Home is Where the Cat Is

Our new house, Day 1. In my next post, you'll see what the front entrance and garden looks like now!

My husband and I arrived home after several weeks of travel (he was returning from the U.S.; I had been in Thailand) to find that the housing assignment we had been waiting for since last November had finally come through. The announcement had been sitting in my husband's work email for two weeks before our arrival back in Saudi Arabia! Once we confirmed that the house had not, in the interim, been given away to somebody else, it was time to get packing. We had two weeks to box up the household and move.

We were being transferred from the company's smallest and most remote family community to its largest. Our new place is in Dhahran, which is the city in the Eastern Province that has an international airport and is connected by bridge to Bahrain. It may not be as small-town friendly as our old hometown--but it sure is nice not to have to drive for two hours to get a crisp head of lettuce or a bag of decent coffee beans. (First-world kvetching, I know, I know!)

The new place is smaller than the old, but we love the open, airy floor plan. We decided when we moved in that this is it: we're not moving again until it's time to pack up and leave the Kingdom for good. So we're nesting. We're settling in. It feels great.

The details are what make this home: on the bookcase are my grandmother's butter mold, a set of Venezuelan maracas that my sister gave us, and a basket made by my husband's grandfather. 

Here's the horseshoe-shaped kitchen (at right, you can see that a wall bisects the room.) It's so big that I set up my office in here. Weird for some, but perfect for me. I've often got a loaf of bread rising or a pot of soup on the stove while I work, so this is very convenient. Okay, right here's the the part where you can make comments about the little lady's place being in the kitchen. Go ahead; let it rip. I'm usually barefoot, too (but not pregnant.) 

The nerve center: here's where I work. The two clocks show the time in Riyadh and Washington, D.C.  

My mom embroidered a set of tea towels as a Christmas present for us one year. They're so sweet and old-fashioned! I recently had them framed, and now they hang in the kitchen next to the pizza peel.

Unlike our former desert home, Dhahran is humid. I'm already seeing that plants grow much more quickly here. We're going to try to sprout some avocado seeds and plant them in the garden. The summer heat is starting to build up already, so it's probably not the best time for this experiment, but we'll see what happens.

We picked up an espresso maker from the classified ads, and a dark, metal-studded Afghani sideboard from a shop in town.

The folding screen came from the same little shop in town. The shopkeeper, Ajab, remembered me by name the second time I visited. The screen is Pakistani, and has a bit of brass inlay.

I bought this inlaid tile in Agra, on the day I visited the Taj Mahal. The materials are so thin and fine that light shines through it! That's why I propped it up in front of a bathroom light fixture (though I couldn't capture its translucence in a photograph.)

When we helped a friend move, oh, a dozen years ago, he told us to throw this poster in the trash. We threw it in our car instead, and it's still one of my favorite things. 

In another trash-to-treasure saga, this huge painting was going to be tossed. Before she put it out on the curb, a family friend called me about it, thinking it might be nice for the yoga studio we used to own. It seemed too ominous for Greenbelt Om Community Yoga--but great for our house!

We hung this sheet music cover (from my mother's trunk of sheet music) in the guest bathroom.

We set up a proper guest room because people from the company's other compounds sometimes need to come to Dhahran for meetings and appointments. Instead of getting back on the bus for the two-hour return trip home, friends from our old town can crash here for the night. We've already had several visits, which makes us really happy.

My mother-in-law typed her college papers using the typewriter on top of the cedar armoire. The baskets were made by her father. 

The five-star guest suite (as rated by our first houseguest, who may not be the most objective reviewer.)

A Bedouin water jug and a dallah, which is traditionally used to serve coffee in Saudi Arabia. The dallah is also a symbol of hospitality.

Eid al Fahm (Eddie the Lump), ensconced in our new home.

Next I'll give you a tour of the garden, before it gets too hot to go outside during the day!

Starvation in Thailand

The bed of malaise

I couldn't move. It was a bit warm, but not too hot. This was Thailand, after all. I was aware of being very, very hungry, but the awareness felt like it was coming from far away. I had slept for at least, oh, eleven hours. Maybe that wasn't enough. I formulated a plan to turn my head slightly to the left, so as to look out the window. I executed this move after some minutes, and discovered that the curtain was drawn. I watched the curtain ruffle ever so lightly in the breeze generated by the fan. This kept me occupied for a good twenty minutes. The notion of getting out of bed, dressed, and up the hill for morning yoga class was beyond preposterous. It took my full concentration to make sure that an inhale followed each exhale. Eventually it was time to go to the Wellness Center for my next psyllium and bentonite clay smoothie shake, and the next dose of vitamins. My stomach turned over at the thought.

