Xian trip Oct 19

I flew to Xian October 19 to celebrate Pei Hua University’s eighty years as a private school, hoping I might reconnect with a few students I remembered. Saturday’s skies were amazingly blue with fluffy clouds, something I seldom saw when there in 2006 as the “only foreign teacher” (two Japanese teachers, then, didn’t count?). A car and driver brought two Foreign Affairs workers to greet me, deposit me at five-star Shaanxi Hotel, and see to my comforts as a “distinguished guest” until I begged off in the afternoon. I found a bus to city center, had a Starbuck’s Americana, revisited the Muslim market for lively bargaining, and met Kansas Citians Ann and Tooey Miller for dinner. It was heaven to speak fluent English without simplifying or watching whether my comments were politically correct. We talked for several hours about our kids, their jobs at NW University, the upcoming US election and economic scene.
      Sunday morning’s ceremony at the new Pei Hua campus open area found 30,000 students sitting on army camp stools below the platform where I was ushered to the third row (of eight) by lovely girls in suits and heels reminiscent of the 60′s stewardess attire. They kept our 150 tea cups full, washcloths handy, along with plying us with fruit while the president, ancient graduates, and party officials gave lengthy speeches. At one point, colored fireworks filled the sky with green/pink/purple clouds; the noise brought black birds from the Education Building eaves, as if on cue against the colorful clouds. After two hours, we were ushered down to chairs and they held umbrellas over us as a fantastic program emerged in the drizzle: bubbles and flames during an avant garde fashion show, a live band, acrobats, costumed dancers, European opera, pop singers, and dramatic reading went on for two more hours. Foreign Affairs Department took us by van to Chaing Kai Chek’s villa for a sumptious lunch, and the current Japanese teacher, English teacher (from Michigan), graduate fellow from Bavaria, and Ed Johnson (friend of the director and everyone else he met) pled “tired” and didn’t return for the afternoon and evening programming–more singing, dancing performances.
     They took me to Metro Shopping Center to buy canned tuna and dark chocolate, Western products I haven’t found in Sanya. William Bai, Xian friend and ex-co-teacher, brought my return air ticket and discussed the world economic scene that evening. He was delighted to get Lenin’s Private War, a book I recently enjoyed. Sunday morning, I met the newly-retired English dean, “Joe,” for mutton noodles at the old campus where I lived for nine months. He brought pomegranates and kiwi, local fruits and insisted I sign my gift: Peter Hessler’s Oracle Bones. He’ll pore over it for months, I think. At 60, he’s working parttime teaching English at a small college and has just passed three of four tests to teach English abroad. He seemed cheerful at having retired. His wife’s mother is in a wheelchair, so he doubts he’ll realize his dream to teach in America. 
     Boss Helen was at the Sanya airport to pick me up, pleased that my insurance card had arrived. A post office remittance for some editing I had done for an AIDS publication in Kunming also arrived, so she took me shopping after I taught this morning. We’re preparing lessons (with all English-speaking teachers giving critiques) for an Open Day with parents invited October 31 for all classes. Our newly-started English Corner seemed a success with first meeting last week; we had nine teachers and one person from the community. Next meeting’s topic is “Suitable Jobs” and I’ve no doubt they will prepare with much written memorization. I’m a “foreign expert” here, seen as friendly. It’s nice to be appreciated by old friends like Pei Hua and new ones like the young teachers at Golden Sun Kindergarten.

Choices and Decisions

Having successfully received and sent back my US voting documents October 26, I’m sipping a fresh kiwi-orange smoothie, celebrating a new blender and my country where each citizen has a say in electing leaders. China’s 1.3 billion population doesn’t have that privilege, according to my 20-something co-teachers, who pored over my ballot and asked dozens of questions. Ella, ‘English teacher’ who’s gradually getting away from speaking Chinese to our nine kindergartners, and Shirley, Chinese teacher who has them reciting at the tops of their voices, meet me weekly to trade English-for-Chinese help. They’re regulars in our new Wednesday night English Corner too, eager to improve their English as long as other Chinese-only speakers don’t laugh at them. We played the game ‘Duck, Duck Goose’ while learning short-u sounds today, and the teachers chased around the circle with as much exubrance as the kids. 
 
