“It’s hard to plant strong roots in the desert” Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Posted by Super-S in Uncategorized.2 comments
I’ve recently started reading a new blog called The Milkman’s Daughter, where I read this entry from which I have taken the title of this post. That one line sent me on a contemplative journey down memory lane, because I think that though I moved away from there ten years ago, and last visited 6 years ago (has it really been that long?), I left my most strongly-planted roots in the deserts of Kuwait.
Just yesterday somebody asked me if I ever played sports in school. We were talking about how we were chubby kids. For me, this resulted in a hatred of team sports because I was generally the kid picked last.
This dislike of team sports lasted until I moved to Kuwait in 1992, aged 12, and decided it was time to make a change. I’m not sure what sort of adolescent makes such a strong decision, but I decided to let go of my oftentimes debilitating shyness and become a new person. Kuwait changed my life for the good in so many ways. Lots of Egyptians and other non-Gulf Arabs hate Kuwait, Kuwaitis, and what it represents (soulless oil wealth, I guess), but I still have a hard time seeing that country, that place, objectively because it was the site of so many of my happiest days. It is where I discovered the best (and worst) of myself and of people. It is where I “fell in love” for the first time. It is where I, for the first time in my life, made real friends, people whom I still consider among my closest friends today. And it is where, eventually, I got over my hatred of sports and joined the basketball, volleyball, and track&field teams.
Lately, the weather in Belfast has been gorgeous – the sun has been bright and warm, the trees and grass smell sweet, and the blooms are, well, blooming, and it all reminds me of what I missed while in Cairo and what I loved when in Kuwait – spring. Granted, Kuwait only had about two weeks of what could be called spring, but it was the most beautiful time of year I’ve experienced anywhere. If rain ever fell there it happened in January/February, and by March, if you went out into the desert at just the right time, you could see tiny pink and purple flowers sprouting from the earth which would, in two weeks time, be cracked and parched under the blistering sun. But, man, those two weeks of spring were beyond beautiful.
I would say that one of my best, and certainly most unforgettable, moments was on one such spring day. It was probably 1995 or 1996 and I was at school laying on the high jump mats with my two closest friends at the time – Mini (still the closest of friends) and Goldie (we lost contact after she moved back to Texas, though now, through the magic of facebook, are back in touch!) – during lunch time. It had been a weird winter for all of us. Mini and I had fallen out with the rest of our “group” – Sambagirl, Cheddar and L. – because, I dunno, we weren’t cool enough. Goldie had just found out that she was moving back to Texas after having lived in Kuwait for six years. So there we were, at lunchtime, on the mats, each one lost in her own thoughts and listening to music – I was listening to Jimmy Buffet’s “Lone Palm” – as the sun shone on our faces and a sweet-smelling breeze blew over us. And I knew then, or maybe I just decided, that it was a moment I would never forget.
Like I said, it’s been a long time since I’ve been back there, and I don’t know if I ever will go back, but I don’t think I’ll ever shake that place or who I became when I lived there.
Stop and stare Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Posted by Super-S in Uncategorized.Tags: Belfast, Sambagirl, Super-M
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In my past blogging life, you just couldn’t shut me up. I don’t know why I have such a hard time posting this time around. The difficulty of it would suggest that maybe I should just stop trying, but there’s something I like about knowing that there’s always a place where I can go to bore people with the absolutely uninteresting details of my life.
Here’s what I’ve been up to since the last post: I rode a proper European ferry for the first time and loved it. I’ve only ever ridden the ferry in New York and that’s more like a barge. This? This was like a huge cruise ship. A cruise ship that took me to Scotland, where I made my way to Edinburgh and spent a fabulous four days with Sambagirl. I love her. I love her life. I love Edinburgh.
I have also started up a new life regimen. No more wasting time (ha!). No more eating junk (less, ha, but still ha!). More regular exercise. (I have actually been really good about this so far.) I chart all my “progress” on excel sheets. I am becoming a regular nerd. It is totally new for me, and it is difficult but it’s been a good experience too.