I had come to Koh Phangan, a small island in Thailand, for a couple of weeks of yoga, quiet retreat, and writing. Turns out, the place I booked, The Sanctuary, specializes in cleanses and fasts--and also in weekly all-night parties (they give out free earplugs for anyone who'd rather sleep!) I had never done a fasting cleanse before, but I'm a yoga teacher. I should try this, right?  So said I. 

My plans started going sideways when I landed in Thailand and my credit cards started acting finicky. They didn't stop working altogether, but suddenly I was only able to withdraw the equivalent of about $20 at a time from the cash machines at the airport. I learned later that Thailand is notorious for sketchy bank fraud stuff, so my American-issued cards went into lockdown. Meanwhile, as of this writing, it is not possible to pre-pay for your stay at The Sanctuary using a credit card, nor can you use one there; you have to show up with Thai baht in hand. It was with this potent cocktail of financial stress that I arrived in The Sanctuary's private cove at nearly 10 p.m.

The power boat raced up to the shore and I hopped out into the black, knee-deep water, shoes held high and backpack (containing my laptop) biting into my shoulders. I sloshed to shore with almost no money as the motorboat sped back out into the dark waters of the Gulf of Thailand. 

The Sanctuary's restaurant is right on the beach, so I dropped my pack and shoes and found a spot at the bar. The bartender was a beautiful, shirtless man with longish blond hair and excellent smile lines around his eyes. He gave me a casual, friendly welcome and got me a quick stir-fry before the kitchen closed.

The resort was crawling with gorgeous people, young and old. Women wore bikinis and sarongs; men generally had battered shorts or bathing suits and, in some cases, shirts. There was a contingent of oh-so-stylishly tattooed and pierced types strutting around purposefully. Otherwise, everyone was relaxed and sun-kissed, going and coming from yoga class, philosophy discussion, massage appointment, tea house, and beach. I felt I could love this place, deeply, if I could sort out how I was going to pay for it. 

Then I stopped eating.

I now understand there are several different ways to do a cleanse, including just eating raw foods for a few days. If I ever get it in my head to do a cleanse again, I'll do it that way. But I went hardcore: I chose a five-day package that included a series of supplements and shakes every day, plus a schedule of … colonics. (Cue scary music.)

On the first day of the fast, I had enough energy to enjoy a yoga class and write a little. At 4:00 p.m. a group of us newbies reported to the Wellness Center for our Colonics Lesson. The gleefully enthusiastic Wellness Center manager crowded us all into one of the specially built colonic bathroom huts. A stereo speaker hanging in the corner played Gotan Project's Verve remix of "Whatever Lola Wants" as he showed us how to recline, head lower than our feet, on a specially constructed board. The board was secured at an angle, and had a hole in it over the toilet bowl. He showed us how to control the flow of fluid through the clear plastic tubing, gave us some advice about breathing, massaging the abdomen, and relaxing. He explained that the process could take an hour or more. ("Recline yourself, resign yourself,  you're through," Sarah Vaughan crooned.)

With trepidation, the little group of us dispersed to our own personal colonics huts. An hour later I emerged, a little shaky but pretty much okay. And just in time for my next shake! Back at the Wellness Center, I chugged the smoothie as fast as I could, because the psyllium in it expands quickly. If you don't drink up right away, you'll have to work your way through a mug of thick, lumpy beige stuff that has the consistency of vomit. (This post covers all the major bodily functions, hey!)

Gulping the shake like a shot of whiskey seemed like a sensible plan. But in ten minutes it all came back up in pretty much the same format in which it had gone down. After that, I felt like I had been hit by a truck. Even the vegetable broth that we got to slurp down that evening (the highlight of every faster's day) didn't bring me round. It took all my energy to drag myself back to the cabin and fall into bed.