I returned from Xian full of gratitude for the red carpet rolled out for us distinguished guests. They couldn’t control the soggy weather that threatened the top notch programming that followed Saturday’s 80th anniversary ceremonies. Battery-operated technology allowed speakers, microphones, and cameras to continue while pretty girls held orange-and-black  umbrellas over our 150 heads. Pei Hua’s 35,000 students toughed it out on army camp stools in drizzle for at least two hours. Not since the Olympics had I seen or heard such talented dancing, singing and playing. To top it off, Foreign Affairs helper gave me China Mobile’s gift umbrella to introduce Halloween colors to Sanya!
 
      Fully moved into my fourth floor apartment, I’m getting on-average one new appliance or piece of furniture daily. Venes came for soup we cooked on the new hotplate, Saturday; handyman Li has all faucets working and we’re hopeful for the washer hook-up tomorrow. I’m using my own laptop, connected to broadband just last night via my new phone (8863.0080 has enough eights to be considered a ‘lucky number’ ); I’ve a rice cooker and a wok for weekends when there are no meals served at Golden Sun Kindergarten. Tonight’s fare was fresh shrimp and bok choi with rice.
 
     Our neighborhood complex of six-story concrete boxes’ inhabitants congregated near the gate with gongs, horns, and drums last evening for a rousing celebration of a 75-year-old man’s death. Folks ate, played cards, and visited throughout the night. My 7:00 a.m. Tai Chi group, reduced to three who didn’t participate in the funeral, moved our practice to a clearing under a banyon a respectful distance from the mourners. Their all-night vigil was rewarded by rosy apples and thick rounds of cheese piled on tables as I walked to Golden Sun’s hot coconut milk and baozi (steamed, filled buns) breakfast. I had finished morning English class when firecrackers marked the end of the funeral gathering. I logged on to Google to discover China’s population clock ticking off 33 million births and 16 million deaths since 2008 came as a New Year’s baby.  I’m living among 1/5 of the 6 million world population, considering myself lucky to be here, gleaning what I can from your e-mails and internet newspapers about the economy and upcoming election.
 
      On this side of the world, we’ve weathered our first crisis. Helen got a call while we were registering my residency with the police. ‘Terrible! A teacher (teaches Chinese to three year olds) hit a kid.’ It was  in the class of 18 where I’m working with the confused English co-teacher on setting up and following a lesson plan. Helen spent the evening with the mother and child who gaily skipped around them, telling me she ‘solved the problem; I will refund one month’s payment and take the mother to dinner. She insisted on an x-ray, although the child said it wasn’t necessary.’ Helen’s thinking what she should do beyond the Chinese teacher saying, ‘Sorry’ to the parent (striking children is unlawful here, but parents seem to be exempt from that law). The school takes a strong stand, thank goodness!
 
     It’s off to the beach after I teach ‘over/under/next to’ in English concepts today. Parents attend an all-day Open House tomorrow; for me, it may be business as usual. I often look up to see observers sitting in during my class activities. They’re glued to the repetitive ‘teaching,’ fade away when I start child-centered activities, but the kids are showing their individual smarts and personalities as they cut/paste/dictate/tie and–soon–make a neighborhood out of the sandbox. I’m sick of my name because it’s the greeting/call for attention they say repeatedly at the top of their lungs. Discourse comes later, I hope!