On the relationship front: SuperM and I are most likely going to be living on separate continents come the end of August, and finding out about that initially made for some rocky days. But lately – and I don’t know if it’s because the weather has been gorgeous and the sun has been shining a lot more and he is such a golden boy anyway that when the sun shines on him in a certain light I start to think I’m in a movie – but, man, lately I am so in love with him. And I am so grateful to have someone in my life who will call me up just five minutes after he’s left my place to yell down the line, “Enty gamila!” (Arabic for: You are beautiful) because he knows that I’ve been feeling a little bummed about myself. I am happy to have someone lay his warm, sleeping head on my lap as I read about the intricacies of the European Convention in an effort to “log enough work hours” for the day. And come August, we’ll see what happens.
Till then I’m just trying to make the most of what I have.
Learning the appeal of retail therapy Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Posted by Super-S in Belfast.add a comment
So today, after waiting impatiently for four days while Belfast enjoyed its Easter weekend which is bookended on either side by Bank Holidays, I ventured into town to buy some things I’d been wanting for about…four days. Not all the shops were open for business today, but that’s probably a good thing considering that in one afternoon and in just three shops I managed to spend almost a third of my monthly credit card limit.
My initial reason for the shopping trip was to head to the Boots in town in search of Cover Girl Lipslicks, as highly recommended by Holly. I finally found out once and for all that Cover Girl products are no longer available in Belfast (how odd), but it’s probably for the best as I came out of the shop with a ridiculous amount of loot. I bought leave-in conditioner, I bought curl enhancing serums, I bought handsoap and facewash, and I topped up on my favorite facial moisturizer – Clinique’s Dramatically Different moisturizer. Did you know that we are currently in the throes of Clinique bonus time? We are! So not only did I walk out with my moisturizer and a somewhat unnecessary face powder, I walked out with a ridiculous amount of free goodies. Observe:
So then I left Boots in search of a cable for my laptop, and instead ended up buying a pair of black ballet flats (to replace my favorite pair of black ballet flats which more or less died in the recent Northern Irish thunderstorm season), and THEN I bought a dress. I never buy dresses on a whim. Actually, I never buy dresses period, unless I have a wedding to go to. I walked into one of my favorite shops which I always love to browse but never buy from because their wares are ridiculously expensive. Except they’re having a sale these days where things are 70% off, and against my better judgment I tried on three dresses and a jumper, and it took all my willpower to just walk out of there with one dress and one jumper.
But it’s a good dress. Something I can use for both professional and evening functions:
At first I was a little worried it’s too plain looking, but the way the dress fit and the way it fell on my body just sold me on it. It is rare that I love the way I look in a dress, and I love the way I look and feel in this dress.
So I’m pretty happy with my purchases and am trying hard not to worry about the impending credit card bill or be sickened with myself for having been so taken in by consumer culture. On the upside, I came home energized for the work I have ahead.
Yours in retail therapy,
SuperS
How the affair began Sunday, March 23, 2008
Posted by Super-S in Belfast.add a comment
Last night I was telling my housemates the story of how and why I ended up in Belfast. I briefly refer to it in my 22 things about me, but at another time, in another blog I wrote at length about my first reaction to Belfast and Northern Ireland. Even though I was only here for two days (as compared to the 2 weeks I spent in the Republic) I wrote in much greater detail about the time I spent here. As I do not write nearly enough about my experiences here in Belfast now, I thought it might be a good idea to repost parts of those old entries and jog the memory:
Onward to Belfast (and the gorgeous Antrim coast)
November 07, 2005My enjoyment of Belfast and what I saw of Northern Ireland was most likely a matter of chance and circumstance, and not necessarily one of content. Any comparisons I could make between the two capital cities on the Emerald Isle would be unfairly weighted in favor of Belfast just because it seemed the gods were finally working in my favor.
Ten minutes after the bus pulled out of Busaras in Dublin it started to rain—warm, fat raindrops that made the lush green hills look even more impossibly green, and didn’t let up for most of the trip. It was beautiful to watch, and you all know how much I love the rain, but walking around a new place in the rain is kind of a pain in the ass with a heavy pack, and sore, blistered feet. But the rain just did not seem like it was going to let up, and so I got my rain coat ready, resigned myself to walking around Belfast cursing Ninurta, and dozed to the sounds of Irish radio (which I really enjoyed!). But about twenty minutes before arriving in Belfast the clouds parted, the sun came out, the rain stopped, and everything was bathed in this warm, dewy glow. It really was that magical.
