tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24909203879487039922024-02-07T08:49:59.412-08:00The Adventures of Miss AmyI TEACH. I TRAVEL. I WRITE.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13969459446287804654noreply@blogger.comBlogger37125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2490920387948703992.post-72856870192368682342018-04-13T05:39:00.000-07:002018-04-27T19:55:51.591-07:00Hawaii (LOVE)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<h2 style="text-align: left;">
<b>With the spiritual experience in Guam behind me, it was off
to Hawaii</b></h2>
<h3 style="text-align: left;">
Hawaii-I loved</h3>
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I don’t think this blog post will be very long. Mainly, I am
going to update the short story that I started a few years ago. Plus, I finally remembered what my username and password are to this blog. Opps! But, I still
remember all of the details about this trip. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Life got a
hold of me (again-geez!), this time mostly going to graduate school. But, I am
finished now (happy dance)! So, I’ll just write from memory. Aren’t those the
best stories anyway? <o:p></o:p></div>
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For me, falling in
love with Hawaii (the first time) was instantaneous. The second I breezed
through the sliding doors of the airport and stepped out into the sunshine and
salty air, I knew this was it. This was love.</div>
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The question I have been pondering since I moved from Hawaii a few years ago is, do you think it’s possible to fall in love with a location?
If so, what does that look like? Can a particular location bring you comfort,
peace, and joy, even friendship? Whether you are religious or not, the land and the
sea really can be healing if you open yourself up to it’s energies. I know this
is why I love the ocean so much. It’s where my heart feels most at peace. Some people need the mountains. I need the ocean. </div>
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Anyway, going back during this trip felt like the best
homecoming a girl could have. I took a flight from Guam to Oahu. My friend said
that I could stay with her family while I was on my soul-searching
mini-vacation and summer break.</div>
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I met Rochelle while I was living in Hawaii. Her family was
always really sweet to me when I was living there and our Dad’s had similar
background. They both flew airplanes for the military and they both used to
work for United Airlines. So, I actually met her the first time (when I used to
live in Hawaii) at the airport in Honolulu. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We (obviously) became friends after that and I
hung out a lot with her and her awesome family. She really was a good friend to
me while I lived there. True Story!<o:p></o:p></div>
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By the time my plane landed in Hawaii, I was almost in
tears. Yep, I cried while walking through the airport. I don’t think anyone could see that I was crying because it was a quiet cry. Why did I cry?
Well, I just love Hawaii too much (I still do). Hawaii is now apart of my being. I mean, I
still refuse to have short hair on account of Hawaii (true story). So, my
homecoming to Hawaii was bittersweet.</div>
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While I was back in Hawaii, I asked Rochelle’s Mom to show
me around. She's a local grew and up on Oahu. Oahu is a pretty small island and after
you have lived there for a few years, you have to find new ways of appreciating Hawaii, even though it's already an amazing place. Even though I lived there before, I wanted to see
things from new lenses. So, I asked her to take me around and tell me about her
childhood story and what it was like for her growing up on the island of Oahu.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Here are a few of my pictures. It was fun to walk down the same streets I used to live on, but have a new story behind the places that I already loved and will always love. Maybe I will write more soon. But for now, here is my photo story. </div>
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Stay tuned until I write again…it will probably take another four years! </div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
(Ken and I had a drink to honor our former roommate who died a few years ago)</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
(Rest in peace Norman, we love you!)</div>
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(I think I had two drinks and I look way too sloppy-"Opps")</div>
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(I forgot, I was in Hawaii for my birthday)</div>
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Moral of the Story: Hawaii, I'll be back!</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13969459446287804654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2490920387948703992.post-6523600280345799442014-07-13T23:29:00.001-07:002019-01-07T16:47:17.220-08:00Eat, Pray, Love: Guam (Pray)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b><span style="color: magenta;">In Hong Kong, I "ate." </span></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b><span style="color: magenta;">In Guam, I "prayed." </span></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b><span style="color: magenta;">In Hawaii, I "loved."</span></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Preface</span></span></h4>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></span><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">These blog posts were inspired by the book, Eat, Pray, Love. <i><b>Even though I didn’t
travel for a whole year, I did travel to three different locations (Hong Kong, Guam, and Hawaii).</b></i> Each of
these locations were island destinations and each of them taught me something. This is my story. <b><span style="color: magenta;"><span id="goog_42619618"></span><a href="https://draft.blogger.com/"></a><span id="goog_42619619"></span> </span></b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b><span style="color: magenta;">Click below to see the previous blog posts: </span></b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b><span style="color: magenta;"><span style="color: black;"><a href="http://theadventuresofmissamy.blogspot.com/2014/07/eat-pray-love.html" target="_blank">Preface to Eat, Pray, Love</a></span></span></b></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #351c75;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Guam</b></span></span></h2>
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<span style="color: #351c75;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>~Pray~</b></span></span><span style="color: lime;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #351c75;"> </span></span></b></span></h2>
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In order to get to Hawaii, I had to fly through Guam. Since
I’ve never been there before, I decided to stop for a few days. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span> </div>
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At this point, my wanderlust had fully taken over, so I contacted an old acquaintance and informed him of my plans. I couldn't have asked for a more perfect tour guide. We explored the island, ate delicious local food, and played an epic game of darts, which lasted early into the morning hours. </div>
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Guam is a tiny little tropical island located in Micronesia. The island depends largely on tourism as a source of income and is famous for its beautiful beaches,
which attracts tourists worldwide, especially the Japanese.<br />
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Its home to many exotic marine life, including the venomous Cone Shell. My friend told me of a tragic accident that took place a few weeks before he reported to his duty station. Apparently, a few of his co-workers were snorkeling in the ocean when his friend picked up a large Cone Shell. Unaware of the perilous dangers before him, he placed it in his pocket, deciding to keep it as a souvenir. He was stung and died within minutes.<br />
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The original inhabitants of Guam are believed to have been of
Indo-Malaya descent originating from Southeast Asia as early as 2,000
B.C. They call themselves the Chamarro people. I was able to observe a native fire dance performance, which was lively and full of energy.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/gSftV2g8W6M?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<b>Chamorro</b> is a Malayo-Polynesian <b>language</b>, with much Spanish influence. Click this video below to learn more about Guam's Chamorro history and culture.<br />
<a href="http://youtu.be/JlsZX6Lt8VE" target="_blank"> </a><br />
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The second day that I was there, I had some time to myself.
I knew I needed this. I can't put my finger on it, but, something was beckoning me to slow down and listen to my heart. I felt like Elizabeth Gilbert when she goes to India. In India, Elizabeth truly connects
with her heart. She learns to be quiet and she finally comes to peace with her
past. Maybe, I needed to learn something while I was in Guam?</div>
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In my room, I discovered a little jewel. It was a Buddhist
book filled with quotes. For those of you who know me, you know what I believe
and that I am a Christian. But, we can learn a lot from others, even outside of our
faith. Traveling has taught be to be more open-minded. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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So, I delicately thumbed through the pages. Curious, I
guess. And as I sat on my balcony, looking out across the tantalizing teal blue
sea, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I came across a quote that jumped
out at me: </div>
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<span style="color: #351c75;"><b>“To worry in anticipation or to cherish regret for the past is like
the reeds that are cut and wither away.” </b></span></div>
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And it made me wonder, was I cherishing
the regrets of the past? Even though I have come far, I am still holding
onto an insurmountable amount of pain. Quite frankly, it's been exhausting. Don't get me wrong, overall, I am happy now and I have joy in my
heart again; my fire is back. But, something is still nagging at me. How do I deal with this?</div>
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And just like that, the tears started to fall. </div>
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In the midst of my grief, I texted a friend. What he told me, gave me strength.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> </div>
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<b><span style="color: #351c75;">“Amy, you are never alone. You have a huge
family who loves you more than anything. That’s obvious from the adventures you
have had with them and the pictures you share. You have good friends and I’ll
always be your friend. Love will find you again.”</span></b></div>
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I fell asleep tired, but full of acceptance. </div>
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In the morning, I was awakened to beams of sunlight filtering through the window shutters. </h3>
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I grabbed my coffee, and meandered out onto the balcony again. More research and reflection needed. I called my Mom and told her how I felt and she
reminded me to just “Be happy.” Since I was in full reflection mode, I thought about those words after I got off the phone. Often time those words come across as being trivial or insensitive. But, I didn't see it that way. Being happy sometimes takes work. It encompasses dealing with your past and still seeing the beauty in the pain. I am not sure about you, but I am willing to put in the work.</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Thus, Guam marked the "Pray" portion of my trip. Jitters started to fill my heart as I braced myself for the 3rd leg of my journey, Hawaii! </span></h3>
<h3 style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">For <span style="font-family: inherit;">more information on Guam's fa<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">mous</span> beaches, check out this link<span style="font-family: inherit;">:<a href="https://www.alltherooms.com/blog/guam-beaches/" target="_blank">A Rundown of the Best Guam Beaches</a></span></span></span> </span></h3>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13969459446287804654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2490920387948703992.post-24640591491095382692014-07-12T07:34:00.002-07:002014-07-12T08:05:42.011-07:00Eat, Pray, Love<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I’m not going to lie; it’s been a long, cold winter for Miss
Amy. Having evaded blustery winters for 7 years in a row, the cold weather was
almost too much for me. Why was it that the year I moved to Norfolk, Virginia,
they had records levels of cold and snow? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicwMpUvW9gmf7R3hbcmJ11osFax1cwq4nWG3IYZvRXjpeiJXz81Z52z5QRsR8FOooim9khAkAEfMRadBcOm499pHdp6zJZfutUOzqUiQyPmcq0ckD-4RUUPSjFWrwkUU4RIXSIJcAzLo8/s1600/IMG_4083.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicwMpUvW9gmf7R3hbcmJ11osFax1cwq4nWG3IYZvRXjpeiJXz81Z52z5QRsR8FOooim9khAkAEfMRadBcOm499pHdp6zJZfutUOzqUiQyPmcq0ckD-4RUUPSjFWrwkUU4RIXSIJcAzLo8/s1600/IMG_4083.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">It was a rather lonely winter for me, I spent a lot of time on my own, and I burrowed myself furiously into work. Honestly, I missed how easy it was to make friends while I was living overseas. So, to combat this dreariness, I
decorated my classroom island style with the hopes of warming up my internal
climate. It certainly proved to be the most challenging year for me professionally. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Thankfully, Winter turned to Spring. And, by the time May rolled around, with the promise of
summer on the distant horizon, I started to dream. Where could I go this
summer? I was ready to be let loose! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">My friend and I settled on a last minute road trip to Florida. We packed up the car and headed South! I thought a trip to Florida would satisfy my adventurous
spirit. This was all I needed to feed my wanderlust appetite. I told myself I would be fine after that.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Upon my return, I attempted to nestle myself into a sleepy summer
schedule. One that included cooking, reading a plethora of books, and occupying
the local beaches. Maybe my goal could be to obtain a luscious tan? But, fate had other plans.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">After three days of sleeping in, 2 home cooked meals devoured, and one book later, I
was ready to be on the move again. This time, I decided to go to China. </span><br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"I'll be back to Virginia in 6 days," I naively told my friend Jonathan. </span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I didn't know it at the time, but I was about the embark on my very own, Eat, Pray, Love trip.</span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> In the book, Eat, Pray, Love, Elizabeth
