Dear Prince Myshkin . . .

I love you Prince Myshkin! This cover is very misleading. I don't even know why they put that picture on the front. It's not you. I cannot wait to settle down this evening and read about you. I love you, I love you, I love you! Jonathan is wondering what's so great about you. I told him that he'll need to read about you himself. Then he'll know that being honest and genuine leads straight to my heart. Oh Prince Myshkin, I wish more men were like you in the world! But alas, it cannot be. So many ladies go on and on about Mr. Darcy, but he's nothing compared to you. He's a very proud, disagreeable man! I'm so obsessed with you that I'm going to ask Jonathan to buy me the The Idiot TV series they made in Russia in 2003. Farewell my dear Prince!

A Day in the Life of Ali

Would you like a little glimpse into the life of an 18 year old Qatari boy. Here is an excerpt from an essay he wrote for his English class.

"I go to my room and prepare my clothes for ABP. Like my thobe, my scarf, then I prepare the little things like my watch and the rings for my thobe and pen and "Which glasses?"

How cute! He deliberates about which glasses to wear. When I see these boys, who look like men in their thobes, I don't see them as young boys who worry about such trivial things as sunglasses or pens to wear in their pockets. But they are. They grow up just as any other young boy grows up. Trying to define who they are by their appearance, by the things they own, by things that don't really matter in the long run. What else do these Qatari boys have besides things? I don't know. Their lives are secret and unknown to me. I am a woman and can't seem to get into their circles. My husband gets a little closer because he is their teacher.

Here is Ali's bedtime ritual:

"I go to bed and open my IPhone and choose a comedy to play on YouTube and open my Blackberry to chat with anybody. Finally, when my eyes close I close everything and sleep and wake up at 4 AM to pray. Then I return to sleep and get up at 7 AM to return to ABP."

I think about the typical American teenager. What does he do? Does he prepare himself before he goes to school? or does he just throw on dirty clothes and get to school late? Perhaps he is an overachiever and excells at everything. At night, where is he? At a party getting stoned? Out playing video games with his buddies way too late? Doing homework? There are all kinds of American boys. How many kinds of Qatari boys are there? I only know one kind. The kind that comes to school in a Land Cruiser dressed in a pressed, white thobe with their school books in their hands.

So much to learn. So much to understand.

Bertha Sanchez Dryg

As of this month, all my grandparents are dead. It's hard to believe that I'm not the third generation anymore in family photos. Jonathan and I are getting older and find ourselves one step closer to grandparenthood, which is pretty exciting to me. My father's mother, Bertha Dryg (Sanchez) passed away earlier this month. She was 98 years old and lived a very colorful and adventurous life. Despite the many years that I lived just a few blocks from her, I have very few memories of her. Sadly, I can sum them up on one hand.

1. When I was 5 or 6 years old my grandparents were taking care of me for an evening and they took me to the mall. As we walked past a toy store, there I saw her in the window. "Dream Dancer, she turns herself around!" was how the commercial song went. It turns out that I cried and whined for them to buy my this toy, and they actually gave in! I couldn't believe it. I never would have tried this method on my parents. That's why when my grandparents commented on my spoiled behavior to my parents, they were puzzled. That was the only time I remember my grandparents watching me.

2. My grandmother gave the biggest parties on Thanksgiving and Easter. These were almost the only times I mingled with my fathers side of the family.

3. She always wore earrings with a ball on them, or a big stone. Not dangly ones. And she has given me a few jewelry boxes over the years.

4. She told me a story once. Her mother was a midwife in Bolivia and sometimes she went with her to help out. After helping a woman give birth to a premature child, a very premature one, my grandmother was to run the child to the priest before it died. She said the baby was no bigger than a matchbox. She ran as fast as she could, checking every so often to see if it's heart was still beating. She made it to the priest's house and the child was blessed, but died minutes after. Years after hearing that story I learned that my grandmother gave birth to one of her children all alone on the floor of a small shop she ran. I'm sure what she learned from her mother helped her out in that situation.

I guess I can only think of four memories. The rest I know about my grandmother comes from stories or things I've heard about her from other family members. She did tell me what her favorite song was. "Wayward Wind" by Gogi Grant.

I wish I had a recent picture of her with me in Qatar so I could post it along with this, but I don't. Thankfully my sister in law, Tara, just posted one on her blog. She's great about pictures. There is this one picture that I saw of my grandparents when they were married and when I saw it I thought, "Wow! My grandmother was a beautiul woman!" Anyway, I am sorry I didn't make the trip to see her before she died.

What are we made of?

What are we made of? How do we become the people we are today? Do we develop into our selves by what we choose to become or is it those life experiences that get thrown at us that shape us? Or is it the upbringing we receive? Or is it the people we meet and are influenced by? Or is it what we choose to believe about life that forms our person? Or perhaps the places we've been? Or maybe where we want to be? I don't know.