Jeddah by the Red Sea

Seaport and principal gateway to holy Mecca and Medina, Jeddah had lured me toward a three-day holiday since missing a chance to go last year with an 8-hour driving trip across desert sands. Berny and I flew early Thursday with a plane packed with men wrapped in two white towels. The woman in abaya (over white also) next to me murmurred prayers from a small book as we waited 45 minutes to take off. Was she scared? Her friendly husband, a special-needs children’s doctor used to traveling, spoke to me with a thick accent, pulled his towel across his belly, and explained that they were on their way to Mecca for the Haj. Upon landing, I saw almost an acre of white tents on the tarmac, the pilgrims’ gathering place. I called Aiman, recommended by a Riyadh teacher from KS I’d met over dinner at my old Seder Compound, and he delivered us to Le Meridien Hotel after pointing out a few landmarks–Red Sea on right, banks (Jeddah’s well known for legendary money-changers), and villas that could pass for palaces. We noticed a plethora of palm trees and green areas, a change from Riyadh’s sand and dusty fronds. No sign of the floods that swamped Jeddah in 2009 and 2011, filling tunnels on busy highways; it was hot, but bearable mornings and evenings. Unfortunately, Aimon’s day off was claimed by his family, and we decided to try a street taxi instead of paying 120 riyah/hour for the hotel tour. Our driver was sweet, but we soon found ourselves waiting 30 minutes on his uncle (who “knew English and lived in Jeddah 30 years”) to conduct our tour. Q__ was opinionated, drove on the dividing line, called other drivers “Stupid” and only answered our “What’s that?” questions. His first question, “Did you argue price already?” (We did–40 riyals/hour.) He did drive us into Old Jeddah’s narrow streets with amazing wood trim on condemned buildings that still housed Jeddah’s poor. Camera batteries gave out, and we vowed to return next day. The drive through Jeddah’s 3.2 million population/27 km from city center toward the construction-and-resort-lined Red Sea ate up another two hours. I got hungry and Q–sped back to a street-side chicken-and-rice take out he liked; we asked about popular Al Baik, and he took us there. “Hurry before prayer time!” We entered a kind of Saudi KFC and were ushered out and around back; it seemed we’d invaded the men’s floor. A door marked “Employees Only” opened, and we went into the “Family Section” where old grease was the predominant odor. It was a labrynth of closed-door cubicles; where did we order? Finally, we were handed a menu at the cash register. I pointed to a chicken sandwich and corn on the cob. “30 minutes!” At least six men and one woman awaited orders at the counter, watching us. The worker from Bangladesh explained, “Sorry, Madame, Prayer Time!” We turned to go–where? Doors all seemed locked. Finally, a floor sweeper showed us out the employee’s door and we looked for Q– in vain. We called; he beckoned us into the back seat in a new location, chewing on his chicken sandwich! Men were walking in/out with fries, sandwiches, and satisfied looks. Q– said, “Don’t be angry; I did not go away,” and insisted he’d get us chicken to eat in the hotel. We’d had enough of Al Baik by then, so we went home, overpaid him, and ate chicken and rice with the mall workers next door to the hotel. It was cheap anyway!  Next morning, Aiman was free to take us along Tahlia Street’s famous shopping district, past King Abdullah Hospital, several stadiums to see King Abdullah Stadium (under construction, with design like Beijing’s Olympics “Birdnest”). I didn’t recall anything like it when in Xi’an, one of 25 sister cities to Jeddah “selected on the basis of economic, cultural, and polotical criteria.”  Berny took advantage of Somba’s cash machine, a US-Saudi Bank, and we heard more in a half hour than in four hours the previous day. Roundabouts, decorated during the 70s-80s oil boom, depicted everything but living creatures, forbidden in Islamic tradition. Henry Moore and Joan Miro were recognizable styles. Tasteful-to-bizarre, all photo-worthy! I snapped the wheat and sunflowers in honor of my birth state, Kansas. A fitting concrete one of a big wave took us to the Red Sea. Along the South Corniche with high construction fences, we were told to return at sunset to see the King Fahd’s Fountain’s 312-meter (1,023 feet) plume of water lofting 7 tons/minute taller than the Eiffel Tower, according to a Destination Jeddah article. Fishermen cast into trash-littered waters that were surprisingly warm. Berny and I tried for “nude (under abaya) in Saudi Arabia” pictures, but only slightly scandalized our good-natured driver. I wasn’t sure he got the joke. We drove on to the Sheraton’s “Westerner’s”  beach, paid double because it was Friday, and had pricey beach sandwiches and watermelon juice, along with a swim in clear waters that didn’t feel oily to the touch. I hoped looks weren’t deceiving and that the four smoke stacks of the water treatment plants south of us were actually cleaning up the years of dumping sewage directly into the sea. Moses probably didn’t foresee that problem when he led the Israelites through the waters in Biblical times! The breeze, view, several European families, and shady palms kept us reading and napping in the sun for laid-back hours. Aiman drove us home in time for Le Meridien’s complimentary expresso and a healthy Greek salad. Darkness fell, and we returned to Old Jeddah’s ruins that had come alive–laughing men telling jokes,hungry cats on the prowl, veiled women behind incense and slabs of salt for sale in the night market,  boys’ basketball games in front of graffiti-covered buildings with wooden trim much like it sported in 647 AD as Caliph Uthman Ibn Affan turnedJittah into a port for Mecca pilgrims. We parked near a crumbling tower, just off an inoperable fountain roundabout, and found ourselves the only foreigners in the lively colors, sounds, smells, and textures of night market life. I bought dates, bracelets, and men’s head coverings (with tablecloths in mind). Our driver walked briskly with us trailing like two obedient wives, then he would disappear and reappear about the time we thought we might have to negotiate another cab ride home. Rather than the Kingdom Tower expected to be the world’s tallest structure when finished or the National Commercial Bank’s lights shimmering on a lagoon, the doors of Old Jeddah are what I remember. I’m glad to have visited this most liberal of Saudi cities, hope the 2,000 schools (with more for female students than for males) continue with English as their second language, and carry images of Lay’s (potato chips) on bridges and products displayed skyscraper-high on King Road Tower along with the many impressive villas that I took for palaces. Jeddah-by-the-sea–humid, diverse, tolerant, and cosmopolitan–was a good place to visit. Riyadh–conservative, dusty, and familiar–welcomed me home to dry heat with the airport fountain operating full force.

