From Behind the Coffee Shop Counter

From behind the coffee shop counter, I watched you, London, as you went about your daily life. Commuters complained about train delays as they picked up their morning coffee, from a black filter to an extra hot strong skinny latte, but they forgave me for mixing up drinks sometimes. Construction workers came for Cokes and Toasties; I want to call toasted sandwiches "Toasties" for the rest of my life! Office staff stopped by for a drink and a porridge; I've never lived in a country that ate this much porridge.

From behind the coffee shop counter, I got to know your residents. The busy professionals who come in so often that we have their drinks memorized and notice when they miss a few days. The older man who offers me a shy smile as he buys his daily apple and banana. The girl who always gets an almond croissant, except the one day she bought a yogurt. (Don't worry; she went back to a croissant the next day.) The guy who brings his dog and the other guy who brings his bike. The skinny cappuccino lady with the sweet smile, the black americano man who always calls me "luv," the cappuccino-and-a-pain-auix-raisin gentleman, and the oat filter guy with the lilting Irish accent whose yawns make me yawn too - I don't know their names, but I enjoyed our daily two minute conversations.

From behind the coffee shop counter, I learned the quirks of your city. It took me ages, but I finally got better at counting out change in British pounds; nothing like a new currency to make you feel like you're in second grade math again! I learned that aubergines are eggplants, a serviette is a napkin, and carrot juice is a thing. I answered someone's question about my accent and origins at least once an hour, and inevitably, they asked if my hometown is near Las Vegas. My favorite comment by far came from a co-worker: "Your accent reminds me of Mickey Mouse," she said, and all of us behind the counter laughed so hard we couldn't breathe.

From behind the coffee shop counter, I've watched your bustle slow one day at a time as the coronavirus crept through the city. Business got a little slower last week as commuters and residents switched to working remotely, and by the middle of this week, the shop felt eerily empty. Our seating area closed (to avoid gatherings of more than ten people), and everyone who came in had a virus-related worry to discuss with hushed voices. I watched as your citizens' daily concerns were overwhelmed by the anxiety that is palpable everywhere I go now: what will tomorrow bring? We wish we knew.

From behind the coffee shop counter, I see NHS (healthcare) staff come in for a hot drink, tired looking but quick to smile back at me. I hear customer after customer express concern for the shop employees once restaurants are told to close; they remind us that we aren't forgotten. I watch as people physically distance themselves while waiting for coffee, but if anything, their hearts seem a little closer. They offer others a place in line, are quick to pick up dropped items, seem just a bit more patient than before. If fear and anxiety are a palpable constant on your streets right now, London, at least they get pushed aside for small moments of camaraderie, connection, and hope.

Indexing Big Macs

A few years ago, a friend introduced me to the Big Mac Index. This index measures the cost of a Big Mac hamburger in countries around the world as compared to the value of their currency. It's meant to be a fun way to look at currency parity - whether currencies equalize over time so that the cost of items (like a burger) is comparable across countries. Basically, it's meant to make economics a little more accessible for those of us who aren't economists, and if you've never checked it out, I recommend doing so here. It's pretty interesting to mess around with. 

The first time I heard about the Big Mac Index, it made perfect sense to me. Thinking back, I realized that I've been to a a McDonald's in a lot of the countries I've visited. Not because I particularly like their food (about the only menu item I'll eat is the ice cream!) but for a variety of other reasons. In Ecuador, a group of us would go to study / hang out after our weekly Bible study because McDonald's was the only place open that late. On various trips around Europe, we've stopped at McDonald's because we needed free WiFi or a safe and recognizable place to sit and wait for a train or give our tired feet a break. In Morocco, I went to McDonald's only a few times and mostly when I was homesick and wanted a McFlurry.

These accidental visits have added onto one another, though, and when I stopped to count them, I realized I've been to a McDonald's in nine countries across four continents, and I've noticed some interesting things.

In most of the places I've been, McDonald's offered similar menu items but with a few local twists. We tried the McRaclette and the quinoa burger in Switzerland, the green tea ice cream in China and the much sweeter green tea ice cream in Japan, and the Flake McFlurry in the UK. My husband bought a McChoconut in France and talked me into trying a bite...and a bite was enough! In a country of delicious pastries, I decided I'd rather eat fresh croissants than what was basically nuts and Nutella in a brioche!

In addition to the variety of flavors, I noticed the variety of prices, which got me thinking about the parallels to local societies. The prices mostly match what the Big Mac Index suggests - a value menu burger in Switzerland was the cost of a meal deal at home, but a McFlurry in the UK is about 3/4 the price of one in the US. (If you look at the Big Mac Index, these numbers come pretty close to the valuations for the Swiss franc and the British pound.)

In contrast, I hardly ate at McDonalds in Morocco because it was too expensive for the average person to afford; my fellow Peace Corps volunteers and I jokingly refered to it as 'rich people food.' The actual, physical price for a McDonald's ice cream in Rabat (Morocco) wasn't significantly different than in the US, but any time I went there, it felt decadent and extravagant. I also felt a bit like I was betraying my local friends and co-workers by eating there, many of whom had never traveled that far from home and certainly wouldn't spend their money at expensive McDonald's. When a McFlurry cost about 1/20 my monthly rent for a one-bedroom little house, it was hard to justify.