Dublin is most definitely a livelier town, but Belfast had the kind of charm and hospitality I had been expecting to find in Dublin. Ten minutes off the bus and I wanted to hold the entire population of Belfast to my bosom for all their friendly help. I, of course, got hopelessly lost on my way to the hostel despite all their help and ended up at the new-looking opera center. [I now know it wasn't the opera house, but the Waterfront Hall.] Exhausted I dropped my pack, pulled out the hummus and pita I’d bought at the Super-Valu the day before, and just sat enjoying the glittering, post-rain view. Then I went into the cultural center and asked a lady there to show me the way. ( “Oh, dear, you’re SO far from your hostel. How did you get all the way over here?” “Czech Airlines?” )
In any case, I eventually found my hostel. It was the cheapest one I stayed in (6.50 pounds), but by far the cleanest and coziest, and MOST IMPORTANTLY for me—having not showered in two days—there were clean, individual bathrooms with wonderful, steamy hot water.
But torn between being hungry and being dirty I chose to go out and find a place to eat first—priorities, priorities. It had been a few days since I’d had a proper meal that wasn’t out of a bag or in a Styrofoam cup. Within an hour the following four things happened, which sealed my love for Belfast and set the mood for the next two days:1—I found a bookshop which not only sold excellent used books, but also sold my favorite form of trashy reading—Harlequin romance novels. Short, clichéd, and shamefully entertaining, I limited myself to purchasing only two, though at 35 pence each I was tempted to buy ten.
(The Marriage War, I mean, look at that cover. How could I *not* buy it?)2—I found a restaurant which served possibly the best vegetable lasagna I’ve ever tasted, and where, I swear to you, the waitress used “wee” no less than 3 times in a sentence. (“Alright, dear, why don’t you have a wee sit, at a wee table, and I’ll bring your wee tray over when it’s ready.”)
3—I found a cheap-o shop where I got a smaller, much-needed day pack, the kind for which I had searched throughout London and Dublin, but had not been able to find for less than 7 quid/10 euro. [ed: I still have and use this bag.]
4—I found a pharmacy which had on sale two of my favorite toiletries—St. Ives Apricot face scrub and Palmolive Milk & Honey bodywash.
These four things may not seem like a big deal, but they made all the difference to me. Fed and satisfied with my purchases I went back to the hostel and showered, and then went down to the hostel basement where I met two German brothers, two loud, patriotic Canadians, and later one hot Bermudan with whom I would spend most of the next two days.
This Bermudan is also the reason I happened across the university I am currently attending in Belfast. If not for him playing basketball at their sports center I would not really have had any reason to walk around the campus and think to myself, “Someday I’d like to end up here.”
My brush with “infamy” Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Posted by Super-S in Belfast, Bryn, GG.add a comment
So St. Patrick’s Day was a couple of days ago, and like any good lover of Irish culture I made plans to celebrate. Surprisingly, unlike previous years where I’ve been in a setting where it was more difficult to celebrate, this year I was not very enthusiastic about making plans.
Nonetheless, I have friends and those friends made plans for me. We were supposed to go to the parade in Belfast’s city centre. They went. I slept through it. SuperM had left for London that morning and I was up from 6:30 a.m. till 10, when I must have passed out while reading. Oh well. I caught up with my friends at a pub and proceeded to get tipsy enough to tell embarrassing stories about myself (and my friends, please forgive me) between the hours of 2 and 4. They were not my brightest hours.
In any case, we all made our way home around 5 p.m. thinking that we were done for the day. We’d done our job and it was time to sober up and get some work done. Except that at around 10 p.m. I got a message from GG telling me that our friends were calling from a pub in town that was known back in the day as being a Nationalist stronghold, telling us that the groove was too good to miss.
So we made our way back into town and were buzzed in the door of the pub (apparently, back in the day, security was very high and they wouldn’t let you in if you didn’t look like their sort of person). We weren’t two feet inside when we were accosted by an older gentleman at the bar who asked us where we were from and then with a grin on his face proceeded to tell us that we were in the presence of greatness. He pointed to a man in the corner wearing a tweed jacket and a cap and leaning on a cane and said, “That, ladies, is the second man to try and bomb Margaret Thatcher.” He then proceeded to shove us in his direction and made us take a picture with this man before allowing us to place our orders at the bar.