Second Hand Souk

Thursday (first day of Riyadh weekend) dawned with full sun. Berny, teacher-candidate from Oregon via China and other places East, told me to bring water and Shareem would pick me up at 8:45 a.m. “before it got hot” for the Second Hand Souk. Visions of bargains lit up behind my eyes: Doane’s in Fredonia, KS, with nice furniture up front and increasingly dusty stuff poking at you on a walk into darkening treasures. An entire drive-in parking lot outside KC, MO, where I got $300 for a computer/tower/dikettes/printer off the back of our old green truck. Endless garage sales in several states where I’d enjoyed Dad’s haggling genes in action.  Shareem rang the outside buzzer, I grabbed my abaya and already felt sun on my neck as I climbed in the back of his van. I made a mental note to buy sun screen. We picked up Berny at her apartment and drove through Riyadh’s high-end shopping centers and silver skyscrapers, then green plant souks, then food souks with thobe-wearing melon venders standing beside battered trucks next to our traffic buzz. Shareen avoided three near-accidents by testosterone-driven cars and one huge road grader. If you’re bigger or faster, it appeared you don’t have to stop.

“There it is!” Berny pointed to to wares spread on the street and blocks of appliances, furniture, clothing, dishes, carpets, linoleum, shoes, pictures, pitchers, you name it! There was one small vending trailer selling spicy foods and restrooms, with hospital supplies for sale in front of it. By the time we’d walked two city blocks in full sun and finished our water bottles, I thought how I’d welcome a wheelchair parked in nonexistent shade. I bartered for a silver pitcher with a long pouring spout. Berny suggested that we go where she had gotten “an interview skirt” for 2 SARs (Saudi Arabian riyal=.25USD). Miles of evening dresses in every bright color and texture (mostly filmy over satin), abayas with and without bling trim, and clothing for the rest of the family–it hung and lay endlessly under tin sheds with rounded tops. Egyptian and Pakistani men intoned, “Welcome sister!” and hoped to sell items they priced at twice what they expected me to pay. If Halloween, I’d have easily found costumes for the entire Plains Women’s Club to go Trick or Treating. An hour was enough for me. I retreated to a carpet vender’s stall with a swamp cooler grinding away on the linoleumed floor. My blue plastic chair was covered with furry carpet; Berny went back for small etched-glass cups for Saudi coffee and I watched six pieces of floor covering, measured and heaved into the back of SUVs, leave the prosperous shop. “Hello sister! You America? You go Egypt?” I felt welcome and entertained. Home, I looked at my contrasting villa kitchen, washed my two silver pitchers, and wondered what I’d do with the extra one. Oh well, I got them both for 35 SAR when they started at 60!

