America

Herodotus didn't mean it like that

Hamid's mother's birthday was coming up and we put together a gorgeous little package of specialty kitchen items for her. Nothing too weighty, as it's not a cheap package - sending things to Iran. Nothing edible, wet, or otherwise possibly misconstrued - just an assortment of outrageously expensive, technologically advanced potholders with a matching set of darling Americana-style kitchen towels (with little roosters on them).

We signed and enclosed a card and jetted off to the post office to have it delivered to Tehran; happy in the knowledge that our gift would arrive exactly on her birthday, thrilled that we'd created a gift package she (like my own kitchen-addicted mother) would truly enjoy.

We arrived at the post office, here in nowhere-I'll-ever-live-again-God-it's-so-boring, and handed the package over to the clerk with a quick explanation that it was headed for Iran (pronounced 'ee-rahn'). He looked up at me, paused, and corrected me, "You mean Eye-ran." "No," I countered, "Ee-rahn. It's Eee-raaahn..." I emphasized the correct pronunciation and waited for him to tell me it would cost somewhere around a zillion dollars to send out our little package but instead, he got red in the face and fumbled around with some Official Post Office Documents (or at least rather bad photocopies of the same). The papers fluttered around his feet as his composure went from bad to non-existent until he spied the one he was looking for, tapped a black work shoe on it for good measure - just in case it tried to escape - and handed it over. "Oh, we don't send to them anymore." He announced, triumphant. I stared in disbelief through his grimy shoe print at the text which informed all 'Postal Service Clerks and Representatives' that 'NO CORRESPONDENCE of any kind' would be ferried from the United States via the Postal Service to any of the following countries: envision neatly typed list of George Bush's favorite Axis of Evil nations.

I was totally appalled, having just sent a massive payment in quarterly self employment taxes to the very same government that was now trying to tell me that it is suddenly not within my rights to send packages wherever I darn well please. So much for civil services. So much for assumed freedoms. I picked up my package in a huff and abandoned the mail clerk's now failed lesson in proper pronunciation - totally defeated and pretty damn pissed off; swimming in the irony that the adage attributed to the U.S. Postal Service, "Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night stays these courageous couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds." was actually said more than 2500 years ago by Herodotus the Greek historian in reference to the Persian mounted postal couriers who, in his estimation, were exceptionally brave.

Since when does the United States government install such a law without informing the people who utilize the service in the first place. A search on Google turned up nothing, no news, no announcement, no discussion. No evidence of the quick, quiet, under-the-table decision that American citizens are now even further cut off from their families abroad. The day I dial Iran and get a message telling me I no longer have the right is the day I pack our bags and ask the powers that be to expatriate me once and for all, thank you very much.

In the end, I will get this package to my mother-in-law. It may be late, but I will get it there. A friend in __________ is going to accept delivery of our contraband gift and repost for delivery to Tehran. So there. So ha! How's that for hacking the system?

And stop saying Eye-ran for goodness sake!

Defrosted

Our trip to Florida was such a wonderful break from the freezing chill that permeates Arizona's deserts during the winter as well as a great opportunity for my grandfather to meet my husband. My grandfather, whom I adore but haven't seen in ages what with the oceans and continents between us, and who has apparently saved every single thing I've written over the past few years; both blogs and emails.

Now, there was actually a blog here, right here, on thesuperheavy - years before this one - it was before I knew anything about websites or had a brainy husband to build a proper blog program for me, so I bought the domain and kept it at a place called Angelfire which had all kinds of templates and goodies for the HTML-deficient me. That blog was fairly short-lived and deleted quite purposefully, I even let the domain go for a few years in between - although if you work really, really hard you *can* actually find a few meager bits and pieces of it, clinging to digital life like things on the net seem to do - however old, however useless.