Gilbert is given the opportunity to travel for one year and to three different
destinations with the understanding that she will complete a memoir from her
experience. EAT, PRAY, LOVE is the result of that year. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Even though I didn’t
travel for a whole year, I did travel to three different locations (Hong Kong, Guam, and Hawaii). Each of
these locations were island destinations and each of them taught me something. This is my story.</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCImiZKNpVkMDQd7dP8Gp_niNh9LCgp5-3C6fMUj5wx_Ymc9fVMOOTLKHcsjRwHiWCiR6cWlCBx7-csREv2J5Yc3750j5JO_P9szjmh3qxg_Upu0J8OEwaUD7s3iy1d2ibNaU4ygLbBJc/s1600/photo(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCImiZKNpVkMDQd7dP8Gp_niNh9LCgp5-3C6fMUj5wx_Ymc9fVMOOTLKHcsjRwHiWCiR6cWlCBx7-csREv2J5Yc3750j5JO_P9szjmh3qxg_Upu0J8OEwaUD7s3iy1d2ibNaU4ygLbBJc/s1600/photo(2).JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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To be continued...</h2>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13969459446287804654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2490920387948703992.post-68099819673150589882014-06-12T17:38:00.000-07:002014-07-12T17:17:36.746-07:00Middle Eastern Foreign Clash <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Jane Austen once said, <b>"If adventures do not befall a young lady in her own village, she must seek them abroad."</b></blockquote>
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As an avid Jane Austen fan, I have always read that quote with a sense of agreeable fondness. I used to take pride in the fact that perhaps I understood who Jane Austen was. After all, hadn't I feverishly read all of her novels multiple times over? Coupled with my love of Jane Austen and the meaning behind the words, acutely written three hundred years ago, I naively thought I understood what that quote meant. That was, up until I moved to Bahrain. <br />
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Everyone has their worst case scenario when living overseas. You see, there are definitely certain fears that one learns to live with. For me, it was the fear of being deported or having a run in with the authorities. Anyone who knows me well, understands that I possess a very vivid imagination. It was pretty easy to let my imagination run away with these "worse case scenarios." Even though I was having the adventure of a lifetime, I still knew I was a foreigner walking amidst a foreign land.<br />
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So, here we are at the end of my time in Bahrain. I had spent almost two years living in the Middle East. I had established myself in a new location and I felt hesitant about leaving. I was lucky enough to met the most intriguing, loving friends while living there. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb90xsZh0jcjOw6xwv5r1GHHNRErTUQ0jpw2rebSCgSdzI4NshpXhirSb9yIB7J5YrTH8c07qUYQ1MyRFT5NK2Z4SClZkUwg7vURA7tEL83BgL05Wp2F2FaOlVXMlfop-OL5Bn37Qkm_I/s1600/IMG_1552.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb90xsZh0jcjOw6xwv5r1GHHNRErTUQ0jpw2rebSCgSdzI4NshpXhirSb9yIB7J5YrTH8c07qUYQ1MyRFT5NK2Z4SClZkUwg7vURA7tEL83BgL05Wp2F2FaOlVXMlfop-OL5Bn37Qkm_I/s1600/IMG_1552.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I was down to the wire. Only a week left. It was time for packing up and saying my goodbyes. My roommate could tell you that I pretty much failed during that week. My friends would come over "offering" to help me pack, and it would wind up being a long talking session with nothing accomplished. My suitcases remained unpacked until the very last second.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwRREfee_wbfDL_71PXDl8ROxBVWTq6C4PYMZ-6IRWwy24EaDoWYSdWkYey3BfllQTjcQhaKlSXrpbGNm0WI-8jjCgHA__GS5FeZOxpaAg_-AfZJbqm266sdTzrtiqTN4swqWqBOZChMQ/s1600/IMG_0703.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwRREfee_wbfDL_71PXDl8ROxBVWTq6C4PYMZ-6IRWwy24EaDoWYSdWkYey3BfllQTjcQhaKlSXrpbGNm0WI-8jjCgHA__GS5FeZOxpaAg_-AfZJbqm266sdTzrtiqTN4swqWqBOZChMQ/s1600/IMG_0703.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
One last night. One last night out with my girlfriend. She used to joke that she brought out my wild side. Well, she was probably right. So, it was supposed to be a goodbye sort of night. You know, where we could go let our hair down, drink a glass of obligatory wine, and say our goodbyes. It was scheduled to be a perfectly normal night. But, isn't that the funny thing about "normal?" It's those normal nights that always creep up on you.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZMO5FIkDdSPD19OkGwRzOT3sgyenVpR99AM9yPuA7A-VXF96O4-9KD3GcL0cMiASHH0qW5Km0t68REh-TmYQFXCioWy-_-5rpCgkifEr3sppmFvYhO1m3mSpxcuU2L70OJSgbRgLF0cw/s1600/IMG_0833.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZMO5FIkDdSPD19OkGwRzOT3sgyenVpR99AM9yPuA7A-VXF96O4-9KD3GcL0cMiASHH0qW5Km0t68REh-TmYQFXCioWy-_-5rpCgkifEr3sppmFvYhO1m3mSpxcuU2L70OJSgbRgLF0cw/s1600/IMG_0833.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
After having a nice dinner, we decided to go dancing, one last time! After all, weren't we the queens of the dance floor? So, yes! We danced. We lived. It was just like old times. That is, up until we got into our car to go home!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmxqwWB3EHKyB-2UC9cOPzfKm6Dhm5PzaBIvT_m-tNDV60oS3hCG8okyVecbHkLHhJuho_no0jtFGPNUl_KGJcfglvbzoqARnmcYgHtjS9rjzhAxf907tbwjMWlkPYlu5_3x1NGxu4RbQ/s1600/IMG_1983.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmxqwWB3EHKyB-2UC9cOPzfKm6Dhm5PzaBIvT_m-tNDV60oS3hCG8okyVecbHkLHhJuho_no0jtFGPNUl_KGJcfglvbzoqARnmcYgHtjS9rjzhAxf907tbwjMWlkPYlu5_3x1NGxu4RbQ/s1600/IMG_1983.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<br />
My friend Isabella was driving. She's a sassy Dominican who knows how to dance and has a fierce presence about her. Yep, I love her. With my lovely lady friend in the driver's seat, we were simply driving away from our crime scene.<br />
<br />
After we made the first turn out of the parking lot, we were intervened by an unmarked vehicle. It was a white car with two men in it. They passed us and started waving and making faces at us. <b>One thing is for certain, as a foreign woman, you learn to ignore these encounters because they are most often just some obnoxious male, trying to get your attention.</b> You can never be overly cautious. So, you learn to be fierce.<br />
<br />
They continued to follow us, even when we took the back roads home. We thought that we would take the detour home to maybe ditch them along the way. Sure enough, after every stop light and every turn, it was clear that they were there stalking us. After a mile of this torture that we started to get seriously concerned.<br />
<br />
They started getting aggressive. Passing us, yelling out their window. Making gestures and flashing their lights. We couldn't shake them and it was nerving. What were we to do? We had learned not to stop for anyone! It was far too dangerous!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV0Wxo5EF_WWZdiZOyO_esODubrNDrJqKOlxI_vLGGEFtbu48DWDVtTcr5I9_1RgwzucZvVmGd_k_WVGnKTjTDlFciY8LqK6v1X6uAFN2V2lsOd91xp79G0muA6v4X2p_MSvw-KANBGv4/s1600/index.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV0Wxo5EF_WWZdiZOyO_esODubrNDrJqKOlxI_vLGGEFtbu48DWDVtTcr5I9_1RgwzucZvVmGd_k_WVGnKTjTDlFciY8LqK6v1X6uAFN2V2lsOd91xp79G0muA6v4X2p_MSvw-KANBGv4/s1600/index.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
Finally, at a stop light, they swerved in front of us, blocking our ability to turn. Out the man clamored from his vehicle. I cringed as he aggressively ran towards our car!<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"This is it," I thought.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"My life is over!" (insert vivid imagination here) </blockquote>
He motioned for us to roll down our window. At this point, there was a traffic jam behind us and people were honking their horns!<br />
<br />
Through the language barrier, we concluded that he was probably traffic police in an unmarked vehicle. He was off duty though. Well, I guess we had a light that was broken and he claimed that he was trying to inform us of the broken light. Really? Stalking us? Almost running us off the road to tell us this? Nearly killing us! It was clear that his pride had been wounded because we wouldn't stop! His behavior was unconstitutional!<br />
<br />
He wanted us to get out of our vehicle. We refused! After all, we were two foreign women not about to jeopardize our lives. He could have been anyone! He could have conned someone into getting a fake ID! My friend Isabella told him this, which escalated the situation as he seemed to drown in rage! Oh man, he was beside himself!<br />
<br />
We closed our windows, after telling him we were calling the police ourselves. After we notifed the authorities, we voluntarily drove to the police station. We wanted this situation solved once and for all! He followed us closely the entire way there.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDoYLJsLTrylGarmzSZmRjuwWGPIt9jZCCHDWivTzxC9E2HAxkbUFKe6o6PS9ygkl1bXoWJMlo4JDg_9z6koDNTmeikvB_cuSBe5ntEUieooQVwjo092HrsQgGVUKElc8UbowMxfFYeB0/s1600/policestation.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDoYLJsLTrylGarmzSZmRjuwWGPIt9jZCCHDWivTzxC9E2HAxkbUFKe6o6PS9ygkl1bXoWJMlo4JDg_9z6koDNTmeikvB_cuSBe5ntEUieooQVwjo092HrsQgGVUKElc8UbowMxfFYeB0/s1600/policestation.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
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</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
Once there, we waited for what seemed like forever! I ate an apple that I had stashed in my purse. Opps! I like food too much! We watched as the officer on duty issued the man into his office. There were glass doors so we could see the entire, dramatic scene unfold. Arms flailing, fingers pointing, yea the works! We were eventually issued in. By this time, it was 2 in the morning. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn9tBr-beeto37Cwjr08F19zcatESn_arbaYDWrqPnqNZGu6MQWxIdheF3SjSRA7T6ex7rRVfPtRIT2yavHfPBEP8pqoJtbrdArMyX3cZmjQlvjL_-94CX5NSaVF8TiIRQg-Iyeezr4Bo/s1600/Bahrain-police-007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn9tBr-beeto37Cwjr08F19zcatESn_arbaYDWrqPnqNZGu6MQWxIdheF3SjSRA7T6ex7rRVfPtRIT2yavHfPBEP8pqoJtbrdArMyX3cZmjQlvjL_-94CX5NSaVF8TiIRQg-Iyeezr4Bo/s1600/Bahrain-police-007.jpg" height="240" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Don't say too much," my friend Isabella said as we went into the office. "Okay," I thought because I was already scared out of my mind. "I'm going to wind up in prison," I thought. </blockquote>
<br />
The man in the unmarked vehicle was allowed to stay in the office as we were questioned. We basically explained our situation to the officer on duty. We told him we absolutely didn't know that he was police. His vehicle was unmarked. He didn't have any sirens or lights! My friend Isabella was sure to point out all of his violations! She definitely intimidated the officer on duty. I don't think he was used to a woman speaking so passionately. He was very sweet and understanding. He told us that he wouldn't want his sister to stop for an unmarked vehicle either. He was on our side.<br />
<br />
I could only pick up bits and pieces but my friend translated to me in quiet whispers. The man who had followed us earlier was furious! He wanted us to apologize. He ranted "these women have disrespected authority, etc." He said that we owed him an apology. He wouldn't leave until we said that we were sorry! Well, we weren't about to do that!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgvB6cBZJEvh5aDyWs6hwp3hNWr8XtlZESRgEjqxkMcoVPOAlMFXy5V04bi-85vSXWCBUNxR3lCBPQRCBlM512iNvfNKSIi2C_em7RikwQQaO-I-CJaTPRlUUtV1tQAnvPTNBTvUuOc2k/s1600/BulletDodge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgvB6cBZJEvh5aDyWs6hwp3hNWr8XtlZESRgEjqxkMcoVPOAlMFXy5V04bi-85vSXWCBUNxR3lCBPQRCBlM512iNvfNKSIi2C_em7RikwQQaO-I-CJaTPRlUUtV1tQAnvPTNBTvUuOc2k/s1600/BulletDodge.jpg" height="381" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
The story and the questions seemed to last forever. Both parties had to be appeased. Finally, in the very morning hours of daylight, we were released. No consequences. Thankfully! I felt like I had dodged a bullet! Only a few more days and I would be headed home!<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13969459446287804654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2490920387948703992.post-72614364989995407532014-01-31T19:35:00.000-08:002014-02-01T14:59:47.085-08:00Marry a Girl Who Travels<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTqWx8sd1CWP9xTmkUTjsFYHiRJeeU-qn5GOhaTih46ABQB5gYQUR_G2RyEvelqyybCY13jrBsZx1M4zG8YdhZJp9H6cvivyYKSLIeddkVk7mqFzHlOLj0jd9gkn58Lc5fuxy9i6FTn58/s1600/painting-the-world.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTqWx8sd1CWP9xTmkUTjsFYHiRJeeU-qn5GOhaTih46ABQB5gYQUR_G2RyEvelqyybCY13jrBsZx1M4zG8YdhZJp9H6cvivyYKSLIeddkVk7mqFzHlOLj0jd9gkn58Lc5fuxy9i6FTn58/s1600/painting-the-world.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo Credit: Port Wallpaper</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<h4 class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<b>Some people may warn you to stay away from a woman who likes to travel. They may claim that these women are flighty. Some say they are unrealistic dreamers. Today is the day that I prove them wrong. Men, if you are lucky enough to catch one, here it what to expect. You may be pleasantly surprised.</b></h4>
<h3 class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<b> </b></h3>
<h3 class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<b>Marry a girl who travels. Your taste buds will always be
satisfied.</b> </h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As she will be a lover of food, she’ll most likely be adventurous in
the kitchen. Chances are she has developed a love of all things exotic, which
definitely applies in the kitchen. When she travels, nothing gets her fired up
more than trying new dishes. She’ll know how to con the locals into sharing
their secret recipes. She’ll even find out where to buy the necessary spices so
she can re-create this dish at home. And baby, she’ll stock up! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3 class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Marry a girl who travels. You’ll never get lost. </h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yep, you
heard me correct. She understands that knowing how to read a map is an
essential skill in life. Most likely she has refined this skill and possesses a
keen sense of direction. She understands that relying on map quest is not
always an option when traversing in a foreign land. You see, she’s already done
her research before the trip. She’ll be able to navigate you through the
trickiest of traveling situations. She’s already intensely studied the
maps and run through all of the options in her head. She’ll know the best modes
of transportationand will even know the going rate for a
taxi. You may hear her say, “Would you like to take the long scenic way back
to the hotel, or the quick route?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3 class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Marry a girl who travels. She is not materialistic. </h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She
doesn’t need to own Coach purses nor does she need to drive an expensive car.