A Lebanese Wedding

 

My (Growing) Little School

I got the smartboard content to edit the night before we began school with a pre-kgn parent meeting. Problem was, Selwaan (Curriculum Coordinator, shown looking at a portfolio because parent couldn’t come for the big classroom sharing) sent a file I couldn’t open. I walked into the computer room filled with white, damask-covered chairs about half-filled with perfectly-made-up mothers in black abayas and dads in everything from Saudi garb to white shirts and slacks. Selwaan introduced me and asked me to tell about myself. Luckily, what I said connected with their experience so far with My Little School–even to the addition of Mandarin as a Fall offering after school tying to my having taught in China. I then saw my “office” where Selwaan and I juggle teacher conferencing, meetings to settle all-class squabbles, assessments of new students (she has at least one entrant/day; the school has wait lists for nearly every grade), parent conferences ( initiated by them, mostly), and follow-ups to  observations in classrooms. I don’t know how Selwaan does it–five boys, Egyptian dress and customs, positive attitude with all teachers, Conscious Discipline implementor, and curriculum coordinator. Neither of us is in the room much.

Sunday evening, I went to an informal dinner with principal, Aida, and her family. Maids took my abaya and directed me to where Omar (11) and Tiko (8) showed me their new flips into the pool; Ali came from work at the bank to tell of his Peruvian gastro-tour and new recipes he’d found; Aida and Tamer (5) came down to invite me to a picture-perfect table. First, we had to all do “Highs and Lows” around the table: Omar’s went on for some time–family eating together, a good school day, homework already done…no lows–and the others included having Miss Virginia with them. Tamer’s high was about a baby brother, and Aida told him “Not yet, but it was up to God.” Ali served green salad, but Omar went straight to eggplant in yoghurt (“but I don’t want any seeds on top”) and rice. Tiko had seconds on chopped spinach with mince (hamburger) and potatoes. The stuffed grape leaves were my favorites, but all was delicious. The boys clustered about a Titanic book and asked if I’d published it, having heard their parents ask about AT THE EDGE. Homework and bedtime claimed the household as I left with the driver, happy to have been part of a family. Next day, kindergarten had Cinco de Mayo and portfolio day. The chicken quesedillas, lemonade, dances, and program impressed parents, even more than the presentation by Selwaan and me (although polished, in comparison to yesterday). I walk around the open, upper level of My Little School and am pulled into a class to observe a child, answer a teacher’s concern, share the joy of a caterpillar about to make a cocoon, dry tears of frustration, and give an opinion on Jolly Phonics or request what I want ordered in for lunch. Snacks for kids are as healthy as home sends; teachers munched on celebratory chocolate chip cookies, home-made cake surrounded by mango slices, garlicy hummus and flatbread, delectable chocolates from Paris, and fiery toast pieces from Africa. I sipped ginger in hot water for allergy throat and runny nose. The four-day first week was full and satisfying. I’ve seen messy gifted kids out-thinking teachers, my old walking shoes pulled from Lost and Found, books from MT in the eager hands of Saudi kids, new candidates answering interview questions, Conscious Discipline in action, and flowers proferred as Teacher Appreciation. An equal number of concerns, many by parents who are also teachers at MLS, need unravelling when I return Saturday, the first day of the week here. I’m also to view two Conscious Discipline DVDs (Dr. Bailey’s MO presenter was here last month), lead three phonological awareness enhancing workshops with teachers, and observe three specific kids to suggest classroom strategies. MLS doubled last year; we’ll try to ease growing pains.