It may not have been the most eventful St. Patrick’s Day ever, but it’s certainly the most infamous.
It is a truth universally acknowledged… Monday, March 3, 2008
Posted by Super-S in GG, musings.1 comment so far
…that a woman will always fall for a man who does not deserve her. At least once in her life. I’m not speaking currently. I am just saying, in general I think this is true. But the only reason I bring it up at all is because I just finished watching Becoming Jane with GG and another housemate, and it has made me think about my love of Jane Austen, as well as my general love of unsuitable or unavailable men. Over the years I have developed an unofficial but yearly tradition of re-reading Pride&Prejudice, and falling in love with it all over again. I have read 3 of Austen’s 6 completed novels, but I always come back to that one as my favorite.
Because, of course, I’m completely in love with Mr. Darcy. And I’m completely in love with Elizabeth Bennet, and completely in love with the idea that everything works out for them. That all misunderstandings are swept aside, and that two people truly deserving of one another are able to see past all the bullshit. Which is more or less what happens in Becoming Jane, except that there is no happy ending. We, the audience, are left looking longingly into James McAvoy’s beautiful, tragically sad eyes, with only Jane’s unwillingness to accept anything less than absolute true love to keep us going.
The movie left me wondering though, what is it about the Austen set up that I love so much? I will admit I am a true romantic in the sense that I believe true love is only born out of some sort of struggle and turmoil (not so much the type of romantic who likes flowers and open declarations of affection – gag me with a spoon), but I’m also the sort of person that believes that no person can truly change another, and no person should ever change just for another person. Which I think is sort of an essential part of the Austen appeal, no? I mean, either Darcy and Elizabeth, like, totally loved each other from the beginning and were just trying to cover up their true feelings, or one or both of them really sort of did a turnaround in their thoughts about the other person. No?
This, from the girl who when she realized she really kinda liked her best friend (now boyfriend) actually said to herself, “Oh my god, I love Josh!” which, any educated person should know is a quote from the movie Clueless, which in turn is based on Jane Austen’s Emma.
So mostly my question is – why do we love to love the misunderstood man? Why do we love to love the person we thought we never could love? I know I’m not alone in this. There is a reason why Jane Austen remains so popular, and it’s not her never ending descriptions of the English countryside.
Sick bed blogging (on crack) Saturday, February 23, 2008
Posted by Super-S in Belfast, Bryn, Super-M.3 comments
Hey! What’s up? I don’t even know who I’m talking to because I’m fairly certain no one reads this anymore, especially not after my more than month long absence in which all there was to read was some depressing crap about how I’ve learned to stop being an angsty teenage girl and love my parents.
About that – all’s well. Turns out that the cancerous tumor my dad was diagnosed with? Did not exist. After tests by two separate doctors at the Cleveland Clinic my father was told “No cancer.” Which, hurray! But also, I feel so bad for all those poor Egyptians who have no option but to go by the shitty diagnoses they get from the so-called best doctors in the country.
I also alluded to some boy trouble, which I think for now has been resolved.
So, on to my next whine – I’m sick! I’ve pretty much been lounging around in bed for the past 16 hours, and I have no immediate plans to leave. I’m also too proud to make a big deal out of this (at least to anyone who can do anything about it), so even though I sound, look, and feel horrible I am trying to proceed as normal. My friend, Bryn, messaged me earlier this morning to confirm plans for later this evening (we’re going to a fancy pub called The Parlour), and I didn’t have the heart to ask her if we could postpone till next weekend. And even though SuperM just called me asking if I want him to come over now or closer to dinner time I did not say what I really wanted, which is that I want him over NOW, NOW, NOW and I want him (or anyone really) to stroke my hair and say soothing things like my mother used to when I was little and would whine, “Mommy, I feel so baaad. Can’t I just cut off my head and get a new one??”
So there you have it. My solution is to sulk in bed while simultaneously refusing to acknowledge that I don’t just have the sniffles but a full blown cold. And occasionally I wipe my nose on my pillow (my one luxury purchase upon moving to Belfast was buying a set of soft, soft flannel sheets) because my nose is raw from the toilet paper I’ve been using to blow it.