Dealing with money when traveling brings plenty of stress and frustration, but I appreciate the discomfort and self-reflection of moments like these. It can be so easy to take for granted the financial ability to simply buy an ice cream, and I forget that plenty of people don't have that freedom. It reminds me to be grateful for what I have, to appreciate my "rich people" ice creams when I splurge on them, and to keep finding ways to make the world better. I don't think Big Macs are quite my calling, but I'll keep looking!

When It Rains

It's five a.m. and pouring rain when I step outside, strapping my bike helmet to my head. Raindrops soak my waterproof jacket and not-waterproof pants and very not-waterproof shoes, and by the time I reach the end of our street, my clothes are saturated. Water collects on the visor of my helmet, little drops clinging in a row at the very top of my vision; when I flick my head sideways to dislodge them, they're replaced almost immediately.

I'm alone, eerily so, as I bike through residential streets. It's that sensation of being all alone in the universe, something I've felt while swimming or solo backpacking but never in the middle of London. This isn't a city that knows solitude. Usually when I pass the cyclist counter, I'm number 50 or 60 for the day; today, I'm number 16. From 4 a.m. airport trips to biking home at midnight, I've never seen the streets so deserted.

As my wet clothes stick to my skin and wind slips through every crevice in my clothing, I envy everyone else who had the good sense to stay home.

It doesn't rain like this in London very often. It drizzles frequently, sometimes enough that I consider investing in actually waterproof pants. Then the drizzle slows, or stops, and we have overcast skies or fog or bits of sunshine. In the six months we've been here, this is only the second time I'll use the spare set of dry clothes I bring with me. 

The average temperature back home is colder and true inclement weather more common, so my worsening hatred of the cold has been a puzzle. Until now. As the wind nearly tips me over and as I bike through a puddle that sprays water in my face, I finally figure out the difference. I've never commuted by bike before. I've never spent an hour on my bike every day, even on the coldest, rainiest days. There's public transportation, of course, but the bike trip takes nearly half as long. I would have chosen the bus today, if I'd planned ahead, but I'd have had to wake up earlier than usual to catch the infrequent night bus that would get me to work on time.

The wind pushes against me as I turn the corner, so every pump of my pedal takes effort. When I reach the bridge over the Thames, gusts blow me sideways; it takes all my strength to stay upright. When it blows hard enough, it brings the rain with it, so I feel like I'm in the midst of a tiny hurricane. Water is pooling on the sides of the streets, and in the dim light, I can't avoid all the puddles. Good thing my socks and shoes are already soaked; what's a little more water?

And then, I'm there. The coffee shop where I work is warm and inviting, and it feels glorious to shed my wet layers. My co-workers laugh at my dripping helmet and jacket, and I laugh too, more from relief than humor. I watch the rain from inside the warm shop, and by the time I'm biking home from class in the late afternoon, the clouds have given way to a colorful sunset. That's one good thing about storms; they make you appreciate clear skies so much more.

An American on #BrexitEve

When I started writing this post, it was "Brexit-Eve," the night before the UK officially leaves the European Union. The phrase was trending on social media, with everything from humorous parodies of Christmas Eve to heartfelt statements of both relief and anguish.

It reminded me of when we first arrived in London, just weeks before the October deadline, when everyone was talking about Brexit and everyone had a strong opinion. Then, when the deadline wasn't met and a general election was called, everyone kept talking about Brexit. Then the election happened. Some people I know mourned and some celebrated, but still, Brexit was a major topic of discussion.

And then...people stopped talking about it. Maybe it's the bubble I live in, but it feels as though for the last six weeks, everyone's moved on. The topic has come up here or there, but for the most part, I get the feeling everyone is sick and tired of this process and ready to be done with it.

That's changed over the past few days, and Brexit seems to be all over the place again. Today, I was biking near Westminster while running errands, and I came across street after street of people gathering for Brexit. I'd find a square full of British flags and and pro-Brexit signs:

A block later, I'd find other people waving the EU flag in front of cars like this one:

Some of the signs people carried were constructive, but a lot were destructive. On social media and in person, people have a lot of negative things to say about the other side, and it's sad to see. 

Even sadder is that this feels like the norm anymore, not just in the UK but in countries across the world, including my own. I'm no stranger to division and disunity, and sadly, I doubt any of you are either. But the thing is, I don't think we can continue like this. I don't want to continue like this; do you? 

Maybe the solution starts with politicians, but I don't think so. I think it starts with us. With each of us, every time we acknowledge not just that someone else has a right to an opinion but that they have a valid reason for feeling that way, every time we try to understand someone's point of view instead of just telling them they're wrong, every time we refrain from mudslinging and name-calling those we disagree with. If we start, they will follow.

No Phone? No Problem

My husband and I just returned from a quick vacation to Switzerland (which was lovely! One of my favorite countries so far; I highly recommend it! Pictures below.) Partway through our trip, I climbed off a bus and realized, as I watched its taillights disappear, that I'd left my cell phone on my seat.