Original Riyadh Visited

I awakened, having slept from 3 a.m. to 1 p.m. (thank heavens for the many Antarctic exploration books on my Kindle) because of jetlag. I guessed this wasn’t the day Andrea was arranging a manicure/pedicure with Philippino Grace, now an assistant to toddlers’ class. Maybe tomorrow? I called Reem to ask for hangers (none in closet) and whether I could have a driver to visit friends in Seder across Riyadh, if I could reach them. Inam rang immediately. “Driver is by your door.” We unraveled the miscommunication, and I asked about internet. “Maybe this afternoon.” “That is what you said yesterday.” Then I heard that internet couldn’t be bought “because I have no money and Madam (Aida) is in Paris. Aida called, saying she was back and holding a small bowling birthday party for 4th grade Omar at a hotel. “Welcome, and if you need anything…It’s my turn to bowl!”

I baked brownies and ironed wrinkled clothes in silence until dark. I called Aida, and Iman called immediately. “I go now to buy internet WIFI.” He hooked it up efficiently and grinned as he accepted “cake from America”. Ah, 74 e-mails. Alex, from Missoula, called. He’s teaching at a university (high school? junior high?). We made plans to meet at Masmak, the old fortress and souk area in the center of this kingdom, where tribal Wahhabi grapples with modern technology and Western influence. Last year’s trip there identified it as “chop square” where executions (head and/or hands) are sometimes held after holy day, Friday’s lunch. Before 16th century, Al Reyadh was called Najr, then Hajr, where viceroys ruled over central and eastern Arabia, starting in the 3rd century. Fortunes declined around 10th century, and Najd (western Arabia subsumed it) became Hajr (“the gardens). Rashid’s drove them out of the Al Saud’s ancestral home in 1841. King Abdulaziz recaptured it in 1902. From a pleasant, central Saudi area of wadi, palms, and village of  20,000, it grew explosively to 500,000 in 2008. The vast sprawl continues; you can’t go more than a few blocks with a huge pink sand expanse getting ready for another compound or shopping center.

Once he found my door, the driver was “Abubakah, from the Bombay area.” He drove by horn, not unlike Dollywood movie drivers. Around Al Barthaa, home of cheapest goods and densest populations, we got into a 4-way traffic tangle that went on for 15 minutes of honking and inching into impossible spaces. I donned my black scarf above my abaya, dreading the heat outside. Thank goodness this wasn’t July or August, when they expect some 50-degree centigrade days! Darkness was falling, so pictures weren’t possible. Blog readers will need to google Masmak, Old Souk, or Fortress for pictures taken by day visitors. I couldn’t even capture the huge traffic jam, either arriving or leaving.

“Clock tower, Madame!” announced a famed meeting place, and I phoned Alex. A nearby tower’s loudspeaker already had a chant announcing evening prayers. Abubakah parked and settled into sleepy mode. “I wait.” Alex came shambling along, his blond hair standing out in all the dark heads around Chop Square. We sat on a cement bench (with many other women clad in black, like me) during the 20-minute prayer time and got acquainted. He topped my  living -quarters-and-school stories, and I signed his AT THE EDGE. For the next hour, we wandered the maze of street shops–carpets, brass, souvenirs, camels, pashminas, and more carpets. It was fun to hear shopkeepers ask him about “his mother.” Meeting him culminated a year of phonecalls as he made his way from Missoula to Egypt, Spain, Iraq, and finally–where he wanted to teach–Saudi. I’m glad he’s living his dream. He greeted guys most profusely and spent willingly on some carpets for his room. A girl’s name was mentioned when he bought a soft cashmere scarf. A good, comfortable time had claimed an hour and a half! As Abubakah beeped me home, I looked back at the mud brick city walls stormed by King Abdulaziz in 1902 (and recently restored to near perfection) and vowed to return to see the first royal Rolls Royce inside the free fortress displays. Daylight, next time, although it’s only open 6-9 pm.

Saturday was a mysterious day off from MLS; no other schools seemed to have time off. Selwaan, Curriculum Coordinator, sent a pdf file I can’t open to respond about tomorrow’s parent-presentations content. I e-mailed her some research and experience about Core Standards, hoping some readers may let me know their experiences with them to add. Teachers, parents, grandparents? Blog me!

Inam just called that the driver will get me at 7:20 a.m. tomorrow, a whole hour later than last year! Living closer has its rewards.