She realizes that there is more to life than keeping up with the Joneses. To her, she
would rather sport the embroidered purse she bargained for in Mexico or wear the
maxi shirt that she bought in the South of France. You see, her favorite
possessions are a reflection of her favorite memories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because of this knack, she has refined the art
of bargaining. Mark my words, she’ll carry this passion back to her homeland.
She will never buy anything full-price and she loves discovering a good deal.
She’ll know which grocery stores are having a sale and she isn’t afraid of
using coupons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’ll even know how to make
things from scratch, thus saving money in the long run. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3 class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Marry a girl who travels. You’ll never be lonely. </h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most
likely she considers conversation to be essential to getting by in a foreign
land. She isn’t afraid to strike up a conversation with the cashier at a rest
stop and she may become best friends with the girl sitting next to her on the
airplane. She has a desire to hear people’s life stories. Her curiosity spurs a
desire to know everything. Best part? You’ll develop some new friends too,
thanks to her. You may get invited to a wedding last minute or spend the
evening experiencing a meal at a locals house. Because she’ll make new
connections wherever she goes, this will serve you years down the road if you
go on a vacation to another city or country. Most likely, she’ll already have
some friends there who will able to show you around.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3 class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Marry a girl who travels. She’ll be good at managing a
budget. </h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When she travels, she does it economically. She won’t waste her money
on fancy hotels or expensive meals. She would rather experience life as the
locals do. Yes, this could result in some random adventures, but she
understands that this is part of the journey. She knows how to survive off of a
small budget and will find a way to make her money last. You see, to her that’s
part of the joy in traveling. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3 class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Marry a girl who travels. You won’t have to spend a lot of
money on an engagement ring. </h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yea, that’s a bold statement. But, it’s true.
Diamonds are probably NOT her best friend. Most likely, she’ll want something
unique and different. She may want to wear your grandmother’s ring or something
vintage that has a history behind it. She’ll want your purchase to be well
thought out and a reflection of who she is as a woman. You won’t need to break
the bank to do this because she knows that love can’t be purchased. Her family,
friends, photographs, and memories will be the things that she cherishes the most.
Those are all things that money can’t buy. Traveling has taught her this. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3 class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Marry a girl who travels. Life will always be an adventure. </h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She
will find joy in the small things: the sunset, a field of flowers, or a good
cup of coffee. She’ll be sure to point these tiny glimpses of beauty out to
you. Because she lives by this motto, she’ll probably be able to keep her chin
up, even in tricky situations. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Missing a flight, lost luggage, language barriers, a misunderstanding with foreign police? Nope, that won't get her down. </span>And
guess what? She’ll help you keep your chin up too:) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3 class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
You see, when it’s all said and done, it really doesn’t take
a lot to please a girl who likes to travel. She’ll take a handwritten note any
day over an expensive card, or a bouquet of wild daisies over a dozen red roses.
</h3>
<h3 style="text-align: left;">
</h3>
<h3 class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
</h3>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13969459446287804654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2490920387948703992.post-14110367464613278762014-01-24T15:03:00.003-08:002014-01-28T18:55:47.025-08:00Into the Heart<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<h2>
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Dear Diary,</span></h2>
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<h2 style="text-align: left;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I'm skating on thin ice here. </span></h2>
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-m72zo2DyYPMC61nkVDeFZNacWZSTPePJpCo_aJUQWH8QbARlmsU-8W1w5_Ha4b-5mze1O68AbhaQZJ3OcK3WriLWB_bUcHwXm2lpu3N7pEPgtJLjAViz2Ed44KoBrQul9ahZOkk9OxA/s1600/thinice_sml.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-m72zo2DyYPMC61nkVDeFZNacWZSTPePJpCo_aJUQWH8QbARlmsU-8W1w5_Ha4b-5mze1O68AbhaQZJ3OcK3WriLWB_bUcHwXm2lpu3N7pEPgtJLjAViz2Ed44KoBrQul9ahZOkk9OxA/s1600/thinice_sml.jpg" height="208" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">You see, for a while now, my heart had been bottled
up in a sense. I've met some amazing people in the last year. Friends, romantic interests, a new single me. There have been a lot of firsts. As far as
the men are concerned, I tried not getting my heart too attached. Some of
these men, I really would have considered seriously dating or maybe making something
with. But, the tricky thing about getting your heart involved is that usually
you end up getting hurt. I secretly wanted to feel that excitement, but didn't
want to get burned. <br />
<br />
</span><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_QyT7fWIvxDs9NiiJ-zFr3nCONNDxh1_Nii-2UL91EgG3qNiML0EnOp820nAUyTprLZ6QnZ350vGUYl0JFfYEKqiUqJhlf1N6uzpvtuos3tO4kQmXNz8zeBwfVDkysOUfuw6vQkgF8GA/s1600/Awareness-and-rose-colored-glasses.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_QyT7fWIvxDs9NiiJ-zFr3nCONNDxh1_Nii-2UL91EgG3qNiML0EnOp820nAUyTprLZ6QnZ350vGUYl0JFfYEKqiUqJhlf1N6uzpvtuos3tO4kQmXNz8zeBwfVDkysOUfuw6vQkgF8GA/s1600/Awareness-and-rose-colored-glasses.jpeg" height="150" width="200" /></a></span></div>
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I've done of lot of thinking about this and I have concluded that maybe I’m a
bit like Ted in the sitcom, <b>How I Met Your Mother</b>. I know there's a stash of Lily in there
too. You know, a bit quirky, sappy, and dramatic. Yea, that's me. But unfortunately, as far as dating and love is concerned, I'm a bit like Ted. He’s
the hopeless romantic, who can never seem to find the right one. See, the
problem with Ted is he sees the world with rose-colored glasses. His heart is
open to love but he gives it away to the wrong girls, hoping for the best. And, he has many
connections that simply don't work out because of timing. I call these "misconnects", where things don't work out because one of you is moving, or just got out of a relationship, etc. I can relate to him
because sometimes I think this is my lot in life. The world is just too big. <span id="goog_1406423544"></span><span id="goog_1406423545"></span><br />
<br />
I'm at a point now where I could jump. But, do I dare? What about the past?