Whoops.

In previous trips abroad, I went months without a smartphone, and it wasn't an issue. As someone who didn't get a cell phone until I was in college, didn't get a smartphone until I graduated from college, and didn't consistently use a smartphone until I moved back to the US a few years ago, I've always been okay without a phone. I never thought I was one of the people addicted to technology at my fingertips.

Turns out I was wrong.

Being on a trip without a cell phone now is hard. I didn't bring a camera, extra books, a GPS or map, study materials for my upcoming exams, a guidebook, an alarm clock, a pocket translator...the list goes on. Most of us don't pack these things anymore, because our phones accomplish all of that and more. It's not that I'm addicted to my phone; it's that my phone is useful. (Full disclosure - the hardest part was that I almost ran out of books to read. What good is a vacation without lots of books to read??)

As frustrating as the experience was, though, I actually started to enjoy it. We found ourselves talking to random strangers on the train or at tourist sites. I spent most of a boat ride just staring out at the water and reveling in the feel of the breeze on my face instead of trying to film the whole thing. And without access to a single messenger app or email, I basically had an excuse to ignore everybody who wasn't in the same room as me; it was oddly freeing and kind of nice!

Returning to school this year, I've found myself surrounded by technology, and I can't help but notice the ways technology at college has changed since I graduated nine years ago. Students are on their phones constantly, to a degree I would have thought was hyperbole if I wasn't seeing it firsthand. There seems to be no point trying to start a conversation; nobody will engage when they're already engaged on their device. Signs around campus extol students to look up from their screens, warning that there are stairs or a street crossing ahead.

I don't know why it's bothered me so much this year; technology was a part of my life before I came here. Perhaps it's the striking difference between interpersonal communication now and during my last college experience. Perhaps it's the struggle of being in a new city and trying to make friends. Perhaps I'm just old fashioned.

I wish I had more solutions, but I don't. Phones aren't going anywhere, and I doubt this technology-focused culture will change anytime soon. But can I make a suggestion? The next time you go on vacation, consider turning your phone off for a while. You might find that you like it.

Photo spam from our vacation, because I can't help it:

Sunset from the water taxi across Lake Lucerne (Photo credit goes to my husband!)

The top of Mt. Rigi, with the Alps in the distance (Photo credit goes to my husband!)

The view looking down from Mt. Rigi. (Photo credit goes to my husband!)

The backyard of our B&B, right on the water 

Lucerne

The Chapel Bridge

Context...but Usually Not?

I've spent a lot of the past two months putting together applications for Ph.D. programs (which is terrifying and exciting all at once!) The applications were as much work as applications usually are, but this time, one piece was different.

GPA.

This is an issue for a few reasons. UK universities have a different grading scale than American schools do, and I'm still figuring out exactly how to interpret and translate that. More importantly, I don't actually have a GPA here yet. Our semester isn't over, and in my program (among others), our grades are 100% based on the final exam. We've had at most one assignment per class all semester, and while we got feedback to help us improve for the exam, they didn't count toward official grades. So I have no official grades and no official GPA...and a little box in the application that only accepts numbers between 0 and 4.0. What am I supposed to do? Try to input a paragraph explanation into a box that wants a single number?

Still, this isn't that important, right? It's a special case. Just one of the quirks of trying to navigate school systems in two different countries.

I was thinking about this as I sat down in the final lecture for my methodology course. That class was about research paradigms, about how we all bring something different to a research project because we all come from somewhere different. It's important, they explained, to be reflexive about our role: why did I ask the questions I asked? Why didn't I ask those other questions? What worldview has informed my research?

Once I started thinking about this, I couldn't stop seeing similar situations everywhere. I notice it in debate rounds, when nobody in the round questions the assumption that spreading Western values in developing nations is a laudable goal. I notice it in conversations, when I mention an example that seems universal to me but my friend from China has never heard of. I notice it in news articles, books, research articles, Facebook posts, and just about everywhere I look. Just like my GPA dilemma, most of these instances weren't accompanied by a paragraph-long explanation for context.

What's funny, though, is that just like in the GPA dilemma, these instances didn't have room for an explanation...but that's mostly because I didn't ask for one. Think about the last time a reference went over your head or an assumption didn't ring true; did you say something? Or did you smile and nod and pretend it all made sense?

The urge to keep quiet is understandable. It's embarrassing to admit that we don't know something; as an American who recently guessed that Spain was a founding member of the EU despite the fact that I know full well that Spain was a dictatorship until forty years ago...yup, I'm familiar with embarrassment. There's plenty of other reasons to keep quiet, too: not wanting to interrupt the conversation, figuring I can look it up on my own later, etc.

Since the GPA dilemma, though, I've started trying to silence the part of my brain that fears embarrassment and public shaming and instead just ask. Speak up. Admit what I don't know and ask for clarification. It's not easy; sometimes it's downright awkward. 

Most of the responses have been simple, quick explanations (gracefully conducted, nonetheless; imagine my surprise when I realized that most people don't spend their days looking for ways to laugh at me!) Sometimes, though, my requests for more information have led to fascinating conversations, far more in-depth than I could have anticipated. When I admit my ignorance, people answer my questions. When I acknowledge my lack of context, people are more than willing to share and tell me about the world through their eyes.