Solitary Confinement

Sometimes, change comes ‘way too fast: Last Sunday, I was signing books and having a great book-making discussion with Wichitans in KS. Next morning, I was on my way to Minneapolis, then Paris, then Riyadh.May Day night marked arrival; Inam, boss-lady’s personal  Pakistani driver, delayed me an hour in King Khaled Airport. Air France came in Terminal 2–Saudi Arabian flights’ terminal–because they partner with Delta and Air France. Inam waited in international Terminal 1. A tout in uniform grabbed my bags and wheeled them to x-ray; I told him no, showing him the wheels on both, but he insisted. When no one familiar met me, he waited…and waited. Finally, he said “Money” and I realized I’d been duped. Nothing smaller than a twenty US with me. Dollars’d all gone in the Paris airport, where I spent $25 for three small souvenirs. I tried eight American quarters, which he scorned. A man came to my rescue with a riyal tip; another young man loaned me his cell phone (mine doesn’t work in Saudi; e-mail me for the number that does work here) to call Wendy, school contact.Wendy called Reem. She told me she’d “never seen my villa” as Inam appeared with many high-pitched excuses. It was the office’s fault–”Terminal 1″ was on the sticky note. We walked over a block to the white, GMC six-seater and drove the 35 miles to Riyadh’s now somewhat familiar neon business facades between dark expanses of sand awaiting construction. I learned that second grade teacher, Andrea, “lived with me but had a house across the street”. A mystery, but she was someone I remembered from My Little School last year.

I expected something like Seder (“Cedar”) Compound last year, but Inam pulled up at #4 above a graceful iron gate; we walked past geraniums to open heavy door, and I was “home” on tile floors and two stories. We whispered our way past Andrea’s bedroom door and a huge workout machine to my bedroom. I made sure the keys worked and thanked Inam. A shower produced brownish water on the floor, so I cleaned the bathroom and went to bed at 1:00 a.m. Am I too old for this?

All was quiet when I awakened to blazing sun at 9 a.m. No sign of Andrea, who’d surely gone to school on tiptoe. After breakfast  of whole grain bread and peanut butter (no toaster?), instant coffee, and an apple, I walked the compound walls in tolerable 90-degree heat , expecting library, restaurant, small grocery, beauty salon, gym, and pools. I got the pool, shared eventually by Yara Compound’s eight houses.  I found a one-room gym filled with paint buckets, three occupied residences (Scott and Jurdeen, next door, appear neighborly), and very nice plantings around covered furniture. A walk around inside the wall took all of 5 minutes. I felt like house arrest in an elegant jail. TV needed cable to work; internet was “coming soon”, and I needed to spend the 200 riyal (around $50) on groceries, batteries, light bulbs, etc. Reem had sent; the school had also put staples in kitchen). Amas, from India, accompanied me to (closed) Tamimi Grocery, where we waited in A/C comfort until afternoon prayers were over.  100 riyal filled my cart with fresh vegetables, beef, chicken, hummus, mixes, watermelon, and ice cream. Knowing no restaurants in this area, and needing invitations to go to nearby compounds or the DQ (Diplomatic Quarters, i.e. embassies), I’d do best to cook. It was vegetable beef soup that day, oven chicken with MT friend’s special rub the next. Andrea called, saying she and husband Fred would be over when the cable guys arrived at 9 pm. If Fred hadn’t been linebacker size and had a sense of humor, the five guys would’ve left; in stead, they worried ladders, drills, cables, procrastination and excuses around to get the high definition flatscreen receiving 900 channels turned on by midnight. I heard about second grade, from a proud teacher’s viewpoint. Images of kids came back to me.  Andrea informed me that I’m “leading parent meetings” on Sunday, my first day at MLS because “we don’t have school Saturday”. We’ll see about that tomorrow!

Tough, but Triumphant Day #2 in DC

Aida told me from her hospital bed in Riyadh, “Family comes first” and offered to wait until I could comfortably come from Washington DC to Saudi. “Go ahead and get your visa stamped.” Relieved and trying to adjust thinking to the rapid change of plans that pointed to Kansas, I strolled to the metro, a 20-minute walk, braved rush hour push and shove, and let the escalator at George Washington Hospital  spit me into a sunlit street for more walking to the Passport Office. Will Call was as efficient as window activity was sluggish the day before. I double-timed it to the Saudi Embassy across from Watergate Shops with minutes to spare before their 12:30-3:00 closing. My passport got a pink slip. I got a “Be here 4:00.”  And what—pick up passport, get told I still must go to Houston, be met with another problem?

