Lifeblood

Scott keeps telling me that “a woman cannot live by dates alone,” but my cravings might prove him wrong.

I was so positive that I was above it. Everyone else, sure. Definitely not someone like me. But yesterday I said to Scott, “It’s like when they transplant a new organ into someone. Like a heart. You know how some bodies start to reject it? That’s what’s happening to me, it’s like my body is rejecting Arabic. It won’t take in anymore. It doesn’t WANT to work with it.” It was only funny because later that very afternoon, David Fenner, our program director used the exact same analogy to describe culture shock as a whole.

It scares me a little that I’m so much “there” already. Oh well what are you gunna do…

Raise your glasses everyone, here’s to Sarah’s descent into madness. You are going to love it.

Before classes start I always make myself a cup of tea (here in Oman it seems that they’ve even nationalized THAT industry; there is an entire half-aisle in Carrefour dedicated to Lipton Yellow Label with not a single box of chai to be found). Unfortunately, I was a tad pressed for time this morning, seeing as our driver got two flat tires and we were dropped off at school 45 minutes after class started. When I finally did get around to dealing with my rooibos vanilla it was during our first break between Arabic courses. Having learned from my mistakes the previous few days, I brought my own outlet adapter to school since the school’s electric tea pot plug doesn’t match any of the school’s outlets (???) and I was tired of borrowing Graham’s. Tea bag placed in orange mug, I plugged the “kettle” into my adapter and my adapter into the wall. Turning on the switch there was a bright flash from the “on” indicator before the whole thing went dead. I tried another outlet. And then a third (once home and ready to charge my laptop, I came to the terrific realization that this episode actually managed to BREAK my adapter, the tea pot’s fine).

So this is annoying.

I have my tea bag poised, sugar spooned, water waiting… and there is no way to warm it up (oh by the way, the stove isn’t hooked up to gas yet and there is no microware). Scott has been witnessing this frustration and suggests that I put the tea bag in a glass pitcher and let it sit out in the sun during the next class period so that it will steep into something like ice tea. Smart guy. I grab a pitcher, throw in all the necessaries, and then head for the door that leads into the back yard.

Locked.

I try the door right outside the kitchen.

Also locked.

I consider making a dash for it across the no-man’s-land of the main foyer, buy decide against it (b/c people are fasting in this building, the entire house is essentially a no-food-zone save the kitchen; problems ensue when this delicate balance is offset).

So. I’ve got my tea bag floating pointlessly in cold water, I am a prisoner in the villa’s kitchen, and there is a seriously endless supply of heat just outside the walls waiting to cook my rooibos. By this time I was basically manic, hardly able to believe what a gigantic problem such a simple task had become.

So I did what any desperate Omani gal would do.

I threw back my hijab, hiked up my skirt, and jumped out the window.

Scott handed me the pitcher once I’d gathered myself, and after I told him to look away while I crawled back in for fear of indecency, I was golden. I mean I only squatted on the tile floor and laughed like a crazy person for about three minutes afterwards, until I started crying.

Can you believe that? I don’t know which was more ridiculous now – the means that it took to secure a simple cup of tea, or the fact that I actually did it…