Gradually, as we pay more attention to the moments when we lack context, it becomes easier to notice when others are feeling the same way. When I've said something that makes sense to my worldview but not to everyone's or when I'm the one who should be adding a paragraph of explanation. My hope, though, is that by noticing these moments, by adding context or even just recognizing that context is needed, I'll learn something about myself and about the rest of the world. Not that I'm particularly good at this yet; it's a new endeavor for me. I'll let you know how it goes!

For now, I encourage you to give this endeavor a try with me. Sure, it's easier to stay silent and Google it later, but our world doesn't need more Googling or more quick context from an algorithm. We need more understanding, more communication, more connection on issues that aren't always easy. The more we ask, the better our conversations become. So let's ask, shall we?

Home For Christmas

I am not, technically, home for Christmas. Except that, technically, I kind of am. So where does that leave us?

We're spending this Christmas in London, which is our home for now. When we moved here, we decided that staying put for Christmas made sense, based on cost and time and a budget for vacation days and all the other things that come with being a sensible adult. 

In all the years I've spent traveling, this is only the second time I haven't made it back to my Nevada home for Christmas. Sensible and adult decision or not, I miss the holiday season with family as much now as I did then. And yet, this year has very little in common with that year. Christmas in Afghanistan was very different (which I wrote about in detail back then, so check out that post if you want to know more!); Christmas in London is a lot like Christmas in the States. The streets and shops are dressed out for the season, and the same Christmas carols play everywhere you turn. The seasonal aisles at the grocery store look about the same, and while the sales advertise prices in a different currency, the implicit pressure to buy the perfect gift seems universal.

There are little differences, of course. We learned this when we tried to find lemon jello to make a jello salad for a holiday party and when we bought cards that say 'Happy Christmas.' I'm learning how to substitute for ingredients that can't be bought here, and I can't tell you how many mince pies we've been served in the last month.

Building a home in a new place, though, isn't about buying toffee ingredients or splurging on a baby Christmas tree for the living room of your tiny apartment. Any newly married couple goes through the same process; how do we meld our traditions and our families and our expectations into one holiday to share? In that sense, we're lucky. This year, there's just us. Some gatherings with friends and classmates, but mostly just the two of us, building new traditions together.

Last month, we had a group of friends over to celebrate Thanksgiving. We cooked a turkey and all the fixings, and our traditional American dinner was enjoyed by friends from the UK, China, India, Poland, Brazil, and Denmark. We ate and talked and laughed and ate some more, and it was a wonderful holiday.  

This is the kind of tradition I'm so excited to be starting, and it's the kind that will last no matter where we call home. I've always loved the story of Christmas, not just because of the celebration of Jesus' birth but also because of those who were celebrating at that first Christmas. It wasn't just Jesus' family; it was also strangers and travelers who became family. Family is a huge part of Christmas for me, but even when we're far away, Skype and email and group chats mean we get to share their holiday. At the same time, we get to share our Christmas with friends here, with strangers or friends of friends that we don't know well, with travelers who also don't have a big family gathering to attend. That's the thing about being an expat; you learn to make a family of those around you, to make traditions wherever you are.

That feels like a lovely way to start our life as a newly married couple. Honoring our traditions with Christmas Mass and homemade toffee and stuffing each other's stockings, but also being open to new traditions. Celebrating with family from afar, but also opening our home to celebrate here with anyone and everyone who wants to come. Relishing our Nevada home even as we make London feel like home for now.

I am home for Christmas.

Please Tell Me You're Okay

It's been such a long time since I've posted; it feels very weird to be on here again. To be honest, there's lots of reasons I stopped writing and a few reasons I'm starting again, but the most important is this: I try to be a person who speaks when I have something to say and doesn't speak when I don't.

I started this blog the first time I moved away from the US, and since then, I generally found that when I lived overseas, I had things to say. Interesting things, I thought, and I hope some of you felt the same.

This year, I'm living overseas again, this time for education in London. It's a very different experience than any of my other international trips, but more on that another day.

I resurrected this blog today in part because a few days ago, there was a "terror-related" attack here in London. A man attacked others with a knife, and two people lost their lives too soon. I'm betting you already know this, so I won't cover more details, because that's not the point of this post anyway.

I heard about the attack when I got a text from a family member back in the US asking if I was okay. One text, then another, then more. Messages from worried family and friends, all with the same request: please tell me you're okay.

It was quick and easy to send back reassuring messages, but I couldn't stop myself from rolling my eyes a bit. What an overreaction. In a city of eight and a half million people, what were the odds that we were involved in the attack?

But then, on my way home, I started thinking about all those messages. About family and friends and people I count as friends but hadn't talked to in a few weeks or months, all of them waking up and seeing London on the news and thinking of us. Statistically likely or not, all of them worrying that something had happened to us.

It's pretty amazing to have that many people think about you, worry about you, love you that much. In many ways, those texts, and the outpouring of support across London for those involved in the attack, epitomize the best of humanity. We worry about each other, because we love each other, even from far away.

