked all of the students if they had one dirham.  The students gladly raised their coin and she took one from a little girl’s arm and told me to go get a juice from Ms. Nahla.  As I walked through the grotesque blue, cartoon decorated hallway I couldn’t believe I took another kid’s money to buy juice for Zayed.  What if their mother was expecting change?  What if that was intended for another purpose?  

The students sang louder, “Bis meh lah, bis me lah nahkt-a yoni bis meh lah.”  I patted Khalifa’s pockets to be sure that he wasn’t hiding his money.  Then I asked, “When shanta?”  He hissed, “Mah andak shanta.”  I guess this is just the way things go in his household.  He was the last student I had to collect money from so as the song dragged on I tallied up the number of cheese and zatar sandwiches needed for the day and counted the money.  As I put the bills aside and dumped the coins in the basket, I did some self reflecting.  This is probably how Leah, Charlotte and Heather feel.  How dare you criticize Khalifa’s parents when you do the exact same thing.  You’ve been freeloading for a whole year.  Hah!

Last year my friends started weekly dinners, so that we’d stay connected throughout the year.  It helped us find something to do, save a little bit of money and avoid the silent giant known as homesickness.  Everyone hosted dinner at their house.  Lauren had a few tranquil evening gatherings, Charlotte held a candlelit rooftop picnic, Leah hosted so many dinners that I lost count, Aisling had the hoe down of all hoe downs, Heather and Caroline threw a merry affair just before Christmas holidays and  Adam even got credit for hosting an event even though Leah did all of the work. 

What did I do?  Nothing.  I showed up.  I was the ultimate freeloader.  I washed a few dishes, brought a couple of bottles of wine, tended the grill and helped set up.  However, I avoided full responsibility—-just like Khalifa’s mom.  My intent was to host the final shabang of the school year.  I’d thought of a theme and everything, but as time approached I had too much going on and preparing for AmeriCanadalympics took precedent over my long overdue dinner.  Of course, I couldn’t take credit for that successful event either. In spite of the fact that Leah and I provided the outline for the ultimate Independence Day competition, it was hosted at Leah and Adam’s complex.  Obviously, all of the credit went their way.  

I wasn’t fully present as I sat on the carpet.  I could hear my students responding to Amna’s questions, but I had other thoughts going through my head.  That’s why Charlotte and Heather were so eager to call me out.  I’m a freeloader.  At book club last week, Charlotte made me shake on it to seal the deal.  After shaking on it, she promptly announced on Facebook that I’d be hosting the next book club gathering.  I liked it.  Amna looked over.  By the look on her face I could tell that she’d already asked the question once or maybe even twice, “Ms. Sha-nun, pass me sticker.  Shathra, shathra, Khalifa.”  She was rewarding him for doing something correctly.  I passed the stickers and looked at him and smiled.  

I’m going to lose my title of certified freeloader next week.  Maybe his mother just needs to be called out to realize that she can lose her title, too.  I’ll draft an appropriate note for her this weekend.  It won’t be the first time I sent a note home to that household, but hey, it took me a whole year to figure out that I was dodging responsibility so maybe Khalifa will have lunch money next week.    

As my time at home draws to an end, I want to take a moment to say thanks to everyone that’s anyone.  I love you all!  Full blog posts will resume in September.

Peace to the Middle East!  I know it’s corny, but I had to do it.

The Northern, VA crew!

My UMD clan!  

Sailing with my girlies!  They’re growing up so fast.

No MD trip is complete without CRABS!  

Linesister shananigans at Seyi’s wedding.

Sky Bis!

Us and her!

My little big champ!  I finally made it to her volleyball game.  

We go waaaay back!

He was fakin’ on me for a minute—until I got that slushie!

Leave it to this chick to drag me to the newest, most ratchet spot in Atlanta!

Aunt Nell asked if Mommy knew, Uncle Lloyd was cool, Sydney laughed, Shelby screamed and ran to me, Judy gasped, Aunt Carol did a double take, Mr. Rufus said my name in disbelief, Daddy cursed, Mommy screamed and cried, David was in shock, Lauren asked Daddy why he had his camera out before even realizing it was me, and Kris and Aunt Debbie called at the same time to see if the instagram post was true.  Home sweet home!  I made it to Virginia, Maryland, DC and Atlanta without anyone but Aly, Jarryd and my Maryland friends knowing that I was coming home.