I’ve also been spending some time contemplating this photograph, from the Fug Girls’ site:
I mean, how much must it suck for Rumer to be out-beautyed and out-classed by her 40-something mother? And seriously, the age difference between them? Does not seem that big. (On the other hand, rock on, Demi.)
I remember when I was 10 my uncle married his gorgeous German girlfriend, who used to rollerblade (this was the late 80s, people) around the neighborhood in her hot pink short shorts and white tank top. She used to rollerblade right past my crush’s house, and I so wanted her to just maybe stay away from that side of the neighborhood, but obviously I couldn’t actually ask her to do that. And on top of being gorgeous she was super-friendly and sweet and warm and had graduated at the top of her class in medical school. But, I mean, at least she’s had the decency to grow into an attractive(-for-her-age) 40-something who now thinks I’M the pretty, smart, successful one.
But Rumer? I get the awful impression that she’s going to be in competition with her mother for a while to come.
Be optimistic Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Posted by Super-S in Uncategorized.1 comment so far
Do not be fooled by the title of this entry.
The past couple weeks have been a bit difficult with essay deadlines and friends wanting to see me piled up on top of the concern for my father. I thought that the thing that would help my parents get through this time the most was knowing that we’re all doing okay. That my sister is still going to work. That my brother is doing alright. That I’m getting my stuff done. But in an effort to finish my essays, and finish them well, I hardly spent any time with my parents, and now they’re leaving for the US in the morning so that my father can undergo surgery. I do not know when I will see them again. I’ll have gone back to Belfast by the time they get back, and though they’ve been mulling over stopping by to see me on the way back, I don’t know that it’s going to happen. We’ll see.
An old schoolmate who I recently got back in touch with (thanks to the magic of Facebook, of course), and who I have even more recently fallen out of touch with because I got the distinct feeling that he wanted to be more than friends and was being pretty underhanded about me and SuperM once told me, “Make peace with your father. I did, and I’m so glad.”
At the time he was referring to how he gave up the woman he loved because it was killing his father to know that his son was with a non-Muslim girl. A while after that incident, his father had a cancer scare and it scared this old schoolmate into realizing that he was glad he was his father’s son. He thinks (and he’s not wrong in thinking this) that I’m in a similar situation. That I’m with a guy who my father won’t approve of, and it will break his heart and mine to do this to him. To do this to both my parents. So he was advising me to make my peace, to choose my father and his wishes for me over my own desires. And I was appalled at his suggestion that my relationship with my father was not as good as it can be.
The thing is, I think I am at peace with my father. Never in my life has our relationship been better. Time was when we couldn’t have a civil conversation with one another. Now, my father — who is, like many men of his generation, a man of few words — can spend hours talking to me on Skype.
As more people found out about my father’s illness and the fact that he’d be leaving soon to have the tumor removed, the more the calls and the well wishes began pouring in. There was this incredible outpouring of praise and love for my father and my mother. So many people said, “God won’t let anything bad happen to them, because they have been so good to people all their lives.”
And it’s true. As much as my parents frustrate and anger me sometimes, and despite the very bad traits I inherited from them (my mother’s anxiety, my father’s occasional insensitivity) they have always been good to people. Their home has always been a refuge for other people. They have put a few of my cousins through college. They have taken the best care of their own parents. And they have always done all this with grace and sensitivity and simply out of the goodness of their hearts.
I’m not sure what I’m trying to say here. I’m miserable because I didn’t get to spend enough time with them this vacation, but I know my father’s going to be fine and my mother’s going to be strong for him, for all of us. But I can’t help wishing that I’d made peace with myself sooner. I’m wishing it wasn’t hitting me just now how much I’m going to miss them when they’re gone.
She’s so heavy Monday, December 31, 2007
Posted by Super-S in Artemis, Super-M.add a comment
So I’m back home for a month. I enjoyed my last week in Belfast, which I spent mostly alone reading, sleeping, and walking around. Then I spent a day with SuperM at his mom’s home in Cambridge, and had a Christmas eve dinner that couldn’t be beat. It was a really enjoyable, relaxed day, and so unlike anything my family could ever be.