What about my mistakes? They still linger. I have had far too much time to
dwell on my faults and imperfections. How can one start over when you are not
yet perfected? Is that a sign, this lack of perfection? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Does that mean you can’t begin again? My fear is that I never will. I
want to feel happiness in companionship again and I want to open my heart. Everything I've held onto has vanished and I want to
be free. Why in the world am I still dwelling on my regrets? Maybe life has
tarnished me? Or, so it seems. </span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<h3 style="text-align: left;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i><b><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">You can't cling to the past because no matter how tightly you hold on, it's already gone. </span></b></i></span></h3>
<h3 style="text-align: left;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i><b><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></b></i>
</span></h3>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnrzExCmjoNOB_0nO9xoymG3UanNXzDx-K1fPN2YBSyb7i7j-q3V5S0lcUn8kjJCjyG-ZJRJ1uIK0mZctN9cszucBa2VNtOQkJypBWoej9oIdCFixi5VNrRaUoBgie9VUXA7FtjlXeGgU/s1600/b497d490b2d4c99fe8c8fb4c86e957be.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnrzExCmjoNOB_0nO9xoymG3UanNXzDx-K1fPN2YBSyb7i7j-q3V5S0lcUn8kjJCjyG-ZJRJ1uIK0mZctN9cszucBa2VNtOQkJypBWoej9oIdCFixi5VNrRaUoBgie9VUXA7FtjlXeGgU/s1600/b497d490b2d4c99fe8c8fb4c86e957be.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">But you see, wanting to be free isn't enough. Of this, I am sure. My heart
wants to be free, but where it should rest is a matter of questioning. If I
dare let my heart open again, it could be madness. Risking this madness with another person, can be even scarier. I'm in a situation where one of my "misconnects" is back in my life. I need your help diary!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Should I settle on a life
of good-decisions, safe decisions? I know I can simply allow this to be a misconnect x2. Or, I can do something about this. I can jump. After all, one can only live in the
gray shadows for so long. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Signed,</span><br />
ME<br />
<br />
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<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieFw7M3QnftkD7av8_1Cq-qP7WNzMod7WdAJrqHzpI1Id7c3zoaf3R7WL_E3w0vMH4egs1ClzCYhtiTsUaXR5SogKZXKyCvv4m40WTpacFF1ciLrxB4oxr5Q8Y9fgcot6vtASxcZBunV0/s1600/734736_10151156735546920_1433976276_n(1).jpg" height="640" width="467" /> </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W-TE_Ys4iwM&ytsession=fgUV-2avA5Lm6X0KU13a8Mjjv9d_exWYB8l_wdAOMEDjp7BFv7tdeo8CMtgbZw8prbCVLm5DpuOIUaw8TqQ4IUahJF8-6Dzk-_FndSNgKeBS5m5_apfn91n5auNNzcHbiHamQP3dqWMbir3zONHcrwcjqGL9A1owga5YW5Epc92iLF1dTAwv5X6RnJ0tyukKx6b_oIerLG44tpWKlIxrrz0I4m8pMrsX3LBknNOz-KBSMq1BcByx2Pay8vLUNHbqebfiuvW8yKKrXYzdcyz9QueVZHzVNH37emPs6Rqd_FjvUoxWlyZAegUgVNTvzD4dmWDTZ5IpUmKnuxCp8dk0kDDng1Q_gQ2Yrts-SV23wamYPOu_WrxPupDVhUgLVduDaB1B2p8zkdT-jAw9tO8ddoAIay0BBF05oVPM7qlPx_TBGTn-AtQm8t1sQQpzJRmYtrEyH6WsyLtbQx7c3vUk6h2zkt2SHCjjGC64ulbHKKlsjr_tZOKf65Gl8uLzVXWIj6VmnW9tXZz7ZW0gdWTxhC1vEXqQrIdMDZkwOa_YMtzwPbQIheM9mIm6G2ez0EJbPQ4l1kZzP-R4_-PNsgzKrOt7EQTJybUHHs5KPz8HNPcO0KKhfN5UKtqSwv20URpSZ8DBF_mbnao9_y4DMWRAZpETqffUx2--y5a3EtOn_yJC_82nkgxVACuuz_Buz2x9" target="_blank">Story of My Life-One Direction</a></div>
</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13969459446287804654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2490920387948703992.post-47149378149611659842013-06-09T16:26:00.002-07:002014-01-31T20:27:42.221-08:00Story Untold<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJEJCSGEx-wsJNNORaio_fh6YMU4sQokhE8U07uu5rpLgjfubmJURLrzywsIrHFBySqRwP2f0nl2JUGGA-0hGN2M8yQMPuYnuc4LmTejLwh-nKrhFplMMnPAsYfulme5z-x3ZaJ666hxE/s1600/166563_475975036919_188019_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJEJCSGEx-wsJNNORaio_fh6YMU4sQokhE8U07uu5rpLgjfubmJURLrzywsIrHFBySqRwP2f0nl2JUGGA-0hGN2M8yQMPuYnuc4LmTejLwh-nKrhFplMMnPAsYfulme5z-x3ZaJ666hxE/s320/166563_475975036919_188019_n.jpg" height="270" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Many people have wondered what has happened to me over the last few years. So much of my story has remained hidden from the world. Maybe it’s time to share a portion of this story? The portion I am willing to reveal is a mere summary of a very long book. This book doesn’t have a title, nor are the pages filled with actual writing. No. The pages. The details. The truth. All of that still remains buried in the dark corners of my mind, covered in a tangled web of ancient tears. Tears I no longer shed, but the pain of the past still remains. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAqVArCn-TwJ1MQp7i2qL4p3xx4UGVUYzThnieuZN4UTX0ql3fi55LbKDgYny1B0iCkA9RHckPFjLr-yHQvPk9CMk6baP6knMUFmr2Zx5zIGzaf87nanOCfbdDTX_oejx07KX09vhrfuo/s1600/208166_5622431919_1866_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAqVArCn-TwJ1MQp7i2qL4p3xx4UGVUYzThnieuZN4UTX0ql3fi55LbKDgYny1B0iCkA9RHckPFjLr-yHQvPk9CMk6baP6knMUFmr2Zx5zIGzaf87nanOCfbdDTX_oejx07KX09vhrfuo/s1600/208166_5622431919_1866_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So, where do I even start? Perhaps I should start with the first time I heard the word Bahrain. It was in April of 2010. I had no inclination where this tiny little nation was located on the world map. The only reality I knew at the time, was that it was taking away someone very important to me. Someone I did indeed, end up loosing along the way. At that time, I was a rosy eyed naive teacher living in Hawaii. I had a good job, I had a fiancé, I thought my life was figured out. Nothing could have been further from the truth.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzg8UVKoYXxNJkPQBR7Kp_m4cWXQ7t6OfVAMVyWr60QnDE6t5_ZKWvhdVlePa1Mj_ibjtToVyDErFylKNu8PDfHxOzqXoORj5nbqS8UHRtso48WJl-m8cKkJgnoZ9nI824K0GiWPfWXgk/s1600/23444_365435851919_5707770_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzg8UVKoYXxNJkPQBR7Kp_m4cWXQ7t6OfVAMVyWr60QnDE6t5_ZKWvhdVlePa1Mj_ibjtToVyDErFylKNu8PDfHxOzqXoORj5nbqS8UHRtso48WJl-m8cKkJgnoZ9nI824K0GiWPfWXgk/s1600/23444_365435851919_5707770_n.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">But, how was I to know that? How was I to know that the word Bahrain would hold the highest of highs and the lowest of lows? Or, that the next three years of my life would revolve around this tiny gulf nation? That over time, my dreams would come to a screeching halt. That I would sacrifice so much, to end up with nothing. That I would leave my warm life in Hawaii, a job that I adored, to marry the man that I loved with all of my heart. A man, who was supposed to be there for me thru thick and thin. Someone who I had already given four years of my life to.</span></div>
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But people change and nothing in life is certain.</h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigMKbNXm8TGdg8HeEcoBpqnJosNnupaS9pXP8cTKbp9k0UlHI4SPFaMC_LX0xXs6cKjCLSsVqA57Uowj296lnHyO6SXOM90V9IkOHx5mxywzP09Ggj2Rvp4W9UIUBB4OkfoMFcU_c6164/s1600/312797_10150326131586920_921418279_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigMKbNXm8TGdg8HeEcoBpqnJosNnupaS9pXP8cTKbp9k0UlHI4SPFaMC_LX0xXs6cKjCLSsVqA57Uowj296lnHyO6SXOM90V9IkOHx5mxywzP09Ggj2Rvp4W9UIUBB4OkfoMFcU_c6164/s200/312797_10150326131586920_921418279_n.jpg" height="200" width="160" /></a><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I learned very soon after my wedding that my significant other didn’t truly love me. Two weeks after I was married, my EX told me he didn’t know if he wanted to be married or not. He had made a mistake. I will spare you the details of this horrific chapter and leave it at this: I had just spent my life savings on a wedding, my life was on hold, and I was very confused. I didn’t know if he wanted me in Bahrain, if I was moving with him to his next duty station, or what the future held. </span>I was a mere puppet on a string.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH9gTE5MnQA6eXxSD1GRdptSBFUpw4IIqSlhGxmSmJmrxbnkLOmJK0U_VF3FZpDpD1AWuE6gYyyjgvNJ_KaVRrQVRj4FtnUiSmkPxvYpApSlItIaA5ck_der4K5RGyXPofoZtvfyZISU0/s1600/DSCN0216.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH9gTE5MnQA6eXxSD1GRdptSBFUpw4IIqSlhGxmSmJmrxbnkLOmJK0U_VF3FZpDpD1AWuE6gYyyjgvNJ_KaVRrQVRj4FtnUiSmkPxvYpApSlItIaA5ck_der4K5RGyXPofoZtvfyZISU0/s200/DSCN0216.JPG" height="320" width="257" /></a><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Thankfully, I still had a small fire burning inside of me. </span></h4>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Since so much of my life was uncertain, I decided to travel. And travel I did. It was my escape. It was the one thing I felt I could control. At times, while I was waiting for him to make up his mind, I felt like I was bartering with God. I was in the middle of a war-zone. I was fighting a battle. Something I still believed in. Love. Marriage. Vows. I thought if I was strong enough, if I was faithful enough, if I was good enough, if I was patient enough, I could win back his love. It was a battle I fought and lost. At least it was a battle that I believed in. Now to be fair, I made mistakes too. Believe me, I'm no angel. There were things I could have done different to make it work and I said and did things that made the situation worse. I dealt with a lot of anger and disappointment during this time. But, that's in the past now. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">After visiting my EX in Bahrain during the summer of 2012, I came back to Colorado, to prepare for the move to his next duty station. My bags were packed, the boxes were ready for the movers, and I had job interviews lined up. I barely heard from him for a month. I spent sleepless nights wondering what was going on. Had he changed his mind again? I finally got a call and it was the same tune, he still didn't know what he wanted. Enough was enough and I had an epiphany. I was living my life for someone who didn’t care to have me in theirs. I was on hold. I was a side note. I was an after thought. It was time to confront my fears and fly back to Bahrain...this time with a surprise ultimatum. Yep, I showed up on his doorstep to profess my love one last time, but I was firm. “Either I am going with you to Florida as your wife, or I am staying here and accepting a teaching position.” He didn’t like either option; I couldn’t win. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So I stayed and the adventure began.</span></h3>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dancing Away My Past :)</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I embraced the reality that I would indeed survive this twisted nightmare. The journey took me through a maze of turns. I twisted and snaked my way along the path. At first I crawled through the mud, through a tricky obstacle course. After I pulled myself up from the mud, I started walking. Then I skipped, a feeble skip at first. But nonetheless, it was a start. Eventually, I found my song again and I danced my way along the path. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">After my significant other left Bahrain, I was there on my own. But, I wasn't alone. I came to love the people. I came to love the food, the music, and the diversity. I accepted it all.</span><br />
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This world, no matter where you reside, holds good and evil. Each culture has snap shots of humanity, good and bad. In the end, I believe we are all the same. </h3>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDDJcNVdE3zUqrJxGTPlUB3DwaBEq_rK_V6-uEU8M3XRbK21GWht8yLB2XNXwqgP_q_rlBbPbz7ZXdaxHfcwm6nAlZV38xZ1zmghbifIutUy9rQ_1u8eYL1SyPjBVe89sbwnCVNkWhj6w/s1600/IMG_1817.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDDJcNVdE3zUqrJxGTPlUB3DwaBEq_rK_V6-uEU8M3XRbK21GWht8yLB2XNXwqgP_q_rlBbPbz7ZXdaxHfcwm6nAlZV38xZ1zmghbifIutUy9rQ_1u8eYL1SyPjBVe89sbwnCVNkWhj6w/s200/IMG_1817.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">While on my journey, I discovered the best of friends. I found friends who gave me the strength to carry on. Friends who listened to me, gave me a roof over my head, and accepted me for me. I learned what it felt like to be extremely sick, sitting in a foreign hospital, miles from your family, with a friend comforting you. While in Bahrain, I found out how strong I really am. I drove a beater car and lived life on the edge. Each morning, I saw tanks on my way to work. One day, a bomb exploded in the lot next door. But, I did it. I survived. I learned that I will be okay. </span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So, it is now the summer of 2013. It has been a little over three years since I first heard the word Bahrain. In the course of three years, so much of my life has changed. I now have some wrinkles. I am ashamedly a bit more plump than I would care to admit. While in Bahrain, I definitely made some mistakes and I probably have a few regrets. But, I am happy and at peace. I am whole again. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">At this point, there is no turning back. Only acceptance, lessons learned, and some new sturdy boots for walking towards my next destination. The new boots I am wearing have trampled the past into the ground. I would like to think that I left Bahrain with my guns blazing and a new fire in my heart. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Bahrain, you have transformed me, and for this I am thankful. </span></h4>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Yes, it’s true. My fairy tale Cinderella story may have turned into an epic horror film. However, this movie eventually transformed itself into an adventure saga. All the while I starred as the heroine. Of this I am sure.</span></h3>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13969459446287804654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2490920387948703992.post-3167886787846955932013-04-06T13:48:00.001-07:002014-02-01T15:00:08.723-08:00Perfect Proposal<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-MdLazq80r-oTo_EXQZHdfBNU71GIrfsM2IsLjYHJ2SSMGg4QHf1-WhGIVOZS8_tSt01Z1BhvEhoP4gzsIVaNgMWY2c4cOE0lZM_8lt5euhHjUsG5x8mYdzM164GkLK-aUgXMq20Cg6M/s1600/IMG_1241.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-MdLazq80r-oTo_EXQZHdfBNU71GIrfsM2IsLjYHJ2SSMGg4QHf1-WhGIVOZS8_tSt01Z1BhvEhoP4gzsIVaNgMWY2c4cOE0lZM_8lt5euhHjUsG5x8mYdzM164GkLK-aUgXMq20Cg6M/s320/IMG_1241.JPG" width="320"></a></div>