Honestly, I don't want to find it. I know it's there, but I don't want to read it. I throw away remnants of the past the way other people throw out vegetable peels - without mercy, without hesitation, and certainly without nostalgia and I did my best to delete that old account but apparently missed a few "click here's". I don't have boxes of yesterday, virtual or otherwise, tucked away anywhere and I like it that way. Imagine my surprise then when I was presented with a manila folder stuffed with years and years of things I've long since forgotten, things I deleted when I decided it was better to forget, things I don't want to read, or touch, or remember. Things I don't want to know about myself.

That folder, I imagine, will mean something to me later - when I'm older and more comfortable in my own skin; and it was, is, an incredibly sweet gesture. My grandfather's tiny, beautiful wife thrusting the folder at me while she showers me with compliments, urges me to write a book. I love that they've kept that part of my life for me, if only because it's the kind of thing that family members do and I'm a sucker for those few-and-far-between familial "movie moments" - but for now, I've left it behind. Anyway, there's another couple years of thesuperheavy they'll be printing and stuffing into that folder labeled 'TESS'. One day, I hope I'll be able appreciate it's contents. Maybe.

American Teeth

I went to the dentist today. We don't have a car yet (mostly because I still refuse to learn to drive and Hamid has to get his social security card before he can get a license/insurance/car - we want a Ford Escape. Well, what I really want is a classic Corvette, but there's no room for the darling little person we're trying to invent) Anyway...my mom had to drive me to the dentist. Imagine. I just turned 34 and my mother had to come and pick me up at 8:15 a.m. and drive me to the dentist. Worse still, she made the appointment for me in the first place. Of course, instead of looking at it like, 'What happened to your independence?!' you could say 'Wow your mom is a sweetheart!' because she is, and I still am. It's just that we're literally in the middle of the desert here and our Haro mountain bikes are still on order and well, I just told you the why's of our lack of transportation.

The people at the dentist's office were some of the happiest, nicest humans I've ever met. I wondered to myself how that many people could be so very enthusiastic to wake up so darn early just so they could scrape junk off of other peoples' teeth in a big white office in the middle of the Arizona desert; but there they were, super friendly and clearly well-rested. It was the most fun I've ever had at the dentist, even though they told me I have three cavities. One of which is behind the veneer that was broken (and then repaired by an angel of a French dentist who just happened to be in Tamil Nadu that season). Of course this means the veneer has to be replaced which means the one next to it has to be replaced too (I only have the two...but if they don't match then really what's the point of having them?). And if I'm going to get new veneers I've got to have my teeth whitened because I did finally give up those nasty cigarettes (hooray for me! Six weeks cold turkey and not a craving in sight!). I sat there nodding and smiling, adding oral hygeine procedures to my shopping list as we all chatted on about the surprising importance of flossing while pregnant and thought nothing of the cost of any of it until they showed me the bill.

Now, one other thing we don't have (yet?) is insurance. I know, I know...it seems crazy to try to get pregnant if there's no insurance what with the whole pre-existing condition rule imposed on us poor consumers by the insurance companies. I'm not even going there right now and will explain my logic at a later date. For now, let's just say we've got it covered. But not having insurance means these bills get paid out of pocket and out of pocket in the United States is a far cry from out of pocket everywhere-else-I've-lived-the-past-four-years. I think my emergency veneer repair in India cost a whopping $50; compare that to the cost of the original veneer in Seattle: $600. Here, in the middle of nowhere, where apparently veneer-stuff is highly coveted and more valuable I have to pay $900 for each one. You do the math. But it's worth it, every single shiny copper Abe. We have no idea how much we take for granted here in the States, how exceptional our health care, vision care, and dental care options are. How the fact that we even have options is extraordinary. We forget, or never even realize maybe, just how blessed we are and what a gift it is that the dentist doesn't just knock out the cavity-laden teeth with a stone hammer and plunk a dirty piece of ripped cotton shirt over the gaping, bloody hole (this happened to a friend of mine in India...truth). We don't know it, but the rest of the world certainly does.