And that, dear reader, is how I came to be staring out the window on that warm Thai morning, sapped of all energy and joie de vivre. I schlumpfed down the hill to the Wellness Center, forcing my brain to pre-construct some sentences to use when I arrived. "I am not feeling very well." No. "This is harder than I thought it would be." No. "I'm having some trouble with the fast. Can you give me some strategies for coping and building up a little bit more energy?" Yes, that's what I would say.

When I arrived, the manager handed me a psyllium shake. "How are you feeling this morning?" he said, beaming at me with boundless energy and good cheer. My fellow fasters sat around the counter chatting and drinking their shakes. I opened my mouth to deliver my prepared statement, and said, "I'm so hungry," and started weeping.

Several people gathered around and offered words of consolation. Almost immediately, the manager cut through everyone's words of advice and said, "If you are hungry, you should eat." I burst into new tears, but these were tears of joy. I was in such a fog that it never occurred to me simply to cut the fast short. The manager gave me a restaurant voucher and told me to go and order a bowl of papaya. 

I crossed the little arched bridge to the restaurant, which smelled like cinnamon and coffee and blueberries and every wonderful thing, and I placed my order. I sat with another woman who was just breaking her fast (she had managed to stay on hers for more than 36 hours, though.) The bowls of vivid orange papaya arrived, spritzed with lime juice and smelling fresh, sweet and sharp. 

We shared a moment of joy with those first bites, and a few new tears fell. (There is such drama when I'm hungry!) I promised myself that I would never, ever deny myself food again. Eating good food is one of life's most exquisite pleasures, seriously. Now I understand that even better than before. I was also feeling rather proud of myself for quitting. It's a big deal for me to quit. Even after something has proven itself to be a bad idea, I am the type to slog through if I made a commitment to slog through. But not this time.

The bowl of papaya filled me with strength, energy, joy, resolve! Now that I could think straight, I had to figure out the money situation. It was Friday, and the all-night party was looming that evening. I was stressed about the money thing. I was unhappy that I had been in Thailand for four days and had done little yoga and even less writing. I was definitely not looking forward either to partying all night or trying to sleep through the rave outside my grass hut. Falling off the fasting wagon gave me the inspiration I needed: why stick it out here? I could just leave! 

Making good my escape

With more complications than should have been necessary, I arranged an electronic payment to settle my Sanctuary bill and took the next boat out. At Koh Phangan's main dock, I hired a taxi truck (a pickup fitted with bench seats and a roof in back) to drive me from the shore to the top of the island's highest peak. I arrived at the gates of Monte Vista Retreat* just in time for lunch. I paid for my stay using Paypal, boom! Done. No problem. Immediately all my tension drained away.

A handmade, homegrown retreat

My home at Monte Vista

I stayed in a little hut perched on a rock at the edge of the jungle, overlooking the sea.

My office at Monte Vista

I set up a little workspace out on my cabin's deck, and I finished the novel that I have been working on for three years. (Yes!)

Office help

Monte Vista even provided me with an office assistant.

I took a yoga class every morning at eight, enjoyed a simple, healthy, communal breakfast, then wrote until lunchtime.

The dining table at Monte Vista

Lunch was another simple, delicious meal served outdoors, followed by an afternoon of writing, napping, rocking in the hammock on my deck. Five in the afternoon was the time for meditation on Monte Vista's top deck, followed by dinner with a view of the sun setting over the Gulf of Thailand.

The view from the main deck at Monte Vista

The only entertainment on offer at Monte Vista, other than relaxed, genuine conversation, was a library of documentary videos for evening viewing. I was in bed by nine or ten, and the only noises were jungly ones.

This was the retreat I had come looking for. I never would have found it, though, without the drama of The Sanctuary to lead me here. I finished the draft of my novel, deepened my yoga and meditation practices, and returned home feeling recharged, ready to dive into real life again. Good thing, too: the pedal of real life was about to hit the floor.

*Monte Vista came under new management a few months ago, and they are in the process of overhauling the web site. 

Give Me 5-Star, or Give Me a Tent

Michael, feathering our tiny nest

My friend's 9-year-old son describes himself as a "5-star kind of guy." In the Middle East, where mere mortals can afford 5-star hotel stays, I can see where he's coming from. I either want a fancy hotel experience, or I want to travel someplace where there are no hotels at all. That said, funky guesthouses, B&Bs, and homestays can also be a lot of fun. But please: no safe, beige, budget-friendly chains.  