Everything about Prague has been amazing, except that I got sick and have been run down while still trying to sightsee.  I’ve been to a pornographic blacklight showing of Alice and Wonderland (we had no idea when we bought the ticket), taken a complete walking tour of the city, rubbed the etching on the Charles Bridge, watched the Astronomical Clock show, watched the clock in the Ice Pub in hopes that the door would open on time (it didn’t), dragged my heavy suitcase down the narrowest cobblestone streets, drained a bottle of Robitussin, and drank so many pints of Staropromen that this beer belly is going to have to detox when I get home.  Cheers to Prague!

I remember when my dad used to look so tall and lean.  Of course, I was much shorter and he was much thinner and younger then.  Rome had that “parental decay” effect on me.  I believe I was 14 when I first visited Rome, and I don’t remember it being anything like it is today.  I remember it being cleaner, better preserved and less touristy.  I wasn’t too keen on the idea of going back, but I’m glad I did.  

This has been one exciting week of sailing!  I’ve jumped from a cliff, partied at a club located on it’s own island, tried to outrun a drug dealer and swallowed an unprecedented number Jager Bombs.  I’m pooped, but it’s on to Rome from here.  

Anyone who knows me well, knows that I think Santorini is the most beautiful place on Earth.  However, after a quick stop in Herceg Novi, Montenegro I wasn’t sure where I’d prefer having a summer home.  Following the climb up the Kanli Kula Fortress, my friends and I drove to the Bay of Kotor for one memorable hike up to the Cathedral of Our Lady of Health and the top of the old city walls.  I’m still sore just thinking about doing two hiking climbs back to back.  

At a first glance Belgrade is not the most attractive city, but it didn’t take long to find the appeal.  I was enamored by the beauty of the views from the old citadel.  Kalamagden Fortress showcases the best views of Belgrade and offers a glimpse into the leisure activity of the Serbs.  Located on the banks of the Danube and Sava rivers, Kalamagden was a bit out of the way.  However, I made my way there each of the three days that I spent in Serbia.  

Upon arrival at our accomodations in Belgrade, I was taken aback by the appearance of the facade.  

“Here?”  

The cab driver looked at me as if I were crazy.  I checked my travel book to make sure I gave him the right address.  He said, “63.  Yes, here.”  He took the bags out of the car, and I entered with caution.  The inside was completely remodeled and much nicer than the outside, but now I know what a city looks like after being bombed several times.  

Hungary has endured many occupations.  The Mongols, the Ottoman Turks, the Austrians, the Germans and the Soviets have all placed their flag in Hungarian territory.  These shoes along the Danube Promenade in Budapest are a memorial to the Jews killed by the fascists in World War II.  

Budapest, pronounced by the natives as Budapesht, is a city filled with many somber historical tales that you can only wish were fiction.  Today’s Hungarians are not as docile as their ancestors.  The people that I’ve met are very welcoming and eager to put their city on the map.  As a collective group of people, the Hungarians possess an indescribable energy that suggests an unwillingness to surrender to the common notions of Eastern Europe.  

I’m heading to Serbia (by train, in a sleeper car) tonight.  I’ll keep you posted.

Living and learning,

Shannon

Dear family, friends and unidentified readers,

It’s been an eventful first year in the UAE, and I’m grateful for the opportunities that I’ve had.  I enjoy sharing my experiences with you and look forward to an exciting year two.  This summer I’m going on an Eastern Europe trip.  I’ll always have a pen and notebook handy, but I won’t be blogging.  I’ve decided to scrapbook as I travel.  Many people have told me that they’re seeing the world through my eyes.  This blog has been a bit of a social experiment on my part, and it has opened up a lot of unexpected dialogue.  Don’t get the idea that I’m some heavy hitting sociologist now, but at times I’ve felt the pressure to write in order to answer a question, discredit misconceptions or to broaden a friend or relative’s perspective.  With that said, I won’t leave you hungry this summer. I’ll share a memorable moment or site from each country that I visit and return with full blog posts in September.  I wish you many days of sun and lasting deep tans!

I appreciate your interest in my journey to create me.  Many thanks to everyone that’s asked a question, started a conversation or encouraged me to keep writing.

With love,  

Shannon

“Stop, Hussein.  Slow down.  Take time to process what you’re reading and pay attention to the punctuation marks.”  He heeded to my directions for a few sentences before I had to stop him again.  “Hussein, do you know what a refugee is?”  He looked up at me with big eyes as if I’d caught him in the act of doing something inherently wrong.  In truth, I had.  I’ve been tutoring Hussein for four months and by now he knows my teaching style and he knows that I’m going to push him far more than his teachers at school. 

