Thankful

Ah, another holiday far away from home.

This time, it's one focused around family, friends, and food - Thanksgiving.

I wasn't really sure what I was going to do, aside from being homesick.

Instead, I was with friends, as we cooked a full Thanksgiving meal using 3 ovens on various floors of the dorm - turkey, potatoes, stuffing, pie, rolls, and cider, cooking while thinking of home, family, and listening to Christmas music.

(Sidenote: Thanksgiving was a day of friendship, not a prelude to war.)

I have so much to be thankful for in this place, with these people. Sitting around a table, with friends from all over, many of them celebrating their first Thanksgiving, reminiscing and just enjoying the time away from work, and enjoying time with each other, it feels like home, even though the weather looks the same as August, and the temperature has cooled down from 100F to something more like 80F.

I am happy that our floor smells like a home-cooked meal, and that I had a reason to wear my corduroys.

Wherever you are in the world, have a Happy Thanksgiving.

<3

Responses

Ideal Situation:
UAE Immigration Officer: This is your passport?
Me: Yes.
UAE: It doesn't look like you.
Me: It is my passport. It's an old photo. I cut my hair.
UAE: (Smiles and stamps passport)

Actual Situation:
This is a much longer conversation, and involves mention of how my name is mis-transliterated on my visa, and how, since all of my photos in my passport are either a low-quality visa photo, or an old one where my hair is long, there is question of if I am who I say I am.

US Immigration Officer: What were you doing in the Middle East?
Me: Going to school. I attend New York University Abu Dhabi.
US: Hm. What are you studying?
Me: Theater.
US: Why?
Me: Because theater is a newer art form in the UAE - we can experiment and create new theatrical paradigms, and draw on the material of a new environment to make work.
US: (Smiles and stamps passport)

Actual Situation:
In reality, I am much less coherant because I am getting off a 15-hour flight and just want to go home. Again, a much longer conversation, while I try to explain about NYUAD, and theater.

Stamps in my passport: US, UAE, Canada, Nepal, Oman, India, Ghana.

<3

Image: Nepal

Durbar Square Entrance

Wanderings

Fragments

Prayer Wheels

Rooftop View of Kathmandu

Released to the Universe

Ancient Temple

Glimpse of Life

Ascetic

Wall Shrine

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Image: India

Bus

Rama, Jatayu, and Sita

Wall

Tayyam Dancers

Elephant Carriers

Remains of Offerings

Street View

Street View 2

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Image: Oman

Dhow Tree

Exposed Beach

Sidestreet

Mountain House

Looking Forward

Boats & Nets

Muscat Moment

Sunset

Contemplation

<3

Image: UAE

The Grand Mosque

Street View

Buildings

Travel

Street View 2

Room for Rent

Remnants of National Day

Construction

Tradition

Tradition 2

Speeding By

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Freak Street: Observations of Nepal

(a.k.a. redemption for last year's Eid, and proof that I can plan and execute a trip without having to resort to sleeping on a beach)

Why Freak Street? Because that was the name of the street I stayed on, where all the hippie tourists first migrated too. Also, because there are as many observations and thoughts about my fellow travelers as there are about the culture and place I went to.

NEPAL, DAY 1

Flights are so much better when they are in late morning/early afternoon. Saw NYUAD people at the airport, but beyond that and the flight back, I ran into no one during my week in Nepal.

Driving in Nepal is interesting. On the left side of the road, chaotic, in old, rickety cars. Made my way to Durbar Square, a historical district where my hotel was near. Pretty good so far, right? Then my poor sense of direction kicked in - I chose to ignore the map that I had, and instead find my hotel by asking and using my memory. Wandered the square for a while, with all of my stuff, (actually, it was just a backpack!), and then found my hotel - the Himalayan Guest House, a wonderful homey house - the room was very small, but clean - it was a nice week spent there.

Nepal feels safe. I don't stand out there. There are other white women with short hair. In my wandering, I found temples and markets. I also acquired water, food, and toilet paper. A good first afternoon.

DAY 2

I forgot that it might be cold here. I knew the culture of Nepal is similar in many regards to India, and so I thought the temperature range would be close to South India. Wrong. Nepal houses Mt. Everest. It was fall chilly there. Which was nice. It was just ironic, because I consciously left my sweatshirt in Abu Dhabi.

Began to wander. I didn't really have a set plan for the week - I had a few places I really wanted to go, around a temple a day, but other than that, I left myself a lot of freedom and room.