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Rose petals sprinkled on the ground. A poem read in perfect rhyme. Sweet nothings whispered into the wind. A man on bended knee making proclaimations of undying love. And a woman. Oh, a woman, who is desperetly lost in the eyes of her true love.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I bet I have your attention, right? I hope you're thinking of your favorite love story. I know I am a hopeless romantic. However, what I'm about to tell you is nothing like the Notebook or Romeo and Juliet. In fact, you may need to shift gears and think something along the lines of Arabian Knights meets Tom and Jerry.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwlOLogspyvHANarJ5HQPr_z-oV57ox1MV4UoMF_BfVfTGYu1gEtfzGY6Kc6uNigI-QNMnyvo_TYpBa2EpiMjm_-KN_pjDpR-2K6meNOZz13eMIer1rA77EJnUXgucoAP9L9ZXG25543w/s1600/bahrain+taxi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwlOLogspyvHANarJ5HQPr_z-oV57ox1MV4UoMF_BfVfTGYu1gEtfzGY6Kc6uNigI-QNMnyvo_TYpBa2EpiMjm_-KN_pjDpR-2K6meNOZz13eMIer1rA77EJnUXgucoAP9L9ZXG25543w/s320/bahrain+taxi.jpg" width="320"></a>For some strange reason, I keep getting marriage proposals wherever I go. One, two, three proposals since living in Bahrain. Yes, it keeps on happening. Do I emit a vibe or something? Easy target? The word, "visa" stamped on my forehead. Who knows?<br>
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So, yesterday, I received a proposal from a man I hardly knew. In fact we had just met. His name was Hassan and he was my taxi driver. I didn't see this one coming, that's for sure.<br>
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This is how it happened. I had gone to a party the night before and left my car at my friends house before we went out. So yesterday morning, I had to retrieve my car. Feeling a little bit groggy, even after two cups of coffee, I ventured outside to hail a taxi. In Bahrain, there seems to be an endless supply of taxi cabs parading the streets so I had no trouble hailing one. What's the first thing the guy says when I get in the cab, "You are a most beautiful woman." Well, that woke me up out of a fog, let me tell you! "Oh great, here we go again" was the only thing that popped into my mind.<br>
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I tried to focus on the mission, to get my car as quickly as possible. I gave him directions to my friends house, trying to keep my eyes focused on the road. As we drove along the bumpy, littered streets, I listened to the comments, let's see what were they again? "You are my most beautiful customer…You have made my morning…You are kind and beautiful. You can call anytime and I will take you wherever you need to go."<br>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>Finally, we arrived at the destination, and he blurted out, "You need a man, a good man. You need a husband to take care of you. I would be most happy to marry you. It would make my heart happy." </b></blockquote>
"Ummmm thanks," I muttered as I shoved 2 dinars into his hands and jumped from the cab. Talk about awkward!!!<br>
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So, it may have not been the most romantic of proposals but I sure got a laugh out of that one. I think I can afford to be picky now. At least I have options. NEVER A DULL MOMENT IN BAHRAIN!<br>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13969459446287804654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2490920387948703992.post-24093070513772664342013-04-02T13:39:00.001-07:002013-04-23T01:25:15.766-07:00Travel is My Drug<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Confessions of a Travel Junkie</h2>
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Sometimes I wonder exactly what my problem is. At times my spirit seems so restless. I crave change. Why do I feel the urge to explore? Will it ever disappear or is it just apart of who I am? Maybe I need to check myself into Travel Addiction Anonymous or something? </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig2b1dYFubjZHLEHxtsd7KmRJ2Ols9Kx0k9muXCsAmCf1k_5tEeOhSMFR6S4vYCxLeur4IWKjhPMUnjgtaNojAP2C4nOlCLDfPdzH2eqjg0V0OOyoQeKxl6h2captf5RZR3TVOR4_oEak/s1600/IMG_1267%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig2b1dYFubjZHLEHxtsd7KmRJ2Ols9Kx0k9muXCsAmCf1k_5tEeOhSMFR6S4vYCxLeur4IWKjhPMUnjgtaNojAP2C4nOlCLDfPdzH2eqjg0V0OOyoQeKxl6h2captf5RZR3TVOR4_oEak/s320/IMG_1267%5B1%5D.jpg" width="185" /></a>Over the last two months, these questions have haunted my mind. Honestly, since the last time I made a blog post, my life has been pretty normal, apart from the fact that I live in the Middle East. Yes, I have witnessed the protests. Yes, I have maneuvered my car through the littered streets of Bahrain. Yes, I have come in contact with the smoldering embers of the tire fires that frequently pollute the roadways. I even pass armored vehicles on my way to work everyday. But none of it phases me anymore, not even the suggestive comments and stares that I endure from the men here. It's all common place. My life has become simple…routine… I go to work. I eat. I dance. I spend time with my friends, who are fabulous by the way. But I guess I have a problem with normal or something because I'm feeling the need to <br />
"go" again.<br />
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Ever since High School, I have fed and nurtured this urge and somehow it's taken me all over the world. I have lived in so many random places it's almost ridiculous. At times, this appetite for change and travel has raged out of control, only subsiding after a dramatic feast of sorts has taken place. Randomly moving to New York for a year or spontaneously traveling to India are a few feasts that I can think of. Other times, it's been a quiet subdued hunger like when I lived in Hawaii. There I was satisfied with exploring the other islands, making trips to see family on the mainland, and a few trips overseas. Whatever the case, it's always there, brewing and bubbling within me. I plot. I scheme. I dream.<br />
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<span style="color: blue;">Sprinkled across the globe, are a trail of memories and friends that I have left behind. Maybe I just like adventure? Maybe I can't sit still for too long?</span></blockquote>
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Butterfly Girl. That's the nickname my family has bestowed upon me because I can't seem to stay in one place for very long. I flutter. I float. I glide. Maybe it's my parents fault? Yes, I'll blame it on them. They are the same way…traveling here and there. But are they as extreme as I have been? Where do I draw the line? More importantly, should I draw the line? Sometimes I ask myself if I can live a normal life again. I've lost sight of what that looks like anymore.<br />
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My time in Bahrain is coming to a close and my teaching contract is up the end of May. Come June 1st, I will be nestled onboard a 777, headed back to the States, where I plan to assimilate myself back into the American culture. Hawaii, Virginia, San Diego? Where in the world will I end up? I'm not going to lie, I'm a bit apprehensive. I have spent the last year and a half living abroad and part of me is nervous because I don't know if I'll like it. Will I even fit in anymore?<br />
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One thing is for sure. I am not the same girl who came to the Middle East in January of 2012. I have lived. I have loved. I have laughed. I have longed for. I have lingered. I have lost. I have soared through the pain.<br />
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<span style="color: blue;"><b>Just like the caterpillar, yearning for transformation, I have been reborn into a butterfly. I have learned to accept the unexpected. I have learned to open up my heart again. My wings are stretched wide. I am now ready to fly. The question is, do I land on the next fragrant flower that comes across my path? Do I stay a while? Or, do I keep on flying?</b></span></blockquote>
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<b>Butterfly Girl</b><br />
<br /></div>
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Your parents brought you home, on a July afternoon<o:p></o:p></div>
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Nestled in a blanket, like a butterfly’s cocoon<o:p></o:p></div>
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Held in arms of comfort, to shield you from this world<o:p></o:p></div>
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So fragile, butterfly girl<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
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Three years old and grinning, spinning round the living room<o:p></o:p></div>
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Arms outstretched like wings, you danced sweetly to a tune<o:p></o:p></div>
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Caught up in your colors, we watched you spin and twirl<o:p></o:p></div>
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So brightly, butterfly girl<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Butterfly girl, you’re growing so fast<o:p></o:p></div>
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Charming the world, as the days pass<o:p></o:p></div>
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Each changing wind, making you strong<o:p></o:p></div>
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But, please don’t fly away for too long<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Now that true colors are here for all to see<o:p></o:p></div>
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Cherish every moment that sets your spirit free<o:p></o:p></div>
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Cause your Mom and Dad will tell you that it goes by in a
whirl<o:p></o:p></div>
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We love you butterfly girl, we love you butterfly girl<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Written By: Annie Bauerlein<br />
* My Aunt wrote this song for me on my 16th birthday *</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13969459446287804654noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2490920387948703992.post-55184131828710966282013-01-16T16:13:00.002-08:002014-01-02T09:14:24.926-08:00Girl on Fire<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<h2>
I am now convinced that I am a GIRL ON FIRE! </h2>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwKpbF6mkC_zLBJGvm9ZSPkwXyU4J-IBIw8tuextX1DVZWhBXu0oNqlUbn0pHExEQFM38Ve0aCR4D2smNvK-m8l__poRNZ8fKTv5qv5lEDDtvckiRH3uFdeBddZ56ADz2SMldB_Ffy3xc/s1600/lunapic_135837370966317_5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwKpbF6mkC_zLBJGvm9ZSPkwXyU4J-IBIw8tuextX1DVZWhBXu0oNqlUbn0pHExEQFM38Ve0aCR4D2smNvK-m8l__poRNZ8fKTv5qv5lEDDtvckiRH3uFdeBddZ56ADz2SMldB_Ffy3xc/s400/lunapic_135837370966317_5.jpg" width="300"></a></div>
<br>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b><i><span style="color: red;">"She's just a girl and she's on fire<br>Hotter than a fantasy, longer like a highway<br>She's living in a world and it's on fire<br>Fill with catastrophe, but she knows she can fly away" ~ Alicia Keys ~</span></i></b></blockquote>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkk7NMYEcCXG6BEal26igdH1-OtlTTfAZltbqj0PrZ1yhLN-4YnO3OwAbS148qRUC_BIm8VzujxfBEMuF2rQSsWMajrnB1RO2fzyyZFc2hj29tNtwR3aSXP_dNvNAWX2siIsH_k4x0RMA/s1600/IMG_0812.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkk7NMYEcCXG6BEal26igdH1-OtlTTfAZltbqj0PrZ1yhLN-4YnO3OwAbS148qRUC_BIm8VzujxfBEMuF2rQSsWMajrnB1RO2fzyyZFc2hj29tNtwR3aSXP_dNvNAWX2siIsH_k4x0RMA/s200/IMG_0812.PNG" width="148"></a></div>