Although Hussein’s English is pretty good, it’s obvious that he’s not a native speaker and that most of his teachers are not native speakers.  I meet with Hussein twice a week to go over his Geography and Science lessons.  Every week I tell Hussein to stop speed reading and take time to process what he’s reading.  Every week, I also try to teach Hussein the importance of text features.  By now, Hussein should know that when he doesn’t know the explicit definition a word it’s important to use context clues or stop for clarification.  Instead of telling him the answer, as most of his teachers do, I try to phrase my questions in such a way that he knows he has a responsibility to find the answer because it’s vital information to the passage that we’re reading.  “Hussein, what is a refugee?”  He gives me that dumb founded look that I dread and proceeds to answer incorrectly because he’s guessing.  “Hussein, do not give me an answer until you’re sure that you’re correct.  What is a refugee?”  He has a bad habit of telling me that the answer is not there and pleading with me to tell him so I waited for the pleading to begin.  Not today.  It clicks, and I want to scream for joy.  “Oh, it’s like this,” he says while pointing at the word.  He’s paying attention to the bold print.  “Go to glossary,” he continues coaching himself to the answer.  He scans the pages of the glossary until he comes to the word refugee.  He looks up and says, “A man who flees his country due to hardship or political trouble.”  I ask for the book to make sure that’s accurate.  That’s a watered down definition, but I guess it will do for a Grade 5 lesson. We flip back to the passage and before Hussein begins reading he says, “I don’t understand.  What this mean?”  Hmmm.  How can I make this crystal clear for him?  Ahh, I’ve got it. 

Hussein is of Palestinian descent.  He’s spent his entire life in the UAE, but he’s only one generation removed from the woes of his native land.  His mother divorced his father and abandoned him.  His father remarried when he was very young.  The family candidly describes his childhood plights as if it’s just something that happens every day.  Upon entering his new marriage, Hussein’s father gave in to the demands of his new wife who only wanted her own children—not Hussein.  Hussein’s grandmother said, “Atini, Hussein.”  She’s raised him as her own ever since, and except for her age, you’d never once consider that she’s not his biological mother.  Hussein’s very close with his grandparents, and they share a lot about their experiences in Palestine with him.  Hussein’s never been to the area of Palestine where they grew up, The West Bank or The Gaza Strip and likely never will because he’s an undocumented resident of the UAE.  He doesn’t have a passport or traveling papers from any country, so getting him in and out of the country is tedious.  

All of the Palestinians that I’ve met appear to have an indescribable sense of patience and long-suffering with regards to what has and is happening to their people.  There seems to be little outrage, but the faint sense of hope that inshallah everything will be well in Allah’s time.  When I thought of how to describe a refugee, I knew he’d understand.  In spite of how openly Hussein’s family discusses their native struggles, I proceeded with caution.  “Hussein, many Palestinians became refugees in Jordan, Lebanon and Syria when the first fights broke out with the Israelis.  They left their native lands because of the dangers at home.  Today, there are many like you that do not have passports or traveling papers.”  “Ahhhhh, like you leave United States because you cannot work and come to UAE.” 

Seriously?  Me, an American, as a refugee in the UAE?  Hah, never in a million years.  I laughed and Hussein just stared at me, not realizing that what he said was ironic for several reasons.  Living in the UAE gives me several opportunities to see why America is great and why so many people dream of living there.  My ‘America the brave, where freedom and democracy are rights  and government legitimacy is not questioned by any other country in the world’ attitude kicked in.  “No, Hussein, I would not be considered a refugee.  I can work in my country, but I chose to come to the UAE.  Syrians that are leaving Syria now because of the the political struggle between Assad and the rebels are refugees.  Do you understand?”  Hussein’s facial expression signified confusion while he tried to make the connection.  He read the definition again and reverted to the literal sense, “Oh, because you are woman, not man.”  Our conversation took a turn.  I told him that the word man is used to describe any person.  That made no sense whatsoever in his brain, but he accepted it.  We carried on a lengthy, humorous conversation about  gender.  Hussein told me that equal status of men and women’s strength is accepted in the US, so in some other places women might be able to be refugees, but that is not the case for Arab women because they are weak.  I told him he’d be surprised by how strong Arab women could be in times of serious danger and left the topic alone.  I didn’t have any articles handy or use of internet, so on this day he’d just have to accept my word that there are female, Arab refugees.  I asked some wrap-up questions.  “Does a refugee have to be a man?”  He answered correctly, but I knew he hadn’t internalized this belief. 