While we were living in Iran, Hamid and I went to the dentist of his childhood to get our teeth cleaned. It was a fairly uneventful visit aside from the very startling moment when the otherwise mute doctor popped up from his work to point out in quite a loud voice, "You have goooood American teeth! Europeans, not so much. Iran, OK. But Americans, and Canadians - you Americans all have wonderful teeth!"

Down the rabbit hole

At the drugstore buying supplies for life in the first world I fumble with just about everything and there's too much of all of it anyway. Five hundred kinds of shampoo, etc. I feel like a calf - wobbly legs, gigantic eyes and all; trying to figure out how to operate myself in this very modern America. Not that it was the stone age or anything when I left, but I am sorely out of practice with even the basics. And the one thing I was most talented at (shopping) takes on a whole new meaning.

I'm looking at everything sideways when the cashier takes my plastic and asks me 'Debit or credit?' I don't know, I admit and she swipes it in a huff and swings the keypad toward me and just waits. I stand there, dumbstruck, not knowing what to do and she lifts the techno-pen out of it's cradle; motions for me to sign the digital screen in front of me. She does not speak to me. She is annoyed with me because I don't recognize this ritual.

With an air of 'Oh that...' I try to regain my composure and tell her with the same 'I wanna be adored' smile I used at a new school in fourth grade, 'We didn't have these things in India.' I guess hoping to start up some kind of conversation that will turn this stranger's opinion of me from 'dumb as a doornail' to 'worldly, just a bit out of sorts and plagued with jetlag and culture shock. Probably brilliant on a good day.'

She flicks her eyes up at me and says, 'Indiana?' with a bored drawl that tells me she wouldn't give a damn even if she did know where India was or how long I'd lived there. She is wearing coveralls (on purpose) and her permed hair is sprayed into a chunk on top of her head, bangs teflon-stiff and straight up to heaven, and that makes me feel a bit better.
'Uh, yeah.' I give up trying to talk to this creature and puzzle over the contraption some more. And then in a blessed flash - Ah yes! I remember now. A glimmer of a past life flickers on in my mind and muscle memory kicks in. I sign the computerized screen with pixel ink, click 'OK' and triumphantly take my receipt in hand and walk out of the store feeling like I've mastered an Olympic event.

Halfway to the car I realize I've left my bags inside and creep back to the counter, sheepishly grinning at the woman who just rang me up and now stands looking at me as if I must be the most undereducated person she's ever seen in her life. She is wondering which cave they found me in. I take my purchases and slink out.

It's impossible to imagine what it must be like for someone coming to the States for the first time but I've got a pretty decent sense of it now. Sort of like Alice down the rabbit hole.

The house with the healthy stuff

For Halloween this year, Hamid's first, we were at my parents' house carving pumpkins (Hamid has been bragging all night that his came out better than mine) and opening the door for little costumed people. My mom, of course, had purchased a two thousand pound bag of junk food and with so few visitors in the neighborhood (there's a big Halloween something-or-other at a mall nearby) we were pouring handfuls into their little plastic jack 'o lanterns. I always hated houses that gave out raisins and other 'healthy stuff' but hard gelatin and sugar globs are not exactly my ideal either. I don't know what's happened to candy since I was small; the chocolate seems waxy, the tootsie's got no pop, and the gumdrops are just plain nasty. Or, maybe I've just grown out of believing these kinds of things are delicious.

Anyway, we finally decided to call it a night when one little girl almost started crying because I asked her what she was and apparently she didn't like my guesses one bit. With a major stomp of the foot the mini Rastafarian/Bob Marley/Hippie/she never told me what she was supposed to be stormed off and I started packing up our stuff to go home, nixing my mom's suggestion that we cart the remaining one thousand pounds of candy home with us.