I found haircut equality! More on that here.

There were some hard moments in Nepal. The first occurred on this day. There was a woman, with a young child and an empty bottle. And you want to help. You wish you could help, that they are being honest and truthful, but you never know, which is horrible that that cynicism has permeated my mind.

Rickety car #2 to the Swayambhu Temple, aka the Monkey Temple.

Sidenote: I am not the most comfortable about wild monkeys. They are much too human-like, strong, and intelligent. I give them as wide a berth as possible.

There are 365 steps to the top of the temple, to the stupa. The top of the temple houses prayer wheels, metal wheels filled with scrolls of Om, spun clockwise to release energy into the sky.

I was solo-traveling this trip, and I am glad I did. I kept finding moments of stillness and quiet within myself and my surroundings.

Had lunch on a rooftop cafe, overlooking Kathmandu and hawks spiraling.

This place was strange - both a tourist center and holy place in one. The top of the stairs was cluttered with shops and salesmen. It is also a holy place, but it seems as though that holiness is getting overtaken by consumption, at least until you take time to explore the back areas of the temple, when you find the true monastery, the old prayer flags, carvings of the gods.

Nepal confused me. I went as a tourist, but was confused as to all of the expats I saw - how do they live? What do they do for fulfillment? I realized on this trip that I love travel, but that if I stay in a place for a long time, I need to create as well, to interact as well.

Moment: There was a man playing guitar on the steps up to the stupa, case open for donations. It reminded me of a man outside of Al Safa playing the accordion. I only saw them each for one day. A moment of their life, a sliver, and I know both nothing and something about them.

I also felt pretty Eat, Pray, Love during aspects of this trip. I found my haunts for restaurants, tried new dishes, took time to slow down, breathe, and think. Meals are both lonely and freeing. Lonely, because it felt like I lost all conversational skills beyond the basic. Freeing, because things are on my terms. For example, I think I had fresh lemon soda (lemon juice and soda water) at nearly every meal. It was also nice to not be super-nervous about food - generally pretty safe.

First power outage happened today - but most people have some sort of generators, so it didn't really change my days at all, except for a moment to appreciate power and electricity.

DAY 3

This day was hard. I didn't take my camera, and I went down to the Bagmati River. Day 3 in glimpses:

- a small boy, preschool age, begging on the side of the street

- a dog, caught between two shores, standing guard

- crossing streets with those who live there

- disconnected wires hanging from electrical lines

- the scent of human decay. no smell of flame, just decay

- ramshackle roots along the river, steeped in trash

- a woman breastfeeding her child along the same river

- a shared smile with a policewoman

- a temple, sacred space of some sort, disheveled, guarded by fiercely grotesque griffins

- a stronger smell of decay. logs

- ascetics walking, alone, unwhole, in yellow, beads, and a walking stick. do they give up human company along with worldly possessions?

- impatient with a cab drive for no good reason. who am I to expect English? I'm sorry

- this quote "Once more, the mists were rising as I walked away. If they discoloesed to me, as I suspect they did, that I should not come back, and that Biddy was quite right, all I can say is - they were quite right too". Great Expectations. In a way we are all Pip, promising to visit home, to stay in touch, and failing at that. And yet, when we do return home, we are welcomed with open arms and love - a love, at least I, feel unworthy of at times. And so we work harder to stay connected, because we have to fight for those connections.

- worked on The Laramie Project. Solid hours of pre-production work.

- had dinner with a woman from the Czech Republic. She knows no English, I know no Czech. Yet still, we shared smiles and gestures.

DAY 4

I went out of my way to find a small Kali temple - one still holy, not tourist. Kali is the goddess of time, destruction, theater. A quiet personal moment to make an offering. Shiva, Kali, and Ganesha guarded the doorframe.

Wandered, found a small multi-faith temple a ways behind Durbar Square.

More difficult moments. Young girls, boys, women, asking for money. I will also not use the rickshaws pulled by bicycles. By people. I understand it is a living, but I am not superior.

DAY 5

Today I went to two temples - one Buddhist, one Hindu.

The Bouddhanath Temple, according to legend, houses remains of the Buddha. Again, this was a crossroads of tourism and faith, but the contrast is less jarring here - there are parts still held sacred.

Whenever I see the Buddha eyes, all I can think of is the phrase/book title, "Their Eyes Were Watching God".

Walking around the stupa, I was struck by how this was a path holy men have trod for years. I received a blessing by a Tibetan monk, and made offerings of incense. Background noise of drums and prayers.