I wanted to go into greater detail, but we still had too many lessons to review.  I knew that even though his mind is more open than some of his elders he’s still an Arab kid with an Arab perspective.  The Arab perspective alone is enough to make a person want to give up before they’ve even cracked the surface, but the Arab perspective of a man or boy—-well, that can seem impenetrable at times.  Instead of giving in, I’ll keep doing the work that’s entrusted to me.  Inshallah, my presence in his life will plant new seeds that grow into a myriad of original ideas and thoughts.  

“I haven’t read your blog lately.  What’s on there?”  He stared into the computer camera, eyes glazed over with a far off look.  ”Nothing new,” I replied.  ”I have a lot to post, but I don’t know how to write it.”   I have the idea, but I don’t know how to put it on paper coherently.

I’ve been thinking about Dr. Little and Cathy a lot lately.  It was my favorite high school graduation present.  When I opened the bag and saw the copy of Oh the Places You’ll Go by Dr. Suess along with a check, I was impressed by the level of thought they put into my gift.  Cathy penned a message that made me cry.  Her words were appropriate and insightful.  If I could just think of how to write this post I’d have something to say to the little boy that appears on my screen.  He’s not a little boy anymore, but in his eyes I can see the little boy that always looked up to me and acted as if I were the ultimate authority figure.  When challenged he’d respond, “Shannon said….” which would anger Daddy and bring on a curt response.  ”Shannon doesn’t know shit from shineola.”  Of course, now that he needs me to say something I’m drawing a blank.  At 27 I’m just realizing that Daddy’s right.  The older I get, the more I realize how much I don’t know.

My jot list has a few ideas written in neat penmanship.  I’m certain that it’s a clear case of writer’s block because the handwriting is entirely too neat.  Think.  What would you say to him?  The scrawny list is in dire need of some meat.

Oh the Places you’ll go, Petra, Giza, pyramids, Egypt, Jordan, keep going, Dead Sea, Mt. Nebo, Moses, The Promised Land, Oman, friends, Dave, road block, real life 

The book explains it all.  As the Irish would say, “It’s brilliant.”

“Today is your day.  You’re off to Great Places!  You’re off and away!”  

It’s the perfect book for a high school graduation gift.  It’s perfect for any person moving on to a new phase of life.  Better yet, it’s perfect for my life here.  I’ve been ‘off to Great Places’, so many great places.  In the last two months alone I’ve seen the Pyramids of Giza, floated in the Dead Sea, looked out over The Promised Land as Moses saw it (according to the archeologists), hiked to the Monastery in Petra and I’ve seen dolphins in their natural habitat.  That’s not the way to start it off.  It’s not about you this time.  This is for him.  If only I could find a way to offer him sound advice.

Maybe it’d come off better if I posed it as question and a conversation.  How crazy would it be if Dr. Suess was your dad?  Just imagine getting in bed the night after graduation and him saying, “Son, we need to have a talk.  Close your eyes and we’ll go for an imaginary walk.”  Then he’d start right in with some of the best advice, but you wouldn’t realize it because he’s just your dad.  ”With your head full of brains and your shoes full of feet, you’re too smart to go down any not-so-good street.”  

No, that’s not it.  

Flight school.  Planes.  Weather.  The meat!

I was camping out by the Al Ain airport and Horizon flight school last night for Lauren’s birthday.  We had a great time, but as the night trudged on the weather changed unexpectedly.  The sky lit up like armageddon and a sandstorm began.  Some of our tents collapsed, others swayed vigorously and our food supply was doused in sand.  Shortly after, it started to rain.  It hasn’t rained in months.  I’ve only seen rain one other time since I’ve been here.  It was unreal.  I attribute it to the date being Friday the 13th.  I huddled in my tent to avoid eating anymore sand.  I hadn’t put the fly on my tent when I set it up, and it was too much work to stay out in the sandstorm looking for it.  I scuttled through the flap of my sandy tent and crawled into my sleeping bag.  Great, now I’m going to be cold, wet and sandy.  Somehow, I got a few hours of sleep.    When we woke up this morning there was very little harm done and the weather was perfect for our next plight.  One of the vehicles was stuck in the sand.  We weren’t able to pull or push ourselves out, but luckily Kelly called a guy who came to help.  We even got a chance to go dune bashing afterwards!

I say all of this to make a simple analogy.  Sometimes life is like the weather.  Things may be going well and then an unexpected storm comes along.  The storm is not meant to destroy you, it’s simply an unexpected disturbance.  Hunker down when the storms rage and know that it’ll end soon enough.  If you should find another plight on the other side of the storm, definitely make every attempt to push and pull your way out of it.  Some obstacles may require assistance, though.  Don’t be afraid to ask for help.  Your help may even come with a few perks!