That left 4 ½ hours for lunch in biting wind too cold for reading in the park across from Pepperdine. I wandered, keeping the Washington Monument in skyline view. Kennedy Center’s elegance hadn’t diminished from two past visits, and I found myself just minutes too late for the 1:30 Elijah concert’s opening curtain. A Thai Place calamari lunch and jasmine tea (didn’t enjoy the mango salad—beautiful, but not tasty) was 2/3 of a good choice. Wandering the frequent commons of George Washington U, calling friends, and reading carried me to almost 4:00. I surrendered cell phone and driver’s license for the third time as the x-ray attendant greeted me like an old friend (sans kisses on both cheeks).  Although it was 15 minutes early, the new guy on duty at the embassy handed me my passport. Something nagged me to inspect my two-page stamps. Multiple-entry? Yes. 90 days? No, 30! The worker took the passport, went back to inner cubicles.

Yesterday’s acquaintance with the severe eyebrows and pink scarf brought it. I explained it should be 90 days. “Why are you going to Saudi?” she boomed. “I am invited by the persons in the letter.” “Why do you stay 90 days?” “My friend is ill, and she asked me to come.” (All verifiable pieces of truth; last year’s visa was heavily stamped “No employment allowed”—as usually happened when I had to obtain Chinese visas—so I knew better than to go that route.

“I’m sorry to cause you so much trouble.” “You should be!” she boomed again. I waited. She raised both eyebrows and handed it back. I left it lie under the glass divider. “I know I cannot go for 30 days only.” A large man walked toward her as she explained: “This is 90 days. You stay 30, go to Dubai. Stay 30 more. Go to Yemen.  Stay 30 more. Go back to US.”  “Then why does it say 30 days duration?”  I glanced at my watch, its hands inching toward closing time.  Should I call Aida, hoping she was able to answer from her hospital bed in Riyadh? I didn’t dare call MLS office for help.

The man grabbed my papers, wrote something along the bottom of the invitation letter (it was only ¼ page) in what looked like disappearing ink, and the woman angrily grabbed the passport and pointed to the leather waiting-room. “You wait.” I waited. At 4:35, she rapped on the window. “You get a new one. 90 days.” I said “Shokrun” and escaped with a visa-stamped passport. Whew!

Rush hour home on the metro was standing room only, with folks very tired and cranky. I was glad to walk the leafy route home to shed the “alone in a crowd” feeling. Adnan’s shared lamb and curried rice, and I excused myself to plan for a morning call to Janet.

About midnight, it came clear. I e-mailed some guidelines for expectations as if I were a tutor, not Grandma Ginny. It was a relief to hear “Good ideas, Mom” when I called Janet next morning. I felt the first stirrings of excitement beyond duty for the uncertain change toward Kansas. Nephew Ben and girlfriend, Janina, picked me up in a candy-red car for breakfast conversation at a nearby Greek restaurant. We talked into the afternoon in Adnan’s living room. I found air connections, watched an award-winning “Rio” movie with two grandbaby toddlers, and joined the grandparents to view a documentary on depression. Although he told me he has seven brothers and wives in CA pharmaceuticals (salary $125,000/yr. opposing $75,000 in DC), he impressed on me the mere 14% of antidepressant helps above simply taking sugar pills. It seems those are only in deeply depressed persons. We all celebrated the good things about staying healthy. When “The Ten Commandments” began, I gave up on viewing.

Next morning, Easter, dawned  with sunshine and sneezes. Ben and Janina  again ate heartily at the Greek breakfast place, but I had enjoyed a Mid-East breakfast (fava beans, fresh parsley, tomato, cumin, lime juice, garlic) with tomato and feta in pita. I left Dulles at 1 pm, ran into a flight-cancelling storm in Dallas, and finally decided I’d be happy if I reached Wichita’s bed by midnight.