Last week, I went camping with my family and friends out in the Saudi desert. I mean way, way out in the desert. There is no internet, no electricity, no running water (absolutely none of that), no cell phone service. There is no roadside assistance. No assistance. No roadside. No road. There is nobody to call if, oh, say, you happen to drive your SUV down a steep ravine into a canyon that has no exit. For example.

Woman driver

(I guess I can't leave that one hanging. We managed to get out of the ravine, obviously, because here I am back in my office, snug as a bug in a rug. Thank you, dear husband, for being an excellent uphill driver and for remembering the secret trick of letting most of the air out of the tires for better traction. I pray that you are always with me on outdoor adventures when I drive the car into blind canyons.)

Right. So, I'm fortunate enough to be able to experience a part of the world that is relatively untouched by modern civilization. Have you ever driven across the desert floor, with nothing but sand and a bit of scruffy brush from one horizon to the other? It's at once serene and unsettling. And one thing is for certain: nobody's going to leave the light on for you.

The desert northwest of Dhahran

The first night we camped, I had to get up in the middle of the night to pee (a big camping negative.) I clambered out of the tent, banging an elbow, bruising a kneecap, waking my husband in a blind grope for shoes and toilet paper. I unzipped the tent flap, flopped gracelessly outside, and was greeted by a broad, hazy swath of the Milky Way twinkling down on our desert campsite. I have never seen so many stars. The night was inky black with the campfire burned down to ash. The air was crisp and cold. (Don't you love a brisk alfresco constitutional?) For the first time, I was grateful for a thimble-sized bladder. Otherwise, I may have missed the Milky Way altogether.

Our campsite the second night was nestled at the back of a rift in a sandstone escarpment. The wind whipped up that night, but we were sheltered. It was actually kind of cozy in our little igloo tent, which shook in the wind but remained securely anchored. On day three of the trip, I was over it. Everything smelled of wood smoke and unwashed campers. We headed back home and relished the exquisite luxury of hot showers and real beds. 

I.M. Pei's lovely Islamic Art Museum

Several days later, I traveled with my in-laws to Doha, Qatar. This is the first time they have been to the Middle East, and I pretty much insisted that they go and see I.M. Pei's last masterpiece, the Islamic Art Museum. Michael and I spent a day there in 2010, and I wanted to go back. The family flew 18 hours to get to Saudi Arabia; what's one more 45-minute flight?

One of the Oryx Rotana's several swanky dining venues

In Doha, we went 5-star. We stayed at the Oryx Rotana, which has acres of lobby furnished with long, low, white leather couches and festooned (yes, festooned!) with blooming orchids. We ate at their tapas bar, and couldn't believe our good luck when a Cuban trio set up. They began playing songs from the Buena Vista Social Club, which is my father-in-law's favorite CD. He was practically doing the samba in his seat, and the singer kept winking at us. He came over between sets for a visit (thankfully, my family speaks Spanish even if I can barely spit out half a sentence.) The singer, like the other two members of the trio, was Cuban, but he now calls South Africa home. He was fortunate enough to have married a diamond magnate's daughter, and he pursues his music career just for pleasure. Nice work!

In most Middle Eastern countries, alcohol is only served in five-star hotels--another reason to stay in one! We enjoyed several glasses of organic Spanish wine (a red and a white) before calling it a night. Back in my room, I found that my bed had been turned down and my nightgown refolded at the foot of the bed. I kicked off my stylishly impractical shoes, unconcerned about whether a scorpion might take up residence in one overnight. I burrowed into the soft, snowy-white bedlinens for a deeply satisfying sleep. When I got up for a midnight run to the loo, I had only the soft glow of a night light to guide me.

Privacy Please, hon!

You haven't seen me here lately because I am close, SO CLOSE to finishing the first draft of the wildest, goofiest, sexiest thriller ever to hit Ocean City, Maryland. I've mentally gone downy ocean, hon, and I'll be back before you know it with a story as salty and vinegary as a bucket of Thrasher's Fries.

My Own Home State

My brother-in-law and his son, Easton, MD

I spent most of this fall in my home state of Maryland. Each time I return there I am struck by its beauty. This post is an effort to capture a glimpse of the place where I am from, and the people I love who are still there. 

Michael taking my sister and her husband out for a sail, Easton

We rented a beautiful place for our family to get together for a few days, on the Eastern Shore. The house was right on the Miles River, which feeds into the Chesapeake Bay.