The thing is, I left the lights on in front of our house all the way down the hill to the street below so all the tiny ghosts and ghouls cruising the streets with pillow cases full of sweets think we're open for business. At the first knock we panick, realizing we're accidentally guilty of false advertising, and Hamid gives them ice cream sandwiches. As soon as they leave we turn off all the lights but almost immediately hear a small fist at the door - it's pitch black outside and it's no short trek from the street so we rush forward and open the door with still more ice cream sandwiches to offer. I don't eat candy so there isn't any in the house and I start opening cupboards and drawers looking for something I can give people. Apples? No way. Frozen spinach? Cans of clam chowder? And the cans of tuna or V8 just aren't going to cut it either. Then I spot my stash of Clif Bars, ordered in the multitudes a week before we even left Nepal - I live on these delicious organic vegan treats, they are my saving grace when I start fiending for sugar.

With a healthy snack to distribute to our Trick or Treaters we whip out the carved pumpkins and light them up, turn on all the outside lights and sit, waiting. We are: the house with the healthy stuff.

It's better than raisins.

I don't even know where to start

I am absolutely overwhelmed by the idea of how to articulate these last few weeks...it's impossible really.

Assume the following:
We got through our flights, customs, and immigration procedures just fine. All three of us are here - and no, Mooshy did not have to go through quarantine (a major "HA!" to everyone who sent me their horror stories about having to leave their dogs behind for months at a time...dooms-dayers are an inexplicable breed but I'm sticking by my 'assume it will all work out and it just might' philosophy.)

My parents are so much cooler than I remember.

The house I'd booked was *not* fabulous. It did not have a vineyard. It did not have internet. It did not have a view. It didn't even have proper water. It felt like the third world all over again. It did have goats, lots of dust, and a creepy RV full of shoes parked in the uh...'garden'.

We got our deposit back and moved into a hotel. This was kind of cool actually because the hotel did have interet and a swimming pool. We felt like we were on holiday and got lots of work done at the same time.

We found a gorgeous new house with an amazing view of the most insane orange and pink desert sunsets - and it's only five streets from my parents' winter home.

We've been busy catching up on work, dealing with ridiculous ongoing server issues (which finally seem to be under control; keep your fingers crossed!), and just getting used to being here. I feel like a foreigner but I like it that way. I don't ever want to get so comfortable anywhere that I forget how the rest of the world actually lives.

We're trying for a baby! We've been waiting for ages and it's time!
And I've just gotten off the phone with The Farm, an intentional community in smack-dab-middle-of-nowhere-Tennessee where we're going to go for prenatal care, a home-birth midwifery, and postnatal care. Who'd have guessed I'd ever willingly choose to go live in the deep South!? Truthfully, I'd go anywhere for the kind of birthing experience these women create.
The Farm is such an amazing concept - it's actually alot like the intentional community I lived in in India. The Farm desperately needs a new website, but you can check it out here to get an idea of what our life will be like in a few short months; well...as soon as we're pregnant anyway.


OK - not exactly the most poetic entry ever but there's no way I can wax eloquent about all the things we've been thinking and feeling lately.
XO from Arizona, U.S.A.!

P.S. McDonald's seems to have taken over the planet while I was away...does this frighten anyone else, or is it just me?

The irony is this

We don't watch TV...in fact, we don't even have one anymore, so it was only today that I came to learn about this interview on 60 minutes with the president of Iran which aired in late September.

It is, sadly, another example of agendized media, with the interviewer hardly even listening to his guest, asking blatantly biased questions, and generally botching another opportunity to learn more about Iran, it's philosophies, it's culture, and it's place in the global scheme of things - political or otherwise. Ahmadinejad, as always, was quiet and respectful in his replies; never giving on that he was the subject of yet another farce marquerading as diplomacy.