Do you know that song? The Girl on Fire song by Alicia Keys? That song came out last October, a monumental month for me. I won't indulge in the details but lets just say it was a month of big decisions. Every time I hear this song, I am reminded of the woman that I have become. I am reminded of the power that I possess within. I am reminded of my strength. I am reminded of the journey that I have walked down. I am reminded of how happy I feel right now. </div>
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<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzSzemnv3AW8BH6L0wmphz2IQiprnnCdoNQdKptMmbIl_ar_BMW4ZnqKuvjL1zLaaCHVC4VVPFYwzXp0jF6wz-7DiyDpWhR7yPPCoaND3sU8UNPMUg4TXxh3M3cssSNr481Nv8lbJFdag/s1600/7235_135312801919_7976229_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzSzemnv3AW8BH6L0wmphz2IQiprnnCdoNQdKptMmbIl_ar_BMW4ZnqKuvjL1zLaaCHVC4VVPFYwzXp0jF6wz-7DiyDpWhR7yPPCoaND3sU8UNPMUg4TXxh3M3cssSNr481Nv8lbJFdag/s200/7235_135312801919_7976229_n.jpg" width="200"></a>So all of this talk about fire, really got me thinking about my life. I feel like I'm on fire. Seems like the flames have consumed my past and what's left is someone I hardly even recognize anymore. My dress, like my life, has transformed itself into a blazing sense of purpose.<br>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b><span style="color: red;">I used to wear a shimmery white gown, perfectly ironed, no wrinkles or creases. Now, what's left of that dress, has turned to ashes. I am wearing a bright red, fire breathing dress. I have become one with the flames.</span></b></blockquote>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVdZvHxftGU-OlbcNV07Mxw_sXvX6opHcjy17RdeMXs-RcFsuqh_o7Cp3Er5zv8aluWpzV7az-6ryh8ICtF_MwbBJkRNdc6UIh4FnmJrCxeAPPtYhOoKMRgIRYRUFchCRaHGfDaaUfeE4/s1600/DSCN0094.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVdZvHxftGU-OlbcNV07Mxw_sXvX6opHcjy17RdeMXs-RcFsuqh_o7Cp3Er5zv8aluWpzV7az-6ryh8ICtF_MwbBJkRNdc6UIh4FnmJrCxeAPPtYhOoKMRgIRYRUFchCRaHGfDaaUfeE4/s200/DSCN0094.JPG" width="150"></a></div>
Last night I had a rare few hours by myself. I spent a glorious evening at home doing nothing in particular. The last three months have been a fury of activity for me. I haven't allowed myself that much down time. Honestly, I have probably had the best three months of my entire life. I can't remember the last time I felt so free and happy. Too much fun = recovery time! So, last night I caught up with old friends on Facebook, dug into ancient pictures, and drank a glass of wine. I felt comfortable in my own skin. It was nice. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP8Vsx7n6Kp8geCkcTVK2Y3R4NPbh6UTEj9onZFs5n2ZtZFLtZBrUV40AiFmGIt2P8wC-vhSXF7-EZNYwck4P7jIgCUI1cGDCT9EuYMGhae-Ji_t5M-JkqB2I3tGR8uGKguT1M_KNLwj0/s1600/241079_10150196429916920_6252121_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP8Vsx7n6Kp8geCkcTVK2Y3R4NPbh6UTEj9onZFs5n2ZtZFLtZBrUV40AiFmGIt2P8wC-vhSXF7-EZNYwck4P7jIgCUI1cGDCT9EuYMGhae-Ji_t5M-JkqB2I3tGR8uGKguT1M_KNLwj0/s200/241079_10150196429916920_6252121_o.jpg" width="200"></a>I thought about life and what I want to do from here on out. I thought about the juvenile plans that I had for myself when I graduated from high school. Have I strayed from those goals? What about my goals in college? Am I doing what I'm "supposed" to be doing? It's funny because I used to dream of one day being a journalist or an actress. Somehow I found myself in the role of teacher. How did that happen? One of my college professors used to say that teachers are all frustrated actors in disguise. And I have to ask myself…is this true? Is that why I became a teacher? Ha Ha! Who knows?</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVHn_NqCw4EZoWluTXSwk30asKX8CSomjXlPWT6p4IM6ohzMkaqj-7xPRU9qYBqwWVQdHyJG21URpk-xTAgFoyImY3ULvWreA_YIMdL0h5ZSQWjsuGbLQKB1bslleWbglcMysUSPh227w/s1600/272841_10150978211876920_1303900526_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVHn_NqCw4EZoWluTXSwk30asKX8CSomjXlPWT6p4IM6ohzMkaqj-7xPRU9qYBqwWVQdHyJG21URpk-xTAgFoyImY3ULvWreA_YIMdL0h5ZSQWjsuGbLQKB1bslleWbglcMysUSPh227w/s200/272841_10150978211876920_1303900526_o.jpg" width="200"></a>Whatever the case, I never in a million years thought I would one day be living and teaching in the Middle East? I thought I would have a family and four kids by now, settled safely somewhere in the United States. You know living a normal life. How did that train get off the track? How did I find myself alone in a foreign land, thousands of miles away from my family, friends, and the "normal" life I used to have? But, you know what? Now that I have experienced the world, I think that life would be boring. It no longer suits me. Weird. Someday, I will tell my story and I intend to write a book about it.<br>
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It's interesting. The events over the past few years have simply set the stage for what I think I'm supposed to do with my life: TRAVEL, TEACH, and WRITE. As I was looking through my pictures tonight, I was reminded of the adventures that I have had. I stepped back and allowed myself to recall the memories that I have made along the way. The countries I have visited. The people I have met. The ones I have loved. The ones I have lost. The lies I was told. The abuse I endured. The happy moments created. I tried to accept it all, the good, the bad, and the ugly. Would I really be where I am today, following my destiny, if all of these things hadn't happened? The answer is no. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj__J8HRHUyXyDmyFdkuI92mdAt3_LdKsFnEPAxlk7aPu5EFX_Y9FVJTGlh3mVfjO-JzFJhkace8_tnNYjkf8k1X8Nb1epTEg_X8F1HZESjeQYvT_CtkDR2d84bDR3NeybIunE9ZOrWCog/s1600/36014_407559426919_1711160_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj__J8HRHUyXyDmyFdkuI92mdAt3_LdKsFnEPAxlk7aPu5EFX_Y9FVJTGlh3mVfjO-JzFJhkace8_tnNYjkf8k1X8Nb1epTEg_X8F1HZESjeQYvT_CtkDR2d84bDR3NeybIunE9ZOrWCog/s200/36014_407559426919_1711160_n.jpg" width="200"></a>Yes, maybe I don't have the life that I dreamed of having when I was eighteen; but somehow it's more fulfilling and adventure packed! Maybe I don't have a family, a house with a white picket fence, and those four boys I wanted to have. But wow, I have done some crazy stuff:)! I wouldn't trade those experiences for the world because they have made me who I am today. </div>
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<b><span style="color: red;">Maybe I have given up on the dreams I used to have or… maybe … just maybe … I am exactly where I am supposed to be at this very moment in time? Somehow I feel like the travels of Miss Amy have only begun!!!!</span></b></div>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">She's
just a girl and she's on fire<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">Hotter
than a fantasy, longer like a highway<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">She's
living in a world and it's on fire<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">Fill with
catastrophe, but she know she can fly away<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">Oh, she
got both feet on the ground<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">And she's
burning it down<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">Oh, she
got her head in the clouds<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">And she's
not backing down<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">[Chorus]<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">This girl
is on fire<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">This girl
is on fire<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">She's
walking on fire<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">This girl
is on fire<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">[Alicia
Keys]<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">Looks
like a girl but she's a flame<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">So bright
she can burn your eyes<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">Better
look the other way<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">You can
try but you'll never forget her name<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">She's on
top of the world<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">Hottest
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">Oh, we
got our feet on the ground<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">And we're
burning it down<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">Oh, got
our head in the clouds<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">And we're
not coming down<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">[Chorus]<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">This girl
is on fire<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">This girl
is on fire<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">She's
walking on fire<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">This girl
is on fire<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">[Alicia
Keys]<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">Everybody
stands as she goes by<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">Cause
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">Watch her
when she's lighting up the night<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">Nobody
knows that she's a lonely girl<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">And it's
a lonely world<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">But she
gon' let it burn baby burn baby<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">[Chorus]<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">This girl
is on fire<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">This girl
is on fire<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">She's
walking on fire<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">This girl
is on fire<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">Oh, oh,
oh... <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.0pt;">She's
just a girl, and she's on fire<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13969459446287804654noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2490920387948703992.post-82262244520874967602013-01-13T22:17:00.000-08:002013-04-24T12:57:48.673-07:00This is How the Grinch Stole Christmas!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYthvbba9UB7Hz_mOJn_B8stjCH6FNlRj-aNfTTfAScxcwf31HaNNreGyN4U8d6YOIxnY-pFbeSluqLlG21UucLfW1jOxS9rHS79e-QSVh9-IPJVwNY30xz2Ml0NxVc0ooXlSq4IIIt7o/s1600/IMG_0622.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></a><br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKMydwchpJKycVIt9qwqNXZjUjNVmtV-S8N1JRBxUE1CXuh_j7Txfe95_k9JpQd86GMEjN5NpaOKrTdgA16T3556Ehl6tPGiATg1L_QzrhYnOMQBxzOZMDbcNjx96AeRlBDh9tVVFL5mg/s1600/437db8290.JPG.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKMydwchpJKycVIt9qwqNXZjUjNVmtV-S8N1JRBxUE1CXuh_j7Txfe95_k9JpQd86GMEjN5NpaOKrTdgA16T3556Ehl6tPGiATg1L_QzrhYnOMQBxzOZMDbcNjx96AeRlBDh9tVVFL5mg/s200/437db8290.JPG.jpg" width="190" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: red; font-family: inherit;">You're a mean one, Mr. Grinch </span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b><span style="color: red; font-family: inherit;">You really are a heel</span></b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b><span style="color: red; font-family: inherit;">You're as cuddly as a cactus</span></b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b><span style="color: red; font-family: inherit;">And as charming as an eel, Mr. Grinch </span></b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyxYq2_C-NDvt4F0VmrZwyaGB3sKV3q3Il5Gsnyswl6YXMbUGk6dVsixpnatvf3JqHbXlI0C8HPQyt3c7hvTuMHy92VdsR3rsUkhdLt1Xm4YQfPD4OxaMVUtvkeXKFmCPpxmaZZcWcw0w/s1600/IMG_0726.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyxYq2_C-NDvt4F0VmrZwyaGB3sKV3q3Il5Gsnyswl6YXMbUGk6dVsixpnatvf3JqHbXlI0C8HPQyt3c7hvTuMHy92VdsR3rsUkhdLt1Xm4YQfPD4OxaMVUtvkeXKFmCPpxmaZZcWcw0w/s200/IMG_0726.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It was Christmas Eve. The night before my debut as the Grinch who stole Christmas. It was 1 a.m. The stockings were not hung on the chimney with care because:</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A: I don't have a fireplace</span></span><br />
<span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">B: I didn't have any stockings</span></span><br />
<span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">C: I was boycotting Christmas</span></span><br />
<span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="text-align: left;">The blinking Gulf Airlines sign, perched on the
peak of the nearby building, projected the counterfeit luster of the mid-day sun into my cozy little room.</span><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"> I closed the curtains and gingerly placed my costume on the edge of my king sized bed. Green </span><span style="text-align: left;">leotard. Check. Santa corset. Check. Green hair dye. Check. Long creepy nails. Check.</span><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"> </span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="color: red; font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><b>Tomorrow was Christmas and I was armed and dangerous! </b></span></blockquote>