So, in the words of the great Dr. Suess, “Out there things can happen and frequently do to people as brainy and footsy as you.  And when things start to happen don’t worry.  Don’t stew.  Just go right along.  You’ll start happening, too.”

That’s it!  Post.  

“Get up and get dressed.”  It started.  I tried to be patient with myself and Brian, but someone being in my space and not doing what I wanted them to do right away was hard for me.  Back down, Shan.  Be patient.  Don’t let this turn into a Faith situation.  I did not speak again until I gave myself time to cool down.  

Every Christmas night my aunt would invite us to stay after dessert.  David always accepted, and I returned home with Mommy and Daddy.  My friends, Lorato and Faith, seemed to spend the night with one another every weekend.  They’d invite me, and I’d politely decline.  I wasn’t personal, but I never liked spending the night away from home.  I spent the night enough to maintain my friendships and for the necessary birthday parties, but other than that I was determined to avoid sleepovers.  They just weren’t my thing.  In sixth grade Faith, came over to spend the night.  It was my solution to not spending the night at her house.  It was a bad idea.  I learned that sleepovers weren’t my forte under any circumstances.  I didn’t like having company.  I’m not Holly Hostess.  My mom and Faith have never let me live that sleepover down.  I woke up early and demanded that Faith get up with me.  I don’t remember the conversation, but she wasn’t ready to wake up.  Since she ignored my wishes, I began taking the sheets off the bed and telling her that I needed to wash them.  The fan was spinning on high.  She hadn’t done anything, but I just wanted my space.  I wanted her to go home!

I’d like to think that I’ve gotten better, but Mommy and Daddy weren’t so sure.  When Brian booked his flight, I told them about it.  It was my way to get them to book their trip.  I wanted to get the ball rolling.  Living in the UAE has been a wonderful experience, and I’m very excited to show off my new home.  While I complain about the lack of culture, the UAE offers so many exciting opportunities.  You can experience a winter wonderland and the desert in the same day.  You can go to the beach or the desert or both within a two hour window.  Who wouldn’t be excited to be a tour guide here?  Of course I had to make sure that Brian’s visit was amazing so he could post his pictures on Facebook and make the rest of my friends want to visit.  I was ready.  This time, I was going to be Holly Hostess with the Mostest.  

A few days before Brian’s arrival Daddy called.  “Are you ready?”  It was late, and he knows that I don’t like it when he starts a conversation with a question, especially when he’s using that annoying, ‘I’m calling to mess with you’ tone. I responded curtly, “Ready for what?”  

“Are you going to be nice to Brian?”  You’ve got to be kidding me.  You Skyped me at 11 o’clock on a school night for this BS.  “Daddy, leave me alone.  Yes I’m going to be nice.  It’s 11 o’clock.  I’m going to bed.”  He was in rare form.  “Oh that’s not very nice, but okay, go to b-e”.  I hung up before he could finish his sentence.  His mission was complete.  I’d given him the satisfaction that he was looking for by allowing him to get under my skin.  Darn!  I’ll apologize and act like I was short because I was tired tomorrow.  

By 6:45 I was ready.  Brian wasn’t.  Piddling.  He’s such a male.  Why can’t they just spin on a dime?  I didn’t want to keep Leah and Adam waiting.  Leah sounded wide awake and excited.  It had been so long since I experienced the initial jet lag that comes with a fourteen hour flight and nine hour time difference.  I failed to consider how Brian might be feeling when I asked him to get up at 6:30am after landing at 8:30 the night before.  Later that day he told me that he didn’t sleep much and when I woke him up, he’d only been asleep for a couple of hours.  He also mentioned that he woke up at the sound of the call to prayer. Aww, man, Shannon.  Don’t be such a B.  He’s got to adjust.  Do better and prove Daddy wrong!  I will be Holly Hostess this week!  When we got in the car I dared to open my mouth again.  This time I tried to sound as gentle as I could, “We’re going to the camel races.”  He was out of it, “Oh cool.”

I’d planned a week of fun, authentic activities.  We were going to go where the locals go, do what the locals do and eat what the locals eat.  Typically, I wouldn’t plan for a trip.  I rarely plan anything when I travel because I like to be open to whatever is available.  I usually have a list of things that I want to see, but I leave the specifics to the universe, God or Allah, whoever is reigning in that particular country.  Since Brian was traveling so far and spending his money on the plane fare, I felt like I should probably have plans in place.  Three days before his visit, I ran down my list.  Tickets for the Burj Khalifa. Check.  Desert Safari Groupon.  Check.  Kayaking Groupon.  Check.  Tours and open admission times at the Grand Mosque.  Check. Everything was all set.  The only problem was Brian flew in at the start of the weekend.  I planned for his jet lag, but only on the days that I had to be at work.  I figured he wouldn’t mind staying at my apartment and sleeping all day while I worked, but I forgot to think about how tired he might be on the weekend.  