I've really struggled with my feelings about Iran these past few years - it's a beautiful country with ugly laws that strangle the voices and souls of it's people. It's a modern place with the latest technology and fashion but shuttles itself into the darkness of an age passed with a bizarre control on art, music, information, and the internet. I've also struggled with feelings about my own government - the war in Iraq, the way Bush came to office, the strange mythology we're building around Islam where now the very word is mutually exclusive with 'terrorism'...
But the crucial difference is, I feel entirely comfortable writing and talking about the American government; penning the name of the president and attaching all manner of frustrated, pointedly negative sentiments. He may not like what I have to say if he ever took the time to read it, but he certainly wouldn't question my freedom to have done so, and no one would punish me for it in any sense of the word.

These latest public interactions with Iran's leader have left me both disappointed and utterly confused. On the one hand I have questions of my own, and they can never hope to be answered if the only people Ahmadinejad ever speaks to are under-the-table henchmen for the Bush team or media personalities with government hands making deposits in their pockets. But on the other hand, I'd be pretty damn scared to actually voice my questions if given the opportunity. That fear itself would be the basis for one of my most important questions: Does it mean something to him to know that I am afraid to ask the very questions I am most curious to learn the answers to? Does it mean something to him to know that I am afraid to write, that I actually hesitate before every word I type, when the topic is the Islamic Republic?

There are many things I never wrote while I was there - oh, nothing major. There were no big scandals I kept hidden. No observations of mythic proportion. But there were a number of little things I kept to myself; feelings about what it was like to be a woman in Iran in particular. I've been there and experienced life in Iran, at least as much as I could in the brief two and a half month visit, and I don't think Iran is an evil place or that it's government is the axis of anything at all, other than itself. It's people weren't any different from anyone else I've ever met in my worldly adventures. I see Iran more as a strange, exotic place with even stranger regulations...but still, I'd like the opportunity to know why some things exist as they do. Why women ride in the back of the bus, even while traveling with their husbands, who sit near the front. Why my hair is illegal. Why my voice is illegal. Is my voice such a terrible thing? Is my opinion such a weapon? But most importantly, I'd like to know why I must feel afraid to ask those questions in the first place.

My questions aren't based in anyone's political camp. I'm not aiming to control, or manipulate, or even change anything with my questions. I just want to know 'Why', because I'm curious, like a child. I have similar questions for the leaders of Singapore where it was illegal for me to chew gum in public. Or the leaders of Thailand, where it was illegal for me to speak against the king. I have a multitude of questions for my own nation's leaders, and I'm dead certain those will never be answered; not truthfully anyway.

But, I'm really very proud of my connection to Iran and I was blessed to have been able to go, to have been treated so well and to have experienced one of the most feared nations on the planet from the inside and come out the other end unscathed and all the more educated. Many people openly said that they thought I was crazy to go there; but many people said the same thing to me about India, for different reasons obviously...but I chalked it all up to their own fear of the unknown and went anyway. Iran is an amazing country centered around a beautiful religion - nothing like what we've been conditioned to believe...still, I have a few questions that want to be answered. I'm just afraid to ask.

Like a camel through the eye of a needle

People have been asking me left and right if I'm nervous about going back to the States after four years out. The question started appearing in emails and phone conversations around two months ago, right about the time we bought our plane tickets. I always answered 'No.', and quite truthfully at that. I've never been one to anticipate a future feeling and live in it unnecessarily for weeks on end beforehand, preferring instead to do my best to pretend that everything is quite normal, at least until the last possible minute.

Well, it's hit me finally. And while I can't really say I'm nervous I'm having a hard time finding what is the right word for the butterflies that have once again taken up residence on my insides. I do know that as a result of all this I am in constant motion; I cannot sit still. I think this is what the experts call 'mania'.

Naturally, I had us half packed weeks ago. The rest of our stuff is still strewn about the house in utter chaos; picking it all up somewhere on my list of to-do's but not quite making it to the forefront yet. There have been other, more important things to worry about than the state of our house. We microchipped the dog and got his papers stamped at the American Embassy where they peered at me through the plexiglass inquisitively and asked, perplexed, 'You're exporting a dog??' To which I replied, 'Yes, a little Indian street dog.' which didn't exactly unfurrow any brows. But they shrugged and stamped and smiled and sent me on my way $50 lighter. One more thing ticked off the list.