<br />
<div style="min-height: 14px;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYthvbba9UB7Hz_mOJn_B8stjCH6FNlRj-aNfTTfAScxcwf31HaNNreGyN4U8d6YOIxnY-pFbeSluqLlG21UucLfW1jOxS9rHS79e-QSVh9-IPJVwNY30xz2Ml0NxVc0ooXlSq4IIIt7o/s1600/IMG_0622.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYthvbba9UB7Hz_mOJn_B8stjCH6FNlRj-aNfTTfAScxcwf31HaNNreGyN4U8d6YOIxnY-pFbeSluqLlG21UucLfW1jOxS9rHS79e-QSVh9-IPJVwNY30xz2Ml0NxVc0ooXlSq4IIIt7o/s200/IMG_0622.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">At six in the morning, I was awoken to the Call to Prayer. The prayer radiated loudly from the mosque a few blocks down, </span></span>reminding<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> me that I was celebrating Christmas in a foreign land! The </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit; letter-spacing: 0px;">Muezzin</span><span style="font-family: inherit; letter-spacing: 0px;">, sang the prayer in a loud </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">methodical tone</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">. I sure was a long way from home. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" dir="rtl" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="color: #262626;"><b>Allahu Akbar</b></span></i><span style="color: #262626;"><b> </b></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" dir="rtl" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #262626;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">(God is Great)</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" dir="rtl" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="color: #262626;"><b>Ashhadu an la ilaha illa Allah</b></span></i><span style="color: #262626;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" dir="rtl" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #262626;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">(I bear witness that there is no god except the One God)</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" dir="rtl" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="color: #262626;">Ashadu anna Muhammadan Rasool Allah</span></i><span style="color: #262626;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" dir="rtl" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #262626;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">(I bear witness that Muhammad is the messenger of God)</span></span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" dir="rtl" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="color: #262626;">Hayya 'ala-s-Salah</span></i><span style="color: #262626;"> </span></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" dir="rtl" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #262626;">(</span><span style="color: #262626;">Rise up for prayer)</span></span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" dir="rtl" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="color: #262626;"><b>As-salatu Khayrun Minan-nawm</b></span></i><span style="color: #262626;"><b> </b><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" dir="rtl" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #262626;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">(Prayer is better than sleep)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/EAvlimEYEpQ?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
As the prayer continued to carry on, I closed my eyes and thought about Christmas. I thought about my family. I could almost imagine what they were doing at that very moment. With a 9 hour time difference, it was still Christmas Eve for them. Then I thought about my Dad, who was in Hong Kong. I made a mental note to call him but knew he would most likely beat me to it.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPPLZ58CiKNsuu7xLzODGdZErvkHPxQjcKSGdh-FNO6FQOlMUKEcvHfJafWuIAZBEHKIZQqXU5ohbGeFjZaZ8Cpd5rmdUyWF6ww8fbLOz4-hfubK-TVwB7W-v_jjSRcX63zlN9wTigJJE/s1600/229707_6159491919_1339_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPPLZ58CiKNsuu7xLzODGdZErvkHPxQjcKSGdh-FNO6FQOlMUKEcvHfJafWuIAZBEHKIZQqXU5ohbGeFjZaZ8Cpd5rmdUyWF6ww8fbLOz4-hfubK-TVwB7W-v_jjSRcX63zlN9wTigJJE/s200/229707_6159491919_1339_n.jpg" width="200" /></a>My Mom was probably baking up a storm. There would be Christmas music on and snow on the ground. Some of my siblings, remember there are seven of us, would most likely be gathered near the fireplace. They would probably be playing Monopoly, which ALWAYS causes a fight of some sorts. And of course there would be something random going on, like there always is at my parents house, homemade beauty treatments…facial masks… sing alongs… shooting potato guns off the deck. Basically, my family is cRaZy! </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvufpgdWBdWSGis765n3qOgMLmDPWQ0A5E1eF-Dwpf1xdMaN5gyfS_vwRJ8V7g50T6ScJyQAOFeRixHYHCLBj66TDb4zVdMLegofsI49wHLGLsN4h4MOC0sL6_5MiY19uyV67wiW6ipRs/s1600/IMG_0699.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvufpgdWBdWSGis765n3qOgMLmDPWQ0A5E1eF-Dwpf1xdMaN5gyfS_vwRJ8V7g50T6ScJyQAOFeRixHYHCLBj66TDb4zVdMLegofsI49wHLGLsN4h4MOC0sL6_5MiY19uyV67wiW6ipRs/s200/IMG_0699.jpg" width="150" /></a>After my nostalgic moment, I decided to get the day going. I called up my friend and ordered him to come over for breakfast. So what if it was 8 in the morning! I put on my Santa hat and starting cooking breakfast. We blasted Christmas music in the kitchen and danced around like little kids! I felt a little closer to home. Then it was off to my boss's house for a Christmas brunch. More food. More Christmas music. More friends. Who could ask for more? </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4lYYMVhhZ06WjqOjWIAil8qxjD-x8vfQEx4HGUQLBcECYNXagFs-dSVcxac57k5PqE7nt8-Ot-CwgfMY0gUWJPdOJgP4eCE6BQ9qPE5FbB-jYmlzdvCHPa__au9nTfQeWiCOkWANgWpk/s1600/IMG_0708.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4lYYMVhhZ06WjqOjWIAil8qxjD-x8vfQEx4HGUQLBcECYNXagFs-dSVcxac57k5PqE7nt8-Ot-CwgfMY0gUWJPdOJgP4eCE6BQ9qPE5FbB-jYmlzdvCHPa__au9nTfQeWiCOkWANgWpk/s200/IMG_0708.jpg" width="150" /></a>After brunch, it was time to start cooking for our dinner party. Metaphorically speaking, my roommate and I put on our chef hats and GOT BUSY. We spent the remainder of the day in the kitchen preparing a turkey dinner. I even set up the dinning room table with the only Christmas decoration in the house, a snow globe. Ha Ha! Yes, even the Grinch wanted the table to be "properly" set up. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZtzZ6PXrhr0t9rDvI2ENky8IDPJW-Yhe-AiX0nqbuc_8DRhG3XFQqxsn8RtoK3cCXwRTdoToUqhC4fYTpdOUUKGp-Be4eQy9EypEtL5cZzXews8MVKH_wD0WBxI_0umTsjFMsRY9qeTU/s1600/IMG_0714.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZtzZ6PXrhr0t9rDvI2ENky8IDPJW-Yhe-AiX0nqbuc_8DRhG3XFQqxsn8RtoK3cCXwRTdoToUqhC4fYTpdOUUKGp-Be4eQy9EypEtL5cZzXews8MVKH_wD0WBxI_0umTsjFMsRY9qeTU/s200/IMG_0714.jpg" width="150" /></a>Basically the rest of the day was a fury of activity. 8 dinner guests turned into 12. No problem! We had more then enough food to spare. Dinner turned into dancing in the flat. Dancing in the flat turned into, "lets go out!!!" The Grinch and her friends danced until 5:30 in the morning! </div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b><span style="color: red;">Can you say turkey dinner, mulled wine, and dancing the night away? That's how the Grinch Stole Christmas in a foreign land!</span></b></blockquote>
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<a href="http://theadventuresofmissamy.blogspot.com/2012/12/the-grinch-who-stole-christmas.html" target="_blank">The Grinch Who Stole Christmas</a><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13969459446287804654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2490920387948703992.post-10489415079422912922013-01-06T09:56:00.001-08:002013-04-03T11:44:17.080-07:00India, You Will Always Be With Me<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6JctudNpDlB7gxJjinLlmxz6IpKUPTzE9bAVpup62XhIj7hVMbKinlB9ir53bX6KWgTwbPXOj36QxvbUMQ9CCG2fZT3qs1NieBcuCVZ8Lejr0dQ1yhHzG7a3nbUOdI5_W0xbej4jWky0/s1600/DSCN0218.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6JctudNpDlB7gxJjinLlmxz6IpKUPTzE9bAVpup62XhIj7hVMbKinlB9ir53bX6KWgTwbPXOj36QxvbUMQ9CCG2fZT3qs1NieBcuCVZ8Lejr0dQ1yhHzG7a3nbUOdI5_W0xbej4jWky0/s200/DSCN0218.JPG" width="156" /></a></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="color: red;"><b>Even though my trip to India has long since passed, I still carry the memories with me wherever I go. </b></span></blockquote>
It almost feels like India has become a part of who I am. Living in Bahrain gives me a daily reminder of my time there. Over the past few months, I have found myself befriending any Indian I come in contact with. Now I have new friends in my apartment complex, at the convenient store, and even at work. I guess I'm just drawn to "anything" or "anyone" Indian.<br />
<br />
The kids who live across the hallway from my apartment can be quite loud, especially on Saturday mornings, when I'm trying to sleep in. Even though I often have to cover my head with my pillow to temporarily drown out the noise, I somehow manage to get out a laugh or two. They sing, dance, yell, and even ride their bloody bikes around in the hallway like it's a three ring circus! For the most part though, I don't mind because it reminds me of India!<br />
<br />
This past summer, I became friends with the Indian men who worked at the corner convenient store. They were the first people to find out about my trip to India. One evening, I burst into the store and exclaimed, "I'm going to India!" They told me all about their families and gave me pointers on visiting the country. When I came back from my trip, I showed them a few pictures. They were astonished that I went all by myself. I have since moved apartments and don't get to see much of them anymore; but, I try to stop by to say hi every few weeks or so.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHuA9aVCuz9Zwx5q89ZprRMWtkI3TgWOguidXqsx1mxYBB1KJs64EHwheAWUDjnpVBqjBPW7kDQbQt-wSLrEvBpD9RrsoTBYX_2_ZwfbVMZGhrlk4hW51F4Z6IaqMosZeKFsnPVDg7B_c/s1600/DSCN0184.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHuA9aVCuz9Zwx5q89ZprRMWtkI3TgWOguidXqsx1mxYBB1KJs64EHwheAWUDjnpVBqjBPW7kDQbQt-wSLrEvBpD9RrsoTBYX_2_ZwfbVMZGhrlk4hW51F4Z6IaqMosZeKFsnPVDg7B_c/s400/DSCN0184.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
I'm now friends with the Indian servers at the Subway restaurant near work! They know me by name now and the moment I walk thru the door, they make me my favorite sandwich. I have discussed India with them as well. They always humor me when they tell me, "You are our favorite customer!" I think I promised one of them that I would give English lessons. Speaking of which, I need to get on that!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixYUi5JR6BlVRN3Pg7Q1KgRRYxjskNHS0wDraCUQ8wLzktdUZAJH8ZG4gJCCyEponKjOrXfpRqdQLDueQ0wvD8MioznMxkeOlIJUubHPVqYwtUz4JKY3OUpALUth_8gdh-iZAZp1VKasQ/s1600/l_ZLU22-dashboard-monk-bobble-head-string-car-dash-adhesive.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixYUi5JR6BlVRN3Pg7Q1KgRRYxjskNHS0wDraCUQ8wLzktdUZAJH8ZG4gJCCyEponKjOrXfpRqdQLDueQ0wvD8MioznMxkeOlIJUubHPVqYwtUz4JKY3OUpALUth_8gdh-iZAZp1VKasQ/s200/l_ZLU22-dashboard-monk-bobble-head-string-car-dash-adhesive.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
I tutor two Indian students, Vismita and Visrutta. They are five year old twin girls and probably two of the cutest kids to walk the planet. Even though they know my name, Miss Amy, they still call me "TEACHER," "TEACHER," "TEACHER," whenever they need something or have a question. They even do the bobble head when they speak. If you haven't read all of my blogs, you may be confused by my reference to bobble heads. When an Indian speaks, they wobble their heads from side to side. Always reminds me of the bobble head figures that people place in their cars. I think it's absolutely precious.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://theadventuresofmissamy.blogspot.com/2012/08/who-knew.html">Bobble Head Reference :)</a><br />
<br />
So you see, my Indian Adventures have continued and India will always have a special place in my heart!</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13969459446287804654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2490920387948703992.post-71591658139158702372012-12-28T10:05:00.000-08:002015-02-17T14:54:42.989-08:00Foreign Propositions<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuJf6N7pKjtWTM0BHJTaThRrLskg8Cr28Sv3mzbqVvpzqnOUgdDXPF9TMdCxGl0coUqmH-GWiyZ9QX79P01hkDagcGNS8vskpnwXCYM4y_YK8pi1j4wHcZ_3_HwCQDxsin1yS_M0EDtcs/s1600/ugly+garter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuJf6N7pKjtWTM0BHJTaThRrLskg8Cr28Sv3mzbqVvpzqnOUgdDXPF9TMdCxGl0coUqmH-GWiyZ9QX79P01hkDagcGNS8vskpnwXCYM4y_YK8pi1j4wHcZ_3_HwCQDxsin1yS_M0EDtcs/s200/ugly+garter.jpg" height="165" width="200" /></span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There are
certain things about living in the Middle East that a Western woman will never
get used to, one of them is the fact that men think they can "buy you."