The girls, Easton

It was a chilly September evening, but my two eldest nieces were not going to let the swimming pool go to waste....

Shoes! Easton

The adults wore flip flops, but my nephew preferred sturdier hiking sandals.

Headquarters, Greenbelt

Our home base this year was the home of my dear friend Kim (having two Kims in the house did sometimes get confusing), and her husband Joe. I stayed much longer than I had planned, but Kim and Joe were endlessly welcoming. Well, Joe did start using "goddamn" as an honorific when addressing my husband, but that was just his way of showing that he cares.

Kim and a chilled Chardonnay Viognier, Greenbelt

Most days ended with wine and snacks, and the house was full of conversation and easy laughter. I liked this chardonnay viognier blend, but the most memorable bottle we drank was a Blank Ankle Vineyards 2006 Crumbling Rock red table wine. Black Ankle is a Mt. Airy vineyard, and it's great that the days of describing a bottle as "pretty good, you know, considering it's a Maryland wine" are over. Black Ankle is winning national awards, and can be served without any apologies whatsoever. 

Baxter reporting for duty, Greenbelt

This is Baxter, our handsome Siberian Boxer Beagle. He lives with his other family in Greenbelt now, because it would have been too awful to transplant a husky mix to the Saudi desert. He came over to Kim and Joe's house for visits while I was in town. Here he is staking his claim to the spot under the dining table. His job is to anchor people's feet as they dine.

 GVFD Crab Feast, Greenbelt

We timed our trip so that we could be home to help sling crabs and pour drinks at the Greenbelt Volunteer Fire Department annual fundraising crab feast. This is the fire department where Michael volunteered as a medic when we lived in Greenbelt. I recaptured a little of the satisfaction that comes with volunteering in your hometown when I put on my old company 35 t-shirt and hauled trays of crabs from the steamer truck into the firehall, to the tables packed full of my friends and former neighbors.

Service with a Smile, GVFD, Greenbelt

My eldest niece ate her share of crabs, and then decided it would be more fun to help her grandma and aunt and uncle at the crab feast than to just sit around. The next generation of volunteering has begun!

Garden Party at David and Jan's, Cheverly

For the second year in a row, our friends David and Jan feted our return to Maryland. David is my oldest friend, though he's really not that old! (Why isn't there a word for the person who has been your friend longer than anyone else?) ANYway, this year they put on a gorgeous lunch in their back garden, together with their next door neighbor Andrea, with whom we have become friends thanks to David and Jan.

Drinks and fruit, Cheverly

David and the Elephant Ears, Cheverly

Every year David's garden is more lush, and now he's also hatching plans for Andrea's yard. He gave me the tour after I sprayed on the usual half can of mosquito repellent. Many other people can wander around Maryland unprotected. Not me. 

Kim and Greg, skatin' it up! Laurel

Kim is a retired DC Roller Girl, and her newest thing is learning to dance skate. I thought dance skating was the pinnacle of coolness when I was a junior high schooler. Kim and her friend (and rink guard) Greg took me skating a a few times at Laurel Skate Center, which is also where I went skating when I was a kid. They say you can never go back, but I went back to Laurel Skate Center and it was EXACTLY the same. 

Kims on Wheels, Laurel

They've still got the same sign on the back wall that lights up to say "all skate," "reverse," "trios," and "slow down." And the disco ball? It's still spinning, and those flashes of light chasing my wheels across the roller rink floor were still magic, just like when I was eleven.

 Trailer of pumpkins, kid not included, Greenbelt

I was in Greenbelt for several Sundays, so of course I visited Greenbelt Farmers Market. It is not the same: it's getting better! This year, several new vendors signed on, including a crepe vendor! We had our eye on that crepe stand when we were visiting other area markets four years in in preparation for founding the Greenbelt market. Now people do their shopping, then get a crepe and sit in the grass next to the city parking lot and visit with friends while everybody's kids run around together. What a perfect Sunday morning! The market has just closed for the season, but it'll open again next spring.

Greenbelt Lake path, Greenbelt

Now I'm back in Saudi Arabia, full from a potluck American Thanksgiving feast. I am feeling grateful for my new life here, and also glowing with gratitude for my family, for my Stateside friends, and for the beautiful State of Maryland.