Actually, my most anxiety-inducing concern and the biggest butterfly of all is Mooshy. I hate to think of him in the belly of an airplane (three airplanes, actually if you count the flight to Bangkok from here and the flight from LAX to Vegas.) and stuck in his kennel for a good 24 hours. We did have the good sense to take a hotel room near the airport in L.A. that first night as the last thing I want is to see my parents again after eons looking like a big dishevelled mess of a daughter. And I have no way of even estimating just how long it's going to take us to get through customs and immigration - with an imported street dog and an Iranian husband I anticipate something of an extended remix bordering on trauma.

For now, I've got three days to check off the rest of the items on my list; not the least of which is handwashing the rest of our laundry. We donated our washing machine to a local charity and so I'm back to bucket and hand to get the job done. It's an exercise in humility to be sure...wringing out sopping shirts and shorts with all the force my pathetic little hands can muster. A fitting tribute to my life in the third world. I'm dreaming, ridiculously, of a set of Kenmores.

In lumine Tuo videbimus lumen

That's the motto for Columbia University, one of the most respected Ivy League schools in America, situated in one of the most progressive cities in the nation. It reads "In Thy light shall we see the light". And after the recent bullish political antics of the institution's president, couldn't be more of a joke.

I'm a bit behind the times these days, not paying much attention to the politics of life - with our move back to the States coming up in less than two weeks I'm preoccupied and honestly, I find the neverending soap opera that is the world political stage quite boring (for it's hopelessness) lately. But when I received numerous emails from friends and colleagues in New York about the uproar Ahmadinejad's visit to the East Coast had caused I dug further and found, among others, this LA Times article.

The news out of New York (ie: the American media) is that the Iranian president had the usual inflammatory, oddball things to say - most notably his statement that there are 'no homosexuals in Iran'. (While he personally may not know of any, they certainly exist. But in a country where these things are punishable in the most violent ways who on earth is going to flaunt it?) In any case, maybe I'm picking on the wrong character here, but it wasn't the self-fulfilling prophecy of whatever bizarre things Ahmadinejad had to say that upset me, but rather the equally bizarre behavior of Bollinger, the president of Columbia, who introduced Iran's leader to his student-body audience with a thirty minute speech chock full of blatant insults and sheer rudeness aimed directly at his guest. The introduction consisted of the words: 'astonishingly uneducated', 'belligerent', 'ridiculous' and 'preposterous'...

As the head of a highly respected educational institution Bollinger had a responsibility to choose his words carefully; he spoke for his faculty, he spoke for the students who pay through the nose to patronize his holier-than-thou college, and in some ways, as the host of this charade, he spoke for New York and America in general. So, what did this figurehead do with the very rare and precious opportunity for a civilian to speak directly with one of the most controversial political leaders of our time? How did he approach what could have been a true learning opportunity for not only his students, himself, but his guest and our nation as a whole? He took the stage for the sheer purpose of vomiting his personal opinions all over Ahmadinejad and then abandoned him to the audience's pitchfork questions.

I'm not saying Ahmadinejad should be handled with kid gloves; but a certain amount of respect and kudos should be afforded the man who stepped out of his own comfort zone in order to communicate directly with university students in our country. Ahmadinejad is a professor himself, teaching at Tehran University (where his own students sometimes protest in the streets outside) and as such, it would seem an especially meaningful allowance on his part to take the time to visit with Columbia. Whatever his own political agenda, whatever the state of human rights in his country - he made the effort; and gave us, the citizens, a chance to speak with him firsthand instead of hearing him through the thick filter of bureaucrats and media translations we're usually fed from. And what on earth did we learn about Iran or it's leader from this very public verbal stoning? As far as I can see, absolutely nothing; and all because Bollinger took it upon himself to devolve the summit into a personal sounding board. What did we learn about ourselves? Plenty, I hope...but I'm not holding my breath.