I'm very thankful to have so many people who love me enough to worry about me and to text me. It's a good reminder that it never hurts to check on someone - after a terrorist attack, after a busy week or semester or year, or maybe just because. These moments make us feel connected, and our world can always use a bit more of that.

Pie in the Sky, For Some of Us

Months ago, when I was still in Morocco, I had a "pie-in-the-sky" conversation with my friend Fatima. Or at least, I tried to.

"If you could change anything about our town, what would you change?" I asked her. (In hindsight, I'm rather proud of that sentence structure. It took me many moons to learn "if" statements in Darija!)

She gave me a blank look.

I tried to give her an example. "Me, I would build a library. A giant library, in our rural town where kids tell me they don't like reading because there's nothing good to read. I would put in comfy chairs and all my favorite books, and I'd have storytime every single week."

She gave me another blank look. "We can't build a library."

"Well, not right now, we can't," I agreed. "But if I didn't have to worry about time or money or anything else, I would build a library. What would you do?"

It took a while, but I finally coaxed an answer out of her. She didn't part with it lightly, as though she'd only barely let herself think this thought, as though she'd never expected to say it out loud. "I'd have a wedding salon," she said. She told me that she'd learn to do wedding henna and hair and maybe even sell fancy wedding dresses.

"That's a great idea!" I told her.

She shrugged. "It won't happen."

I started pressing her further: why not? Who says? What would it take? Have you heard of microloans for women?

She was already shaking her head, sadly. "You don't understand."

She was right. I grew up in a family, in a town, in a country, where I was taught to dream. I was taught that I should go after my dreams, and that I can do anything if I put my mind to it. If I wanted to start a wedding business, it'd take me a few months to figure out the logistics, but you can bet I would figure them out and I would have my business.

Fatima didn't grow up the way I did. Her family pulled her out of school in high school, because her brothers said she'd learned everything a girl needed to know. She is one of the quickest learners I've ever met, one of the first to recognize someone else's need and go meet it, and she's been raised to think her life begins and ends in the town in which she was born. I loved - I still love - that little town, but my heart grieves for Fatima, and for all the girls whose dreams are so buried that they don't even know how to access them.

This week, Fatima has been on my mind. Because of the attacks in Paris and Mali and Lebanon and elsewhere, because of my current students, because of Thanksgiving. I'm thankful for the many people in my life who encouraged me to dream. I'm thankful for anyone, anywhere, who is using the events of the past few weeks to fuel not violence but passion. For those who see needs in the world and meet them, for those who fight for others' right to dream, for those who speak against the darkness that sometimes seems so all-encompassing.

Fatima told me a few weeks later that I was the first person to ever ask her something like that, and she told me shyly that she couldn't get my question out of her head. As far as I know, she hasn't started a wedding salon. For all I know, she never will. But I'd be willing to bet that when Fatima has a daughter, that daughter will graduate from high school. She might go to college. She might start a wedding salon, or go to med school, or go to the moon.

Whose dreams have you encouraged today?

Lights, Sirens, and Bending Over

I rode in an ambulance for the first time a few weeks ago. 

It was my clinical ride-along for the EMT class I’m taking, and it was amazing. A lot of the details can’t be shared on a blog, not unless I want to get sued. A lot of my feelings don’t belong on a public blog, not when I’ve fought hard to keep from teenage-angst-ifying it. Suffice it to say, it’s been a rough few months since the Peace Corps sent me home, and I’ve spent a lot of that time feeling pretty lost. This ambulance shift wasn’t a magic cure by any means, but it was a pretty incredible (if very LONG)  night.

Perhaps the best moment came at about 3 pm. It’d been a slow afternoon, which is odd for a Saturday in Reno. I’d had plenty of time to study, and our calls had been rather few and far between.

Then dispatch hailed us. Priority 1 patient, we were told. Which means Hurry.

So we did. Lights and siren and all. Racing down the highway, cars pulling out of our way, people staring as we passed.

That part was pretty cool. But you know what was cooler? The fact that someone called us because she needed medical care, and we could go. Just like that. Minutes after her call, we were on scene, with oxygen and IVs and heart monitors and a vehicle that could transport her to the hospital if she needed.

I’ve never really thought before about how amazing that is.

Then, a week ago, I had to get my appendix out. It was pretty strange, one of those moments you never think will happen to you. And after stalling an embarrassingly long period of time because, well, I’m me, I went to the ER. Five minutes later, a nurse was examining me. Fifteen minutes later, they were scanning me, and first thing the next morning, I was in surgery. It’s pretty astounding, especially when I think that I was sent home from Morocco a few months ago partially because I lived too far from medical care.

There are a lot of things wrong with the US health care system, but you gotta admit, lights and sirens and available ERs and immediate surgery… it’s really cool. And amidst all my groaning about bed rest (ugh!) and the bills that I’m sure are coming, it’s good to remember that. Every time bending over makes me wince, I remember, and I’m thankful.

Grief and Thankfulness: When Peace Corps Sent Me Home

Last Tuesday, I got a phone call from the Peace Corps medical staff in Morocco. The moment the doctor said hello, I knew what she was calling about. It was her voice, the kind of voice my mom always used when she had bad news. Full of apology and regret.