We had a great time with Leah and Adam at the camel races, and just as we were leaving Brian seemed to be coming out of the fog.  We went to breakfast, and he told me that he needed to go back and sleep.  It was only 10:30, but it felt like a successful day.  I needed a nap, too!  In spite of all of the plans I had for the day, I decided that it was best to teach him the meaning of inshalllah early in the week.  He wanted and needed to sleep.  Inshallah, we’d get to all of the things that I had on the itinerary.  

Luckily, I loosened up (I think) and Brian went with the flow.  We had a great time and even though we didn’t get to everything that I planned we enjoyed ourselves.  Brian was happy to be my guinea pig, and I am thankful for his patience with me.  I’m ready for my next visitor: Mom, Dad, Lef, Dave, Aunt Carol, Germaine, DuBois, Sham, Jag?  Who’s next?

The camel races in Um Ghafa.

Book your trip and I’ll meet you AT THE TOP of the Burj Khalifa.

I’ll force you to sing Garth Brooks in the Oasis while we play Hide and Seek.  I’ve got friends in low places, think I’ll slip on down to the o- ay-sis.  Trust me, you’ll love every minute of it, and there’s no way you’ll ever find me.

Let’s play dress up in the mirror of the palace wardrobe.  Oh no!  I’m showing my arm.  HAAARAM!

You want a little bit of Allah time?  Okay.

I don’t care if you don’t smoke.  You’re not leaving here without tasting stuffed grape vine leaves  and smoking grape mint shisha.  Yep, he liked it!

“Death okay.  That is life,” said Ibrahim.  We were joking about having survived a full day of dune bashing in Al Bedaya only to die from his need to do tricks on the freeway back to Al Ain.  Erin sat in the front seat begging Ibrahim not to drive “Emirati style” all the way home.  

I sat in the backseat remembering my commitment to myself to JUST LIVE.  Allah’s omnipotence supersedes every practical thought, word and deed amongst Emiratis.  I call it The Inshallah Effect.  There seems to be this overriding theory that if something happens, bad or good, preventable or not, Allah knew it was coming to you; therefore there’s very little emphasis on personal responsibility and precautionary methods.  My commitment to live each and every day of 2012 is what spurred this impromptu drive out to the desert.  It would be pretty ironic if I died as a result of the Inshallah Effect while keeping a commitment to live.  Ibrahim gave in to Erin’s pleading.  He curbed his need for dare devil tricks by pressing the pedal to the metal.  Inshallah, I will make it home in one piece.  My body gave in to the lethargic waves that flowed through each muscle, and my mind drifted.  

Three weeks ago I was in Switzerland drafting ideas about all of the exciting things that I might attempt in 2012.  The frigid air was seeping through the poorly insulated six-pane window.  I sat up, reached for my pen and notepad and began thinking about what resolutions I wanted to make.  I was fully prepared to usher in the new year with a bang and the traditional list of things I was going to change about myself.  Why the heck do people do this?  You can change at any time.  It doesn’t have to be New Year’s to change.  That was the end of that brainstorming session.  I scribbled a few thoughts about resolutions then penned JUST LIVE.  In 2012, that’s just what I plan to do.  I’m going to live every day of the year! I got up to prepare for the day in Geneva.

Shortly after the train pulled out of the station, I heard my notebook calling my name.  I tried to ignore it because I knew what answering the call meant.  Structure.  The big picture.  A framework.  What does JUST LIVE look like, Shan?  I didn’t want to outline what living looks like.  That’s just ridiculous!  You can’t outline everything!  There’s no such thing as a framework for day to day life!  

Before I knew it I was putting my phone away, reaching for my spiral bound notebook and shuffling things around in order to reach one of my preferred pens resting on the bottom of my life sack.  Structure.  The big picture.  A framework.  I was drawn back to Aunt Carol’s kitchen table.  “What did you learn from your experiences on the campaign trail, Shannon?”  