The second temple - a Hindu holy site. The smell of burning bodies. No photos. Green smoke. Tourists. More on that here

It took me 2 hours to get back to my hotel, because I used my cab money on the entrance fee to this site. Which was worth it - I spent so much time walking and exploring and thinking there.

Visited the Kumari House, the house of the living goddess. Again, I am torn about this. I respect the tradition, but I just wonder what happens to the girl once she bleeds/is injured, and the spirit of the goddess is no longer seen to be embodied in her.

DAY 6

Today I packed, checked out of the hotel, and wandered Durbar Square, getting a traditional Nepalese thali for lunch.

My shoes have died - they have lasted for years, but are slowly getting destroyed by travel and dust and rocks.

Got to the airport fine, checked in, and went to the guest lounge, because I could. I had a moment there - I got misty-eyed about how lucky I am, how grateful I am for the life I have, where I can travel to a new place, experience a new culture, learn, grow, explore.

There is a lot that I don't understand. But those questions fuel my thoughts and work.

<3

Haircut Equality

I wear my hair short. By many societies social gendered standards, it is as short as typically worn by males.

Upkeep of this haircut (which I love and feel 100% comfortable in), is problematic in a Middle Eastern country.

If I go to traditionally female salons, they want to make my haircut more feminine than I want - they like leaving the area around the ears long, and the back layer long, creating an unfortunate baby mullet.

I cannot go to traditionally male salons because of the distance required between men and women in this country.

I have attempted to solve this problem by having my roommate cut my hair - so the back was getting really long, but I could still spike it in the front.

Then, I went to Nepal.

I was wandering the first day, and stumbled upon a small, unisex, hole-in-the-wall barbershop.

It was wonderful. They didn't give me weird looks, didn't act like it was strange for my hair to be as it was, or to be in that shop. Even though there was a major language barrier, I got an amazing haircut by an old Nepali man.

I found more hair equality there than in Nepal - they didn't try to pretend that it was anything other than it was - a stereotypically male haircut on a female body. I even got a neck shave and head massage.

My hair looks damn good. It was a great start to my trip - I discovered that haircut equality does exist.

<3

Respect

These posts are coming a bit out of order, as I begin to process my Nepal trip/thoughts/pictures.

There was one moment in Nepal where I went to the Pashupatinath Temple, a world heritage site, and a still-used Hindu pilgrimage.

I know that in the Hindu faith, bodies are cremated soon after death, to release earthly sins and begin the cycle of life again. What I didn't know was that this was the temple where that cremation happens. One side for the rich, one side for the poor, holy men and babies buried, purification in the Bagmati River.

I knew there was a chance that I could stumble upon this type of ceremony and direct confrontation with death and life during my time in Nepal.

What I wasn't prepared for were the tourists.

Shorts-wearing, fanny-pack touting tourists carrying cameras. Taking pictures of the cremation. Of death rites.

I got really angry at them - because that is not ok. I understand it is new, it is interesting, it is something different than what we are used to for death rites. But what if it were there family? Their ceremony? It was strange enough that we were there, as outsiders, but to then take pictures? To trivialize it to a Kodak moment?

Show some respect. Think when you take photos - think if it were your life, your family. I was traveling as a tourist - not as a journalist. My role was an observer, not an invader.

I also think people were using their camera to distance themselves from what was happening in front of their eyes - a marriage of life and death. They were using the lens as a safety net.

Things I think about when I travel, and when I try so desperately to see everyone as individual, as human, as like me.

<3

An Artist is Never Poor

I watched a film called Babette's Feast for a course called Discovery and Recognition. It was slow to start, though it made me distantly nostalgic for my roots in Sweden.

However, one of the lines that stuck out to me was, "An artist is never poor."

And my interpretation and reaction to that line is rather telling, I think.

I believe it. Because I think there is more than one kind of wealth - not just physical, but spiritual, emotional, and creative as well.

I have been thinking about my role as an artist in the world, and what I am willing to do, to put up with, in order to give a creative energy to the universe.

I am willing to work other jobs, if it means I can create. I don't need to be materially wealthy, if I am creatively, spiritually, and emotionally fulfilled.

I am not saying that this is an easy path - I tend to go for a challenge though.

And as an artist, I will never be poor.

<3

A Distant College

Something happens when you go to a college far away from the home you grew up in, and it is opposite what I, at least, expected.