Sure enough. Peace Corps had decided to medically separate me, which in PC jargon means that they'd decided I have a medical condition (asthma) that cannot sufficiently be addressed in Morocco, that staying for another year poses harm to my health, and that they are sending me home. Now.

I was actually prepared for this. They first mentioned it last fall, then more strongly a month ago. I went through an appeal process, tried to keep hoping I'd be allowed to stay. But I'm a realist, and I knew. I'd started making lists in my head: reasons I was happy to go home, reasons I wouldn't miss Morocco, people I needed to tell, items I needed to pack. I'd begun designing contingency plans: this person might be able to help take over this class, that person could help me finish that competition, I needed to print these documents in order for this counterpart to successfully continue with that project. I reminded myself how unhappy I was in Morocco in the beginning, how much medical issues have frustrated and inconvenienced and sometimes scared me this year, how nice it was to be home for Christmas and how it could be nice to be home again. Plans, logic, lists. Using reason to counter emotion. It usually works.

Not this time. I was not at all prepared for the wave of emotion that swamped me, for the tears that started to spill almost immediately. I was embarrassed to be crying on the phone, embarrassed to find myself tearing up again later when I told my sitemate, embarrassed by how easily and often I choked up over the next few days. 

It took almost a week to realize: I'd had this reaction only three times in my life, each time when a friend passed away. This was grief. Hovering in the periphery of my consciousness constantly, jumping in during logical moments (breaking the news to friends, receiving the official exit paperwork, saying goodbye to my host family) and during odd ones (getting cat-called, taking a bucket bath, hurrying home to get out of sandstorm, lying on my roof under the stars.) Big moments and little, the grief hit me again and again, leaving me emotionally raw for days on end. 

As you can imagine, this was not quite the frame of mind I'd wanted for my last few days in my town. I was busy and stressed, trying to do in four days what I could have used two weeks to do well. I was irritable and tired and always on the verge of tears. I found myself wishing I could just leave. Get out of that weird half-existence and just go.

Then, on Saturday, my two best friends in site came over to spend the day with me. They helped me pack a little, but mostly we just hung out. Played Settlers of Catan and talked about life and made pizza and laughed. A lot. At the flour dusting my shirt when I mixed dough too enthusiastically, at our half-hearted plans to hide me where Peace Corps couldn't find me and thus couldn't send me home, at the squeal one of them emitted when I asked if she wanted to keep my exercise ball. We reminisced about the year and all the good times we've had, and one of them told me she's changed a lot this year and it's because of me.

That was the beginning, but it wasn't the end. The tears and the grief were pushed away by a new feeling: thankfulness. When other volunteers stepped up to agree to continue the programs I've worked so hard on, when I met a young university graduate who was looking to gain experience and was thrilled to take over my English classes, when friends set their plans aside to make time for me before I left. When mere acquaintances reached out with words of comfort, and students without two dirhams to rub together gave me gifts, and I paged back through my journal and remembered the good moments this year. When I filled out my "Description of Service" form and realized just how much I have accomplished. 

That, I think, is the key to making sense of this. I'm still grieving, still angry and frustrated and wanting to rail at the injustice of it. But none of those emotions are productive and none were contributing to making my last days in Morocco happy ones. So instead of focusing on what I'm losing and what I won't get to do, I'm doing my best to focus on what I gained and what I did. What I learned. Who I met and will never forget. Because, in spite of everything, this year has held more goods than bads, and for that, I am so very thankful.

When It Feels Like Home To Me

When I walk down to souq first thing Sunday morning and am greeted by sellers who know me by name. The spice seller tells me I'm probably out of garlic, which I am, and tells me a joke as he sells me some. The butcher waves, and the candyman with his little cart of nuts and Bonbas gives me a shy smile and a quiet "Good morning." The vegetable vendor peels an orange and hands me half with a wink, and juice runs down my chin as I bite into it. We chat as I pick out cucumbers and squash, beans and potatoes, tomatoes that are going out of season but aren't gone yet.

Fruits and vegetables at souq.

My friend the spice salesman. He asked me to take this picture!

When I bike past the hanut and see my little host sister buying milk in little plastic bags. She flags me down with a delighted grin, because it's been six weeks since we saw each other. I have errands to run and so much work to do, but she begs to run errands with me and I can't say no; I've missed her too. She hums cheerful tunes and finds reasons to hold my hand or bump my shoulder as we walk around town. I'm grateful for her help as we carry everything home. Her reward is a cup of hot chocolate, and my reward is her wide-eyed look and subsequent smile as she tastes her first sip. Cultural exchange, it's called.

When my neighbor sees me arrive and shows up half an hour later with a plate of food. When the young women who are partnering with me on a girls leadership camp stop me in the street, spending fifteen minutes asking about my health, my house post-flood, the health of my family in America whom they've never met before we finally meander onto the topic of the camp that starts in four days. When little kids accost me when I walk out my door, not to throw rocks or beg for money as they did when I first arrived but to invite me to play soccer, show off how clean and happy is the puppy we rescued together six months ago, beg me to resume ballet classes daba daba. When I get six invitations to lunch in one day, and I repay them in chocolate chip cookies.

