movement

Anticipating change is, for me, worse than the actual act of change. As I sit here on my balcony that period of change has begun to begin: tonight is my first night alone in the apartment, most probably the first of many to come. This isn't the first time I've spent a first night alone in an apartment I've only shared with someone with whom I spend nearly all of my time. And yet the first night is always as bad as all of the previous first nights. Like times past, the first thing I did when I walked in was apply the dead bolt to the door. Why? I have no idea. Especially considering it was only 5 pm, sun still ablaze and Morris wide awake and meowing for food. And again, retracing steps from years ago, I paced around the apartment, unmotivated to perform the household tasks I usually carry out with satisfaction. The cat needed to be fed, the laundry required folding, the dishes stacked since last night's dinner begged to be done. Chores performed without the usual cheer, followed by incessant refreshing of my gmail page (someone must have emailed me today?) and then an attempt at some newspaper reading.

After hours of fidgety dissatisfaction I am at last nestled into one of the two bamboo chairs on the balcony overlooking the ongoing insanity of the bus stop, poised to begin season three of Weeds.

It will be better tomorrow.

incomprehensible

I have "bookmarked" my blog [yes, I still, as of 2009, feel the need to use quotation marks around verbs not previously used to mean what they now mean] and every time I click on the bookmark I am directed to an Arabic version of my blog. I never asked for this. Does my blog somehow detect that I am in Egypt [yes, I realize I write Cairo, Egypt as my location, but I've also tried Brooklyn, NY] and therefore switch to Arabic? Shouldn't it also, if it's that smart, be able to detect that I write in English and therefore provide its offerings in my language of choice?

The real problem with the Arabic script on the internet is the size: it's nearly microscopic. Although I am familiar with the open apple + command, upon viewing the mass confusion of miniscule letters I instantly become frustrated and begin clicking on random words, without any regard for meaning. When the Arabic script is that small it seems not only foreign but thoroughly frustrating.

And this is not the only misunderstanding of the night. I seem to be confounded by my own reaction, my own feelings. I found out tonight that someone I know is pregnant. Obviously this is hardly the first time, nor will it be the last but it struck me: I have felt lost and unsure since I was told; surely confusing feelings when they are combined with my happiness for her. It just so happens that this person is less a friend of mine than the person with whom I reside; a long time friend of his. Might I also add an unmarried, long time friend in her 20s? Yes, yes, of course I am happy for her, rejoicing in her joy. And yet, it strikes me that I am somehow in the wrong place and time. I can't seem to fit things together and make them flow as they should. Not that I want that to be me today or yesterday or even tomorrow, but I don't understand why it just simply can't be like that for me, why it isn't an option.

Figuring out what another person is thinking is tiring. So tiring that I'm almost tempted to just throw in the towel and stop wondering. Tempted but not set following through with the suspension of my curiosity. Clearly.

An email from a friend of mine unintentionally raised an interesting question: in dealing with the men in our lives who eternally puzzle us, how can we posit suggestions about what they might be thinking-- help them clarify their thoughts, so to speak-- without seeming as though we are merely talking about our ourselves?

Recently I addressed a letter to someone that personally inserted me into this quandry. He was quick to point out that much of what I wrote was entirely about me and not about him; after all, how could I know what was going on in his head? And furthermore, how could I take such liberties with his thinking?

Months later I think it was, perhaps, a desperation of sorts; a grasping at what was comprehensible to me, which happened to be an interpretation based on how I would behave if I were in his position.

There are so many spaces and times in which we just plain "miss" each other, where two minds are clearly not one. There are more times than not when it becomes abundantly clear that we can never completely get at the essence of another's thinking no matter how much time we invest in memorizing all the details. Some things just can't be teased out.

situational

Today I had a moment of profound clarity regarding my present place in time and space: I went to pick up my chest x-ray at the hospital with one of the best views of the Nile I know. I decided to walk back, although the “sidewalk,” if you can call it that, is adjacent to a highway with barely a raised platform to indicate separation. As I strolled along the highway/Corniche, cars whizzing past but not distracting me from my daily amazement at the beauty of the greenery that dots the small islands in the Nile at this particular point of the river, it then occurred to me—it nearly knocked me down with the realization— that I live in Cairo, Egypt. Another country. 8,000 miles away from everyone I love. but one. I suddenly saw myself as someone who lives in a different country from where I was reared, the borders between which resides nearly everything that is important to me. As I write this I realize how trite this might sound, how basic. I mean, duh, I live in another country and have for one year, nine months and counting. But it was the way I understood the distance at that moment along the Corniche: it was as if I, all at the same time, imagined/felt/thought I understood the perspectives and opinions of many people in my life. It was as if conversations, however small, that might involve my name or my doings came crashing into my headspace. I could hear, most prominently, my mom bragging about how her daughter lives in Cairo; yes, that’s in Egypt, she says proudly. I could imagine my dad shaking his head in the certain way that he does, slightly lowered, glasses crooked—by necessity as they attempt to balance upon his nose long ago broken during the days when he really believed he would be a major league baseball player—saying that yes “Rebecca lives in Cairo but I’m none too happy about it,” perhaps then recounting the news of the bombing that occurred last week at a major tourist site downtown. I imagined Hans standing around his BBQ in his backyard that he shares with Laura and his other roommates, tongs in hand, veggie meat on the grill, our longtime mutual friends and others gathered round, talking about the video link I sent him the other day about the class bifurcation in this here city. With more effort I can see Kate casually mentioning my name when she is in the Cobble Hill Park on one of her BoCoCa parents’ group outings, saying perhaps that I picked up the shirt enveloping Gus in Bangladesh or some other faraway place, maybe even here.

the weather warms in cairo

lying here in bed, in maadi, in cairo, in egypt, eyes, half closed under my coverlet with what's come to be known as its distinct cairo smell, i suddenly and without warning was transported back to 120 prospect hill road-- my place of birth.

this room is nothing like that one-- full of egyptian-style-overly-ornate furniture, shuttered windows including the floor to ceiling one which leads to the balcony, the sounds of the bawaab below as he sweeps the entry to our building for the first of many times today just following the call to prayer.

and yet, with my eyes half-closed and the birds chirping in the background and a rare cairene moment of little traffic and only the voices of humans and nature, i can feel springtime in Connecticut. i can remember that room at 120 prospect hill road, the twin size bed nestled in the corner, the winterized windows half cracked as spring breaks, the smell of freshly cut grass, perhaps, slowly seeping in. and birds chipring- always birds chirping there at 120.

And then i think of the badmitton net, sunk into the side yard, next to the pussy willow tree. Sometimes dad would pull out the grill, position is close by and i can see grandma and grandpa in the white and green lawn chairs, mom back and forth to the kitchen with burgers and vegetarian snacks for me. The lawn furniture, faded at best in memory and color.