I was so very excited to be coming back to Cairo. To see my friends and family. Today my joy at being here finally broke. That didn’t take very long I guess.
The day after arriving the results for a biopsy my father did earlier in the week came out, and it turns out he has a cancerous tumor. Thankfully, it’s localized and operable, but that was the first day.
The second day my family found out that some family friends of ours from Kuwait died in a building that collapsed in Alexandria.
Artemis has made a surprise visit back to Cairo, and she’s the most miserable I’ve ever seen her. I wish I could spend more time with her, but we’ve been kind of busy with our own family issues.
And today it finally hit me that for a little over a year now I’ve been doing what I always warn other girls from doing – hearing what they want to hear instead of actually listening to what their partner is saying. And I’m realizing that the results of this realization might be less than pleasant.
I’m trying hard not to have a pity party over here. Trying hard to stay positive and remember how happy I am to be here, but it’s getting more difficult by the minute.
I even took notes Sunday, December 16, 2007
Posted by Super-S in Belfast, Jill, darling, out&about.add a comment
Here’s the thing about going out for just one drink with friends – it always always becomes more than one drink, and sometimes turns into 2 pints of Guinness, 2 shots of Jaigermeister and Red Bull, and a ginger mojito (say what?).
The lovely young lesbian on whom SuperM and I have a wee bit of a crush , and whom I will dub Darling, left today for Glasgow. She will not be coming back to Belfast next term, as she is doing a cross-border program and will be in Galway come January. So last night SuperM and I went out with her and two other friends of hers for exactly one drink, and it pretty much turned into the above. We stumbled home at around 2 a.m. after fending off pleas from Darling & co to finish the night off at a gay club. I had to be up early today so I could catch the library (which closes at noon on Saturday! what the hell?!) before it closed for the weekend.
Needless to say, things from last night were a little hazy this morning. Luckily, I took notes. Yes, folks I took notes in the form of an unsent text message on my mobile phone. Do I get to wear the dork crown now? At one point Darling’s friend, Jill, asked me why I kept whipping my phone out. I couldn’t tell her I had a blog – after all, I’d only just met her and we were getting along famously, and proud as I am of my dorkdom I didn’t want to scare her off. So I told her that I liked to keep a journal of sorts and sometimes on a night out I just “jotted down” notes so I could remember. Which, not surprisingly, did not keep her from looking at me with wide, puzzled eyes, and then laughing and pointing at me. It’s cool though. She insisted on giving me her number at the end of the night, so we’re totally going to be BFF.
The notetaking didn’t get very far. This is pretty much the extent of it: “you can never go out for just ONE drink. Your moms a whose. Disasterphe.”
The first bit was incorporated above. The second part is from one of the gents we befriended last night, and who introduced us to the refreshing gin&tonic with cucumber. I don’t like gin at all, but I have to say that the addition of cucumber made the classic g&t almost bearable and quite refreshing! Anyway, for some reason he was trying to make us laugh and told us something that I guess passes for funny in Belfast. “Your da’s a whure, your ma’s a whure, and you’re a whure, so who are ya?”
He had to repeat it three times, and I’m pretty sure in the end I didn’t “get it”, but Jill assured us that there was pretty much nothing to get. Yet I felt the need to note it. Curious.
The “disasterphe” bit was actually funny but possibly one of those “you had to be there” moments. The same gent who likes to tell “whure” jokes was telling SuperM and me something about his family and wanted to say it was either a disaster or a catastrophe, and came out with disterphe. See? Not very funny, but I like it.
The point is, we had a lot of fun last night and I hope to be going back to that pub again soon. As the poster on the wall guaranteed it is indeed “more fun than colouring in”.
The Spaniard pub: “More beautiful than Jessica Alba; More useful than the Wheel; More fun than colouring in.” (picture taken using my phone’s camera, hence the extra crappy quality)
****
Earlier this evening I sent Darling a text to say goodbye and good luck and warn her that I had every intention of visiting her in Galway. She responded with, “i had to pack this morn+ drive to the ferry. i almost died from the hangover. i blame you. twas excellent craic last night. happy hols to u both. xx.”
Twas excellent craic indeed.