When I have a free half our before class my first day back, and one of my students invites me on a walk into the desert. We "happen upon" her family, who pat the dirt and invite me for tea. The youngest daughter introduces her friends, 10-year-old Fatima and 11-year-old Ilham, and the four of us lie on our backs to search for airplanes in the sky and dream about where they could take us.

When I go for a walk or drive outside the town and see the desert in full bloom. Hills awash with color, blanketed in purple and yellow wildflowers offset by plants that no one can tell me the names of. The oasis, with palm trees as far as the eye can see, and the sand dunes, cold to the touch. And above them all, the hills that are almost mountains, their jagged rocks thrust into the sky in a Lion-King-esque architecture. 

When friend after friend greets me in the street on my first day back: my landlord, who tells me he paid my electric bill while I was gone so they wouldn't shut off my electricity. The man who works for the electric company, who tells me the same thing even though he just overheard my first conversation. The mechanic who fills my bicycle tires, the youth center director, the chief of police. Students from camp last November who speak to me in English because exams are getting close and they want to practice. Ladies from the women's center, who kiss me three times and hug me and pull me back to get a good look at me and then tell me I'm looking nice and fat today. Taxi drivers and furniture salesmen. People I play soccer with, go to karate with, buy food from, met once at a party. I don't even remember all their names, but they greet me with wide smiles and seem genuinely pleased that I've returned. 

When night falls and I'm cozy in my little house. When I take my fuzzy blanket and curl up in my hammock on the roof.  The sky is indescribably expansive, and little worries fade away in the face of its immensity. Who am I to worry? When the cool night air brushes my cheek and a lone meteor shoots across the sky and I rock gently, thanking God for bringing me back here.

When the bus rounds the corner and I see the lights of my town in the distance. When I expect to feel lonely and sad and anxious about going home to my empty house and dealing with lack of water and intermittent electricity and life in another language, but I don't. When I see the lights in the distance and a little spark flares inside me, because it actually feels like home.

Burnout and How To Fix It

When the medical officer from DC called the day before I was due to fly back to Morocco after Christmas, she didn't beat around the bush. I want to be honest, she told me. We're not willing to have you return yet. We're concerned about your health, and we're not sure Morocco is the best place for you.

Then she asked me, "Is your goal to return to Morocco?"

Then she added, we want you to be prepared for the possibility that you might not be allowed to go back.

I hesitated. I'd forgotten how lovely it was to catch a cold and have access to hot showers and instant soup and cable TV, oh my! A job speaking English, with higher pay. A life closer to my family, in a country where I don't constantly feel off balance. A tap that constantly has water, knowing I'll have electricity when I wake up, not having people leer at me everywhere I go, not having trouble breathing on a fairly constant basis. This year has been a tough one, medically and emotionally and everything-else-ly. And on top of everything external, I've been battling my own expectations. Various incidents left me jaded and bitter about the people I was trying to help, more and more sure that there were too many problems for me to fix. Too many problems for us to fix, for America to fix, and why are we doing it anyway? Grassroots change is the best kind, and I'm not doing enough  to make a difference, and I don't speak the language/know the culture/understand the problems well enough to address anything anyway, and especially not in only two years. Why should I stay? What was the point of going back for another year of frustration and disappointment?

And yet. I have an outdoor leadership program that just got final approval and will start the moment I get back. A counterpart who is so excited about teaching first aid, and another who has spent a month meticulously planning the lesson she and I will co-teach on Leave No Trace. Five ballet classes who groaned when I told them I was going home for Christmas, and a three-year-old student who has spent six months just learning to march but has had a grin on her face the whole way. Family after family who feed me. A girls leadership camp in the works, a writing class I finally have students for, an all-men soccer game that, after three months, has finally stopped trying to convince me not to play with them. A karate class that after six months still draws an audience of wide-eyed little girls. I have friends who've asked after me constantly since I left, in three different languages. I have a town that has just learned my name, just started to trust me, just started to trust that females can take care of themselves and white foreigners might actually keep their word when they say they will.

What about them?

I spent today wandering around the national monuments in D.C., and with every stop, I could feel something growing inside me. Resolve. Desire. Determination, pushing away the burnout. I wandered the memorials, ate a hot dog, went ice-skating, chatted with a wide-eyed three-year-old ice skating near me. I saw the Washington Monument, towering over the DC horizon. The Gettysburg Address etched on the wall beside Lincoln. The place where Dr. King stood when he had a Dream. And the resolve grew.

I may disagree with some American politicians and policies. With some laws and procedures, some biases and prejudices and ignorances. I may disagree with some Americans.

But I agree with America. With Washington's leadership, Lincoln's honesty, King's passion. With Jefferson's intellectual curiosity and Kennedy's approachability and Reagan's willingness to admit mistakes. I agree with the WWII nurse in the statue, looking to the sky in a symbol of hope. I agree with the promise to remember the names inscribed on the Vietnam War Memorial, the three ethnicities in the Three Soldiers Statue, the free expression of the Sculpture Garden. 

