Marriage Proposal

I’ve been visiting with Nick’s parents in a small town in the Yorkshire area called Brighouse. It is one of those English towns on the canal system where long narrow boats (mostly vacation boats now) can navigate over 2000 miles around England going through various old locks. There’s a path next to it that Nick suggested as a good place to run.

On my first run down the canal, a long boat was navigating through a lock. I helped push one of the gates back into place on one side and was invited for a ride down the canal. Unfortunately I couldn’t take it. They did let me onto the boat for a look while they waited for the water level to rise.

Today I went for my second run. It rained quite hard last night and the path along the canal at one point was flooded about 10 inches deep. There was a stone wall along the left side, curved at the top, that looked like it might be possible to walk across to avoid getting wet. Since I’m clumsy and have a hard time balancing, I wasn’t sure this was a good idea. As I stood there contemplating whether to turn back, wade through, or try walking on the top of the wall, a guy came from the other side with 2 dogs, jumped up on the wall and practically sprinted across. When he got to my side, he started chatting with me, asking where I was from and other such things. Then he suddenly said, “Alright then. Jump up on my back and I’ll carry you across.” I was a bit surprised and protested once, then decided…what the heck. As he carried me across on his back, I said, “I can’t believe you’re doing this! Will you marry me?” He didn’t say yes, but didn’t say no either. When we got to the other side, he introduced himself (Barry, with such a strong accent I could barely understand what he was saying).

Maybe I could marry a Brit after all.

London

June 17, 2007
London. It feel like I’ve been here so many times that it’s more like a stop over in a place I used to live. In fact, I don’t know if I’ve really hung out in London since 1998 when I worked in Bosnia and passed through here on my way home for Christmas. I’ve realized something. In the last two years since I’ve been living overseas, many of these excursions to other countries don’t feel like tourist-type vacations, especially England. I came here this time with only the address of a place to stay in London and a train booking to Yorkshire where Nick’s parents live. Nothing more. I just feel my way like I’m in my home country and been here a hundred times. It’s a completely different feel.

However, I should have read up on a few things so if you’re planning a trip to London, take note. I took the Heathrow Express into London and then needed to switch to the Underground. I did the logical thing of going to the ticket machines to purchase a single ticket, one zone, to Piccadilly Circus. The price came up as 4 pounds ($8)!! I must have looked rather shocked and bewildered, as a sympathetic Underground worker came up and explained that, yes, that was in fact the price. However, there was another option that would cost me only 1.50 pound per ride. (Will someone PLEASE tell me where to find the “pound” sign on my keyboard!) It’s called the “Oyster” card and it’s a bit complicated and something that I probably would never have figured out on my own from reading the sketchy signs. 1) Buy a card for 5 pd. 2) 3 pd of this is just a deposit that you get back if you turn in the card when you’re completely finished with it. 3) The extra 2 pd goes toward a ride that costs 1.50. 4) You can add money to the card indefinitely. 5) (and here’s the real catch) If you don’t scan it when you go into the underground AND out of it, they fine you 4 pd. Quite the deal compared to a 4 pound single ride. They say they’re trying to get everyone to stop buying paper tickets and move completely to the Oyster card, so they keep jacking up the price of the paper tickets. Certainly worked for me.

Free

June 16, 2007

Free, free, free. I’m leaving Saudi Arabia. It shocks even me how intense the feeling is, like that image of the prisoner dramatically walking out the gates of the prison, squinting in the sunlight and awed by the new-found freedom. (I’m writing this from the Bahrain airport and I already feel this way.) When I try to tell other expats who live in Saudi how I feel, I often get the attitude that I’m being negative. But the short-term life in Saudi of single (non-Aramco) females should testify to the fact that it’s not a good place for us. It’s simply not the same experience for single men or married men & women.

Nick has been my salvation this past year. I don’t know how I would have survived without him on so many levels – as a friend to talk to, shop with, eat with, climb with, laugh with, bitch with. It has probably moved my life half-way between the single status and what it might be like if I was married here. It’s not so bad with a man around, especially this generous man: rides offered whether I needed it or not. Someone to do things with that I either couldn’t or wouldn’t do on my own. But that has died out quite a bit in the last few months and I’ve felt that “prisoner” feeling again stronger than ever. It’s hard to describe this to anyone who isn’t like me: I need freedom and independence. I need it like oxygen. I feel like I’m being suffocated sometimes. I live for spontaneity. I want to go where I please, when I please. I want to explore. I want to do something as simple as get up on a Thursday morning (my Saturday) and say, “I think I’ll go down to Starbucks for a coffee and read a book,” but then remember that this little excursion means calling for a taxi and paying an extra $10 for that cup of coffee. All because I’m a lowly female and not allowed to drive here.

Consider this common problem. Because I can’t drive, the most common activity of shopping becomes an exercise in frustration. I’m not a shopper and I’m cheap, so I don’t like having to spend an extra $10-20 to go to one shop to buy something. I make lists of things I need from various stores and then make the trip out in the taxi. The problem is that it means separate taxi rides between each store with the cost running up. I’d like to walk between some of the stores, even if it is up to 12 blocks, but can’t do it with an arm load of purchases that keep piling up between each store and have to be carried into the next store on the list. The only solution is to hire a taxi for several hours to stay with you the whole time. No matter how you look at it, that little shopping trip ends up costing a lot of extra money. To top it all off, I'm required to wear a polyester black robe in 110 degree heat. I just lose steam.

I’ve started to become a bit defiant about the abaya. My friend Kimm Leeman said she got like this at the end of her 2nd year too. I still wear it but I get out of the car or bus or taxi without it on and then slowly put it on like a cheap strip tease in reverse. I glare defiantly at the men who watch and think, “go ahead…just try to say something to me about it.” I rarely button it all the way anymore. I wear shorts under it and don’t care if the wind blows it open and my legs show. One of my blond Australian students told me that she has been stopped by Mutawa (the religious police) and she has said to them, “you can’t arrest me because I’m a woman, and you can’t make me wear a scarf because I’m a foreigner.” And according to her, they just walk away because they know it’s true. I haven’t tried that yet, but I haven’t been stopped yet either.

I am free as of today. For 2 months. Time to celebrate.