As much as I wanted to JUST LIVE, I had to be true to myself.  It took two years to learn what I know about myself, and I have Joy Cushman, Jeremy Bird, Nicole Price and Donnel Baird to thank for that.  They helped me to identify my work habits and to determine that I need structure.  There are no if, ands or buts about it.  I must have a trellis to support my vines if I’m going to bear any fruit.  Some people can live a life of constant spontaneity, but not I.  I have to plan when I can allow time for spontaneity, otherwise, I throw myself into shock.  Alright, you’ve given in to the necessity of structure.  Now, what’s the big picture?  I guess I should review my Life Map and cross off what I’ve accomplished, determine what’s changed, then decide what I want to scrap and what goals I need to add.  I decided that would take more effort than I wanted to put in on my leisure train ride, but in the mean time I could work on the framework.

I wrote down ten things that I would or wouldn’t do if I were living a full life.  My list looked like a list of resolutions after all.  So what!  Maybe it is possible to plan living.  I’m not after minute for minute, detail for detail accounts of how my life will evolve.  I just need a blueprint to help write the story and a few reminders not to punish myself too harshly when things don’t go as planned.  

“What are you writing?”  Shamera interrupted my flow.  I’m not sure what I said, but I am sure that I lied and went back to writing for a few minutes before closing my notebook.  

I saw the brake lights of the cars ahead beaming.  The traffic was beginning to merge.  “When you get to this roundabout, stop following the GPS,” I told Ibrahim.  Erin wasn’t confident in my directional abilities, “Are you sure you know how to get home?  I’m not tryin’ to get lost tonight.”  After circling through Al Towwaya and seeing the signs pointing to Al Ameriya she exclaimed, “Oh my gosh, you are like a human GPS.”  We hopped out of the car and exchanged a round of thank yous and goodbyes with Ibrahim.  

Inshallah, I made it home in one piece.  Furthermore, I found justification for my need for structure.  Erin made my revelation crystal clear when she questioned my ability to get us home in an efficient timeframe.  Erin relies on her GPS daily.  It guides her to the places that she wants to get to and recalculates if and when she makes a wrong turn.  My need for structure is very similar.  I’m comfortable with who I am, and I don’t need to challenge myself unnecessarily.  I challenge myself when I want or need to grow, but other than that a stable center helps me to function best.   I used to think it was necessary to subscribe to other people’s version of living, but I’ve grown to know what I like and how I like it.  I don’t frequent the hottest clubs, stay out until 5am and drink beyond my limit, and I’m finding out that it’s okay.  I’m a plain white tee, dive bar, eight hours of sleep, church on Sunday, balanced structure with a few crazy weekends kind of girl.  When I steer off course I can look at my life map and my framework to recalculate.  This is it, Shan.  You are who you are, so stick with it, edit as necessary and JUST LIVE because you’re creating the bigger picture with structure and a framework one day at a time.  

‘Twas the night of Christmas and all through the streets,

The adults drank Gluhwein and children ate treats.

The ferris wheel was spinning and providing some light,

And the Nutella waffles made my night!

On to the Sony Center that was the plan,

To see my girl, Halle, I’m such a big fan!

We were a bit early for the 8 o’clock show,

So we decided to tube on artificial snow.

We looked at the clock and still had time,

So we chugged a beer after more Gluhwein.

With a few minutes left to spare,

We ran to the theater to grab a chair.

I looked up and down the concessions menu

BEER

“Oh my what a perfect venue!”

Quickly and quietly I thought before scurrying down the aisle,

Instead, I created a disturbance for what seemed like a mile.

English was a second language for most of the crowd,

And they didn’t understand when we laughed out loud.

After the movie I practiced my Ara-bee,

With the couple who told me they were Kuwaiti.

Gregory, from Haiti, wanted to dance,

But Amy was tired and said not a chance.  

Even though he made it tough,

I said, “Halas, bes.  We’ve had enough.”

We got in the cab and laughed with delight,

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!

Today we’re going to begin in plank position, this is also commonly referred to as a bridge.  This is going to strengthen those core muscles and give you nice firm abs.  Let’s start by placing our hand directly in front of us and stretching both legs back, resting on your toes.  It’s almost like push-up position, but we’re going to alter it.  We’re going to bring the forearms down onto the floor.  Now, hold it for 10 breaths.  Keep looking down.  Relax those neck and shoulder muscles, tighten the abdominals and breath.  Remember to breathe.  That is the key.  

When the pilot pushed the button for the landing gear to descend from the fuselage the tear had already formed.  I tried to ignore it.  Schools out, vacations in.  What the heck are you crying for?  Why are you staring at me?  Turn around!  Stupid foreigners.  I guess the Turkish men are just like the Emirati men and staring isn’t considered rude.  Maybe it is, and they just don’t care.  Don’t fall, please don’t fall.  I looked up to send the single tear back across my cornea.  Bump, bump, sha-kooo-eeeeewwwwwwwwww.  Upon landing at Sabiha Gokcen International Airport it fell.  I allowed it to stain my right cheek and stared at the Turkish man who was turned around in his chair looking at my pupil as if he saw all of the answers to the world’s most puzzling questions.  I wish I had thug qualities because I’d chump this man if I did.