My grandmother passed away on the 25th. I'm not sad. I don't think anybody is if they really thought about what it would mean for her if she was still suffering on this planet. She was a beautiful innocent creature whose fingers created beauty wherever they went. When I was a little girl I got to go to grandma's house every summer and winter. Her house magically transformed depending on which season I visited. In the summer, her garden was a fanciful forest of trees and flowers and berries and pathways with a babbling brook placed in the middle. Breakfast time was busy as she bustled around the kitchen making "Mr. Macadew's" breakfast of rolled oats mixed with an assortment of bottled fruit from their garden. Never were there unpleasantries when she was around unless Mr. Macadew's realistic feel on life penetrated her bubble of happiness. She had a coral pink bathroom, tiles, tub, sink, toilet, and all and it had my Grandma's smell. It was hers. It was always there every time I arrived in the summer. She'd instigate the process of homemade ice cream out the back door. When she got older and bed ridden her spirits would brighten if someone would make her popcorn with butter and Vegit.

"Over the river and throught the woods to Grandmother's house we go!" In the wintertime that was her house. You really did have to drive over a stream of water and through some woods to get to her house, and sometimes there was snow. When I was young and she walked, the house was always decorated up for Christmas before we arrived. I could go on and on about the things her fingers created.

How much of her has affected my life? There is so much I don't know about her. But just being in her home and seeing the late afternoon sun reflect through her collection of prisms on her sitting room wall, the feel of my toes walking on her quiet carpet, and seeing her dusty piles of cards and letters on her writing table tells me that she was there and whether I know it or not, I have parts of her in me.

Meanwhile, as I prepare for another small move to go to her funeral in Utah, the boys and I are enjoying ourselves in this blessed country.

Be our guest, be our guest!

Guest Checklist (in Turkey)

1.When you enter someone's house, take off your shoes.

2. Say "Hos bulduk" after they say "Hos Geldiniz"

3. Look them in the eye and shake their hand if offered.

4. Answer your hosts questions in real words.

5. Eat the food they offer you.

6. Say "Thank you" for everything they give you.

7. Don't jump on their furniture.

8. Always say "Thank you for letting us come" before we go.

Last night we went to someone's house for dinner. Over the course of our stay in Turkey we have had the opportunity several times to dine in Turk's homes. Many of the people that we dine with are my husband's English students from the English school he worked at when we first came here a year and a half ago. DILKO. I love it because they have never had Americans in their homes before. They put on their best show, make their best food, and goo and gah over our kids. There are drawbacks however. They tend to have a lot of breakable things in their homes, they don't keep toys handy unless they have kids of their own, and they always serve meals on glass dishes. These drawbacks are minor compared to the minute details we absorb about Turkish culture during our visits. My favorite aspect of the visit is obviously the food. They prepare everything fresh. Everything is from scratch. And the dishes they prepare are almost never served at the Turkish restaurants you find yourself dining at when you're on vacation here. When the average American thinks of Turkish food, what comes to mind? Doner Kebaps, right? Well, there is a lot more to Turkish food than that. In fact, Turkish cuisine is not centered around meat. They eat a lot of beans. A lot of potatoes. A lot of grains. And tons of vegetables prepared in ways you would never have imagined. Meat and fish are eaten often, but you'll find the frugal Turkish housewife prepares alternative meatless dishes that are also filling and quite creative.

So above you see my trusty checklist. Actually I just invented it now. But I'm going to be using it whenever we go to someone's house in the future. Whether they be Turkish or not. My kids have a lot of energy and it is really difficult to control them in new environments. We don't always know what to expect. So they surely don't. Fortunately, my kids are great at eating new things. So I don't have to be embarrassed that often about my kids not touching their food. The biggest problem I have is my kids ignoring the people when they're spoken to. I know it has to do with my kids knowing that English is not the persons native language, which I think is weird. If they're speaking English, you answer in English right? Well my kids don't. If someone has any accent, my kids pick up on it and will pretend not to understand. Weird. Anyway, we're working on it. Hope my checklist will motivate my kids to shape up when we're on display at Turks' houses.

Ethiopia

As I leap and glide from place to place, dressed in my imaginary tutu, I meet delightful people from faraway lands. Every time I meet someone from a particular place I immediately connect them with someone else that I know from that same place or with someone that reminds me of that place. Lately, that place has been Ethiopia. Here is what I knew and now know about Ethiopia:

1. Growing up, my older brother used to run. Fast. He used to win us a turkey every Thanksgiving in some race or other. In junior high and high school he was a star athlete in track and field, however, one year he didn't try out. When asked why, his reply was, "When I run I get too thin. I don't want to look like an Ethiopian."

2. In one of the Indiana Jones movies, I think it was Raiders of the Lost Ark, they either go to, or just mention Addis Ababa, which is the capital city of Ethiopia.

3. Ethiopians run fast and win marathons in the Olympics.

4. There is no food in Ethiopia.

5. In an Italian history class my professor, Dr. Choate, taught me about how the Italians tried to go down to Africa and take over parts of Ethiopia.

6. My babysitter, Kuku, who I really call Cookie, is from Ethiopia. She is darling.

7. The things I know about Ethiopia are not very accurate. I have a lot of studying to do.