I agree with the quote I found today:

Make no little plans. They have no magic to stir men's blood and probably themselves will not be realized. Make big plans; aim high in hope and work...Remember that our sons and grandsons are going to do things that would stagger us.  Think big.

Daniel Burnham

"Is your goal to return to Morocco?"

Yes.

Storms, Not Just Physical

There's a quiz on the Internet that gives you twelve minutes to type in the names of all 197 countries in the world. I discovered it back in April, tried once or twice, and forgot about it.

In the last few weeks, though, I've been playing it more and more. Once a day, maybe more. I couldn't figure out why it held such pull for me, but I memorized the countries in Oceania as I navigated the process of setting up my work schedule and classes, and then the power struggles and confrontations that resulted. I worked on the Caribbean during a bacterial infection, the flu, a knee injury, and asthma that just kept getting worse, but I stopped after Ferguson and Eric Garner because I wasn't really in the mood to think too much about the Americas. I began memorizing all the African countries and their location on a map as my town received three days of the heaviest rain I've ever seen, but I had to finish that process out of site when the rains worsened and roads flooded and they told me that if I wanted to make it home for Christmas, I needed to be in the next taxi. I stopped taking the quiz for a few days, but as the floods in southern Morocco spread and homes were lost and people killed, as roads were blocked and I found I couldn't have gotten back to my town even if I wanted, as tendrils of guilt crept in because I was safe and warm while my friends were dealing with I didn't even know what...well, that was when I started playing three or four times a day.

My obsession with this quiz still didn't seem all that strange to me, though. Not until the day I got the news that some colleagues of mine, people I knew decently well, and liked and respected immensely, had been killed in Afghanistan. I mourned them that night, both the expats and the Afghans killed in those many attacks, and it was the most heartsick and angry and bitter that I've been in a long time. The following morning, I was on Facebook reading some of the tributes there, and I started to tear up again. Two seconds later, Facebook was gone and my twelve minutes had begun.

Not the most normal reaction, I know. But in the midst of everything, it felt good to have one activity that placed all the control in my hands. Where only I could make my score increase, and only my follies caused harm to me. In that game, Morocco was a blank shape, not the site of floods and danger and friends who weren't answering phone calls. Afghanistan and America were just words. The map showed no injustices, no deaths, no fear. The world was, truly, black and white, and it was lovely.

When I realized the extent of my escapism, I shut off my computer. Because I promised myself a long time ago that I wouldn't hide from the world. That I would mourn and I would celebrate and I wouldn't give in to the desire to stop caring. Because I can't help, can't solve anything, if I pretend it doesn't exist. And most of all, because I owe it to my friends down south and my friends in Kabul and the friends I've lost to keep going even when it's hard. To tell them that their lives matter, regardless of who they are or or where they are or how many others seem to have forgotten them. To tell them that I won't take for granted the fact that I'm still here. To promise them that even on the days when rainstorms or sandstorms or political storms or emotional storms make me want to hide inside my house, I won't. Because storms are precisely the moments when I most need to keep fighting.

These rivers aren't normally here...

Nor is this lake.

This is the view from my roof during a sandstorm. I don't take many pictures of these storms because, well, it hurts to be out in them.

When Carnivals Are Capacity Building

We're walking to dinner when we crest a hill and find a carnival, its glowing lights bright and inviting and eerily reflected in the water of the Atlantic that sits behind it. Fatima* looks at me, and in her eyes is the same combination of fascination and curiosity and pure joy that has characterized her reaction to everything we've learned this week. 

"I've never been to a carnival before," she says, and though I hear the wistfulness and the request in her voice, she doesn't ask the question.

"Let's go, then," I say, and her face lights up.

For three days now, Fatima's face has been a study in emotions. Pure delight when she walked into a hotel room for the first time in her life, the first time she went wading in the ocean, the first time she tasted filofel. Embarrassment and shyness as our professional development program began, as she introduced herself to other attendees and compared her education, language skills, village roots to their accomplishments, as she looked around the room and found herself lacking. But then came determination, desire, a genuine desire to learn. She took copious notes on every presentation. She applied herself to every exercise, eyebrows furrowed, the concentration coming off her in waves. She made her first budget, wrote her first list of goals and objectives, took a tiny element of our program and, based on a need she sees, made it an integral part. She stood before the group and gave a presentation for the first time in her life.

That emotion? When she sat down? That was pride.

It's fascination on her face now as we wander among the bright lights and happily screaming children for a few minutes before choosing a ride: the Bouncing Rabbit. Fatima grins at me with a childlike joy as we start to move, turning rapidly to delighted squeals as the car lifts us to a height with staggering views and drops us with stomach-clenching speed.

As we leave the carnival, Fatima's eyes are shining.

We're back on the sidewalk again when she turns to me.

"I want to do this program with you," she says, "to learn everything there is to learn. And then? I want to do this for a program. I want to bring girls from towns like ours on trips. So they can see." She falls silent for a moment, looking out at the water. "I want them to see how big the world can be."

Carnivals. Joy in simple pleasures. Public speaking. Pride in a job well done. Inspiration and intimidation from others. Determination to improve. Dreaming.

This is capacity building. 

*name changed