Okay, come down for 10 breaths.  Then we’re going to go back into plank position.  This is how you get those summer abs that you’ve been longing for.  Back up, and 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.  Good job.  Come down for a rest.

I laid in bed wondering why I was crying again.  The room was dark.  I could hear the people on the street above having a conversation.  A car passed.  I cried harder.  Shannon, you look so pretty.  I could hear his voice.  Hi, sweetheart.  The thick New York accent was painstakingly soothing and distressing.  I could hear the Giants game on the television.  The Giants are winning.  Why aren’t you watching it in HD, Grandpa?  Well, would ya’ look at that, Stance, you can see the rain on the camera.  Did you go to church today?  Yes, Grandpa.  I had to teach Sunday school.  I could smell the scent of his house and feel his cheek when he leaned in for me give him a kiss.  I took a deep breath.  I didn’t want to wake Michelle.

The Blue Mosque

Istanbul is the only major city that stretches across two continents.  Although it is not Turkey’s capital, it most certainly is the core.  As the former capital of the Roman, Byzantine and Ottoman empires, Istanbul offers plenty of historical attractions and is the most populous city in Turkey.  The tales of the great rulers provide a backdrop for the scenery that is probably mundane to the everyday passerby.  I sat at the top of Galata Tower, the heart of Istanbul, watching the sun go down and thinking about my own history.  He was the last of my grandparents.  It was this week last year that he went into the hospital—shortly after I left his house.  He was bundled up in a blanket on the couch, and he wasn’t much of himself.  I’m fine, sweetheart.  That was always his reply.  I’ll call when I get home, Grandpa.  Even though I only lived six minutes from him, I had to call.  I went home, and  didn’t think anything of his unusual behavior because it’s normal for older people to get cold.  

Galata Tower

Alright, we’re going to finish off the set.  You want to gradually build up to holding it longer.  This is a beginner series, but over time you’ll be able to stay up longer with relative ease.  Remember, it’s a bridge.  You’re taking yourself over to a new you with a stronger core.  

The people walked over the bridge, the anglers released their reels and wound them up, the cars crossed and I thought about how much planking hurts when you start out.  After a while you’re up for two minutes and you don’t even realize it.  This city is constantly planking.  It’s stretched across a the Bosphorus Strait resting on two continents.  It acknowledges is past and builds it’s future.  That’s what you have to do to make it through this holiday season.  Tighten your abs and plank.  Bridging the gap.  Don’t forget what the holidays were, but strengthen your spirit and believe in what it can be.  Maybe that’s what Daddy’s been doing all along?  He’d hole up in his room, and then come down sluggishly on Christmas Day with little emotion.  Mommy always said grieving had it’s own clock.  Losing my grandpa was hard enough, but my mom at ten years old is unimaginable.        

Galata Bridge

Excuse me, can you pay your bill now?  Oh, yes, I’m sorry.  Three and a half hours had passed.  The top deck of the tower is closing, but we have another lounge downstairs.  I paid for the exquisite tiramisu and tiny cup of hot chocolate.  I put my coat on and took one last step out onto the balcony.  I looked out across Galata Bridge and over towards the Bosphorus Bridge.  Istanbul is the beginning of a new kind of holiday season, and I’m going to build my bridge until the tears stop falling.  

Bosphorus Bridge

Breath, last one.  Hold it.  You’re almost there.  Count it out.  Let’s go.  Five, four, three, two, one.

I’m in Turkey, Grandpa.  Turkey?  Whadid ya’ go there for?  To see the dervishes dance, drink apple tea, turn heads like Athena and watch Michelle get annoyed with people touching her.  A what?  Well you do all of that and be safe, sweetheart.  And, Shannon, you call me when you get home, you hear?  Yes, Grandpa.  I will.  Alright, alright.  I love you, Grandpa.  I love you, too.  Don’t forget to call me now.  I won’t.  Alright, alright.

Dancing Dervishes Show

Medusa’s Head in the Basilica Cistern

I did just as I told him I’d do before our imaginary conversation ended, and Istanbul will always be the place where I developed my core strength.  With time, I know the tears will stop falling, the pain will fade and I’ll be able to hold it longer.  Until then, I’ll hold it for as long as I can and strengthen my core muscles one second at a time.