As I have moved farther away in location and time, I am more drawn to the mythology of the place where I grew up. More drawn to the nostalgia of it.

I miss leaves, as I did last year. The crisp note in the air, as I missed last year.

But looking back, I know it will be years before I live in a place like that again. Which makes my visits even more precious, but also makes me view them as a visitor. And that makes me think of where I want to end up, what I want to do, what I want my life to look like.

Whatever your path after high school, it forces you to grow up, to begin to find your way. College halfway around the world just puts that growth in fast-forward.

<3

That Doesn't Happen Here.

Disclaimer: This is going to be a more serious post.

Last year, midway through second semester, there was a murder in the town  that I am from.

My first reaction was, "This doesn't happen here." I mean, it is a small town in Vermont, in a rural place. Everyone knows everyone, I live on a dirt road, off of another dirt road, my town itself doesn't even have a high school, nor is it on most maps, and so towns blend together - my official town is different from where the murder happened, but that town is where my friends are, where I drove to school, is actually only 7-10 minutes away by car.

But as soon as I began saying, "That doesn't happen here", it becomes obvious that that is a fallacy of logic - it happened here, so it must be a place where those things happen. 

Which you don't want to think about. Because whenever I think of the area of Vermont that I am from, I think of the people, the kindness, the trees, the lakes, the sky, the stars - not the ugly parts of the place. Not the drugs, or the hate, or the violence. 

This murder was, and is, really difficult for me to process and understand - partially because I was not with my community when it happened - as I kept getting sporadic updates from Facebook and Google searches, there was no one to be scared with. No one to mourn with. No one here knew this woman, who was my physics teacher, who always had a kind word, was always willing to explain, who had us make boats out of cardboard and duct tape, catapults out of mousetraps. Who had a two-year-old son who witnessed the killing - I was isolated away from my community, from the community that was desperately trying to cope, heal, understand, and remember the positive - work off of the idea that "Love Wins". 

As a person who believes that theater matters, and can help heal, this event and my reaction to it held an undercurrent in my artistic conversations, and, in what later turns out to be an important connection, my school was putting on a production of The Laramie Project, a documentary theater piece written around a hate crime in Laramie, Wyoming. The play suddenly took on so many new meanings having to do with the aftermath of a crime in a community, the ideas of violence, the elusive possibility of healing, and also the ideas of outsiders, the media, and how they add violence, scrutiny, to situations.

So when this summer, I had a conversation with a professor about maybe directing a production, or a staged reading, of a show in Abu Dhabi in the fall, Laramie jumped to mind. 

And so I am working to use theater as a tool for knowledge, healing, and understanding, while also stumbling into the world of directing, and finding my path in theater - because of a tragic event, and this passage:

"And it was so good to be with people who felt like shit. I kept feeling like I don't deserve to feel this bad, you know? And someone got up there and said, "C'mon, guys, let's show the world that Laramie is not this kind of a town." but it is that kind of a town. If it wasn't this kind of a town, why did this happen here? I mean, you know what I mean, like -- that's a lie. Because it happened here. so how could it not be a town where this kind of thing happens? Like, that's just totally -- like, looking at an Escher painting and getting all confused, like, it's just totally like circular logic like how can you even say that? And we have to mourn this and we have to be sad that we live in a town, a state, a country where shit like this happens. And I'm not going to step away from that and say, "We need to show the world this didn't happen." I mean, these are people trying to distance themselves from this crime. And we need to own this crime. I feel. Everyone needs to own it. We are like this. We ARE like this. WE are LIKE this." - Tectonic Theater Project, The Laramie Project

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Concert Culture

A few nights ago there was a concert for a series/event called Beats on the Beach.

It was Akon. Which was strange enough in Abu Dhabi. I felt bad for him - the crowd is not what he is used to - not very loud or enthusiastic, and he didn't handle the new location as well as he could - mentioning multiple times the ghetto, repeatedly reminding the crowd that he wasn't going to do the explicit versions of his songs (which almost could have gone as said), and it was a strange mix of older expats, college kids, and immigrants.

But then you add in the concert culture.

So many people were filming the concert with their phones - not watching/experiencing the concert, but instead seeing it through a pixelated screen. Distancing themselves.

It was almost as though they couldn't enjoy the concert without recording it, without saving it, holding onto moments that are meant to live in memory.

This isn't just in concerts, though that is fairly obvious when someone is sitting on another shoulders holding up an iPad to document.

We are becoming extensions of screens, of digital preservation, and I am wary as to the implications of that.

<3