Ahmadinejad said a number of strange things after Bollinger handed him over to the crowd. But one thing he said that makes perfect sense, and we'd do well to learn from was, "In Iran, when we invite a guest, we show them respect."

After the event was over Bollinger touted himself as a 'speak[er] of truth to power', lauded our nation's freedoms of opinion and speech, and those freedoms truly are things to be celebrated - but his arrogant waste of an opportunity for real discourse is an absolute shame and makes a mockery of our nation and it's 'freedoms', ultimately further proving what the rest of the world already says about America behind it's back, that we are a nation of loud-mouthed bullies. That's the truth everyone else is speaking in nearly every country on the planet today, in light of this event.

If Bollinger had upheld the high standards of his Ivy League school, if he had taken the motto "In lumine Tuo videbimus lumen" to heart it quite possibly could have been the single most enlightening and future-forward movement to take place between Iran and America in the last thirty years. But no, instead, Columbia's face-man threw that very possibility straight into the trash. Not exactly what I would call 'seeing the light'.

Premature evacuation

I know, I know...it's far too early to be packing. But that's just what I did this past weekend. I can't help it...it's like a necessity for me. Once I'm emotionally finished with a place, once I'm in that space of acceptance, like, "Yes, we really are going." and/or excitement, like, 'Yes! We really are going!" I'm half packed and basically ready to roll.

This is nothing new, and I've been living out of suitcases for so long I've got it down to a science.

The best part is, I'm going back with one darling Iranian husband and one darling-most-of-the-time Indian street dog in tow and between the three of us we have only three suitcases and a big kennel.

I've packed up all of our personal whatnots from shelves and countertops, aside from the bare essentials. Half of my meager wardrobe is packed and I've started the requisite huge pile of donations: clothes, shoes, cosmetics, etc. Basically anything that I don't absolutely need or will wrench my heart over to give up is slated for donation to a local charity.

I'm ready, let's go.

The Real World, season two

By the time we arrive in the States in October (we finally bought our tickets!!) I'll have been gone for four years, almost to the day.
Four years is a long time to be out floating around the planet and I'm feeling excited and anxious all at once about a return to the 'real world' i.e. America. However unrealistic it may be I do tend to view the majority of the rest of the globe as some kind of Monopoly game; complete with play money and get out of jail free cards. Life outside the U.S. has it's own set of complications, but in many ways just seems much easier all the way around.

At the moment, I've got an array of bills in my trotter: pounds, Euro, Indian rupees, Sri Lankan rupees, Thai bhat, Turkish lire, Nepali rupees, American dollars...none of which seem to hold any weight at all with the exception of the Benjamins. And even though they're worth less than the European currencies they're crumpled up with they do give me a bit of a thrill, I guess because they so blatantly represent the next stage of the game.

I know I shouldn't be spending so much time obsessing over our upcoming arrival but it's something of a habit now; my desire (or is it need at this point?) for planning has been gratified these past few years with moving around so much and I'm thrust into yet another binge as we finally decide where to plant ourselves initially.

We've been talking about going straight to Portland for so long I hadn't even considered any other options. But when my parents asked us to spend the holidays with them (a fair request, considering) we decided to just plunk ourselves down somewhere relative to their winter house in Arizona. I've never lived in Arizona, never really had any desire to sit around in the American desert for an extended period of time, but I'm in a 'what the heck' kind of mindframe these days.
After living in this expanse of better home and garden that is our Kathmandu place I'm spoiled rotten and wouldn't even consider one of the many cookie-cutter condo or rental house options scattered in the area. I had my heart set on finding something special, with a bit of land maybe, and so I went about manifesting what would be our next semi-permanent stop.

It's getting almost ridiculous, the way this stuff works - always 'Ask and ye shall receive' in it's purest translation - but here we go again; looking forward to a fabulous three bedroom, two bath ranch style vacation home on an acre of grape vineyards and fruit trees in the lush Mohave Valley, complete with desert-hill views and sunsets worth gasping over. The house is fully furnished (down to the linens and silver) and the six month fee includes every conceivable utility, so we're all set.

But Alaska is *not* the same thing as China

I've never ever overstayed a visa in my entire career as a travel addict - always paying careful attention to the necessary date of renewal or departure required by the government of my host country. In India, though I have a ten year tourist visa, I was required to leave the country every six months (180 days to be exact) for at least long enough to stamp out and back in again. This meant marking the calendar twice a year and flying out to Thailand, Singapore, or most often Sri Lanka but I managed the timing to the last day with a fervent devotion for fear of a big red blemish in my passport. I've always made careful note of the when of any visa, until now.

For some reason (most likely my terrible math retardation and inability to tell at any given moment what day it is much less the month) I miscalculated the renewal date on our most recent Nepal entry visas and we went today to get the job done, a bit nervous to be three full days overdue and worried we'd be unceremoniously shipped out much earlier than we'd planned (as is threatened on all the visa-related forms we've filled out). I always expect the worst when dealing with government officials in any country, but fortunately the Immigration Department officers were not the least bit concerned with my oversight and charged us a mere four dollars each in penalties, on top of the usual $30 fee for the next 30 days worth of visa.

While we were in the office waiting for our own paperwork to be processed I passed the time doing the usual bit of eavesdropping (a social faux pas...yes, fine...I can't help it) and I was overcome with jealousy as I listened in to more than a few westerners explain that they were in transit to China. I started once again with the mental calculations for just how we could afford to deposit ourselves on Chinese soil even if just for a few days. We'd become resigned to the idea that it's just too expensive considering our upcoming move back to the States and would be too much hassle, what with my American passport and the amount of trouble that's been rumored to cause at the Chinese border these days - but then Hamid reminded me that I've got an Iranian passport - the equivelant of a 'pass Go' card for many countries that would otherwise be off limits to me entirely (I perked up even more when I realized the list includes Cuba. Far be it from me to shrink away from the possibility of controversy...) and so we're once again considering a jaunt across the border.

Never content to stay in one place for very long, and knowing full well my penchant for global travel is going to be put on hold for at least a year while we work toward Hamid's U.S. passport (being inside the country for this little matter is non negotiable), I'm feeling a bit desperate to pack in as much adventure and border jumping as possible before our October 10 departure from Kathmandu to the U.S....and really, China is *right there*...so close we could drive the distance in an afternoon.

I panic a bit when I allow myself to fully realize that there's a kind of shackle closing in on me, and fast. Three months between me and a temporary Stateside sentence (and oh how ironic it is that I've whined for it, begged for it, complained that it wasn't given fast enough...). When I start thinking out loud about whether or not we actually need to go to the States Hamid wraps himself around me and reminds me of blissfully reliable internet connections, business growth, proper sidewalks, dog parks, Nordstrom, Whole Foods, microbrews, babies, and masters degrees. I pout and verbally stomp around a while - moving from whiney 'but I want!!' babytalk to plying him with a sweetness that almost makes paying $100 U.S. a month for a very slow and unreliable net connection and falling down all the time seem worth it. But this move, this change, it's going to happen; whether I'm ready for it or not. Ask and ye shall receive...the universe fulfills my wishes left and right but in this case I'm feeling somewhat reluctant and all mixed up between gratitude and resentment. Too late to turn back now...

Whether we manage to actually get to China this year or not I'm fast realizing that I am going to have no choice but to reinvent my idea of the exotic, redefine my concept of adventure, and apply it all to the United States proper at least for a little while. I hear Alaska is quite a wonderland...