Over the past six months, I have mentally recorded each of these encounters and
have even given names to each of my perpetrators. I used to be afraid of these
confrontations. Now, each time I am propositioned, it makes me stronger, more
defiant, and aware of my surroundings. I am no longer shocked by these men's
suggestions. However, I have decided it's time to expose the truth. Here is the catalog
of my encounters. I have broken them down into two categories, “One Time Offenders” and “Common Offenders.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; color: red; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">One Time
Offenders<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: red;">Danny Zuko (from Grease): </span></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">While walking
back to my car at a convenient store, this man proceeded to pull along side of my
car. He asked if I "needed a ride." He continued to haggle me by suggesting, "I can take you anywhere you need
to go." Even after I got into my vechicle he waited along side of
my car. I shoed him out of the way and drove off. Sure buddy! I really need a ride!
LAME! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: red; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Donald Trump: </b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This guy was a
real charmer. After I left McDonalds, he had the audacity to ask me,
"HOW MUCH?" I must confess, I had already had a long week at work and
was not in the mood. This one got a vicious answer and I spurted back repeatedly in a
booming voice, "I AM NOT A PROSTITUTE!!!" At least this one
apologized. Like he could afford me anyway! Ha! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: red;">Casanova</span>: </b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This scrawny
man tried to convince me that I was a princess. "Pick Me" "Pick
Me" "Pick ME" he kept saying. Dude! Calm yourself!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: red; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Mr. Chivalry: </b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This charmer
paid for my meal at KFC. I should have known not to accept favors. He gave me
his business card and said, "please call me, I am free tonight." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: red; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Car Stalker
#1: </b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This past summer my bloody car broke down so I had to walk to and from work. One day, this guy pulled along side of me in his car and asked, "How much?" I didn't respond and
kept walking forward. Then he tried a different approach, "Do you need a
ride?" I told him to bug off! I had to walk with him pestering me like that for an entire block!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: red; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Car Stalker
#2: </b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This time, I
was walking to the grocery store to get some milk. FYI, If I am going to walk somewhere
by myself, I always take the busiest streets. However, on this day, even the crowded streets didn't keep me
from harm. Same type of situation, this guy sees me while driving down the
street. He slows his car down and propositioned me. This guy wouldn't give it
up so I yelled at him, "LEAVE ME ALONE." Finally, he drove off. The
creep was still looking at me from his rear view mirror. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #cfe2f3; color: red; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Common
Offenders</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">(too many to
count)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: red; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Taxi Drivers: </b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">These guys
aren't really taxi drivers. They pull up and ask if I "need a ride." As if?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: red; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Are you Russian?:
</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I have gotten
this line a few times. Guys ask me if I'm a Russian hooker. I guess I do have
blonde hair and my grandmother was Ukrainian. I can see how they would get
confused.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: red; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Giggling
School Boys: </b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Here’s a shout out to all
of the Pakistani and Indian Men. They see me and start whispering and pointing
in my direction. Often I hear giggles as they stare my way. They remind me of
little boys. Luckily, these types of men never approach me!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: red; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>Whistle in the
Wind: </b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">These are the
type of men who will slow down, roll down their car windows, and whistle at me
while I am walking down the street. It even happens at stoplights when I am in
the safety of my car. Just the other day, I caught a group of policemen, riding
in their work vehicle, smiling, winking, and waving at me. Seriously! What's with these
people? It's irritating! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: red; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">The Truth of the Matter</b></span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My friend Jody, AKA Joseph, thinks that someone will one day make a book out of my crazy travel adventures! Who knows? Maybe he's correct! Between my personal life and my travels, I certainly have enough drama to make a best seller!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Now to my
friends and family reading this from back home. Please don't worry about me. I
don't walk around in mini skirts and I don't show any cleavage (not that I have
it anyway). But, you get the picture, I dress modestly. I have learned to fend
for myself over here. With everything going on back in "America," I often wonder if I am in a safer location than you guys??! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13969459446287804654noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2490920387948703992.post-56108219567342653022012-12-24T05:18:00.003-08:002013-04-24T12:58:55.694-07:00The Grinch Who Stole Christmas!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Oh Christmas, how I love thee! Honestly, I love everything about you! I love you for the energy that you emulate. I love you for your food. I love you for your music and holiday cheer. I love you for your craft projects and decorating ideas.<br />
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<b>I love you because you make me feel young again and that is surely something I never want to forget.</b></blockquote>
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Can you recall the blissful reminder of the years gone by? You know, when life was simple and everything made sense? Oh how I love the fury of events leading up to Christmas. Colorful trees decorated with handmade popcorn garlands. Festive lights. Maddening Christmas cookie sessions. Holiday parties. Extended family gathering together to sing carols. Pollyanna gift exchanges. I can remember every detail as if it were yesterday. Just the thought of you, dear Christmas, fills me with true happiness and joy.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI8avCR4WwyeXGqYk9uhxBUBN9CihtOIpF6bOwVo942dg3vN-k49C3zJlJCRpKPwccX5nx7M4sDLYs_aTV9lRXkYAVilBGTssUH1i5WRQB-KE2bqHmGWNvbkPReROqx6IwIQw0LLLEcFI/s1600/17850_223686731919_6842805_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI8avCR4WwyeXGqYk9uhxBUBN9CihtOIpF6bOwVo942dg3vN-k49C3zJlJCRpKPwccX5nx7M4sDLYs_aTV9lRXkYAVilBGTssUH1i5WRQB-KE2bqHmGWNvbkPReROqx6IwIQw0LLLEcFI/s320/17850_223686731919_6842805_n.jpg" width="320" /></a>What about this one? Do you remember the pure agony of trying to fall to sleep on Christmas Eve? You know, those sleepless nights where your excited heart couldn't seem to find rest? "What will I get this year?" you would ask yourself.<br />
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<b>All the world knows that it's nearly impossible to sleep on Christmas Eve!</b></blockquote>
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Most importantly, Christmas, you remind me of everything important in life; family and friends! Wasn't it just yesterday that my family celebrated this holiday in one location? Sigh. This year my Dad is in Hong Kong, I'm in Bahrain, and the rest of the family is in Colorado. But, I can't dwell on such things. I may have caved and allowed myself five minutes of nostalgic memories but it's time to plod forward.<br />
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<b>Even though I love you dearly Christmas, I have decided to boycott you this year!</b> </blockquote>
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I haven't purchased any gifts. I don't have a Christmas tree. I didn't make any Christmas cards and I haven't written a Christmas newsletter. No church to go to on Christmas Eve in this Muslim country.<br />
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Somehow, my roommate has convinced me to cook a Christmas dinner with him. How did that happen? How did I find myself if the role of hosting a dinner party? Our other roommate is in Scotland and she is the "queen of the kitchen." We will miss her skills dearly in the kitchen and will have to make do on our own.<br />
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It's funny because I wanted to sit at home and avoid Christmas altogether. I guess I thought it would be too painful to participate. I have been joking with my friends that I feel like Scrooge this year because of my lack of Christmas spirit.<br />
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<b>What's a Christmas Junkie to do in a foreign land? </b></blockquote>
Well, I'll tell you. As this will be my first "non-traditional" Christmas away from my family, I want to do it in style. Therefore, I have decided to spend my day dressed as, <b>The Grinch Who Stole Christmas!</b> Yep! I have the whole costume lined up! Green tights, long, creepy nails, and green hair dye. I'm going for the look of," Sassy Grinch" so I won't be painting my face green. I even have a Santa corset to top it off.<br />
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Stay tuned for my adventures as the Grinch Who Stole Christmas!<br />
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PS-For my followers, I will be writing the final entry of Car Bodies and Batteries soon! As of late, my work and personal life has gotten the best of me!!!!<br />
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<a href="http://theadventuresofmissamy.blogspot.com/2013/01/this-is-how-grinch-stole-christmas.html" target="_blank">This is How the Grinch Stole Christmas</a></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13969459446287804654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2490920387948703992.post-68242618849362049582012-12-21T08:49:00.000-08:002013-01-15T00:03:02.600-08:00Car Batteries and Body Bags-Part 3<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So, where did we leave off last? Yes, that's right. Miss Amy was in a taxi cab riding out to the town of Sitra. She arrived right before the store closed. In she entered, with determination written all over her face. She navigated her way through the language barrier and managed to purchase a shinny new car battery. This small triumph caused her to stroll back to the taxi with a look of pride on her face. She had done it! It almost felt like Christmas! Or, so she thought.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Miss Amy brought the battery home and called up her friend for help. Together, they attempted to install the battery. The only problem was the clerk had sold them the wrong battery model. The terminals were on the wrong side of the car battery!!! Chalk it up to miscommunication??? More phone calls, more delays, and it became evident that this ordeal was far from over. The bloody store was closed for the next four days and Miss Amy had to wait for what seemed like an eternity for a chance to exchange the car battery!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The time finally arrived when she could take a second trip out to Sitra. This time, she brought her trusted friend along for company. It was a smart move on her part because the store did not have the correct battery. They learned from the sales clerk that they would have to venture further into the town of Sitra to a different shop. The clerk advised Miss Amy and her "accomplice" that American's NEVER go there! But they were desperate! At this point Miss Amy had been without a vehicle for almost two weeks. Desperate times call for desperate measures, isn't that what they say?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">They got directions, thanked the clerk, and continued their journey into the unknown. They carried on down the crowded streets with cars honking and dealt with deathly long stop lights. They passed a round about, then another, and then another. They passed an armored vehicle with a policeman perched on the roof, holding a machine gun! Continuing further down the road only ensured that more armored vehicles were present. Miss Amy and her friend tried not to stare and they whispered to the heavens, a prayer of safety.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Finally, they arrived at the shop. The transaction was painless. Thus, they exited the shop, just a little after dark. As they retraced their steps they noticed a few changes in their surroundings. The number of armored vehicles had increased! Now, in addition to armored vehicles, there were police cars stationed along side of the road. The bright twirling, flashing lights, gave off the appearance of tacky Christmas lights . "What in the world was going on?" Miss Amy thought to herself.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Just as they were navigating their way through the last round about, a frightful scene appeared before their very eyes, one in which Miss Amy will NEVER forget! Off to the right, perched at the top of a sand dune, were eight armored vehicles! Located in front of each vehicle was a policemen, holding a shield, and sporting a pointed machine gun! The beaming lights of the vehicles cast ominous shadows on the cars passing by. Upon closer examination, Miss Amy noticed that at the feet of each policeman was a black body bag!!!</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Yes, eight armored vehicles, eight policemen, and eight body bags, all lined up on the side of the road! Now that's a recipe for nightmares!</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So, you will be happy to know that Miss Amy was finally able to get her car up and running again! She learned how to install a car battery and now considers herself an expert on such things. If your car ever breaks down in Bahrain, you know who to call!</span><br />
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<a href="http://theadventuresofmissamy.blogspot.com/2012/11/car-batteries-and-body-bags-part-1.html" target="_blank">Car Batteries and Body Bags-Part 1</a><br />
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<a href="http://theadventuresofmissamy.blogspot.com/2012/12/car-batteries-and-body-bags-part-2.html" target="_blank">Car Batteries and Body Bags-Part 2</a><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13969459446287804654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2490920387948703992.post-77982072524285528562012-12-11T10:09:00.000-08:002013-01-19T00:56:31.762-08:00Lunch Break in Iran?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Who doesn't enjoy eating lunch, right? If you are at all like Miss Amy, a lover of food, you look forward to kicking back, slipping your shoes off, and eating something delicious during your lunch break at work. Miss Amy is the type of person who starts thinking about lunch within an hour of her arrival to work. Her co-workers often chide her for being able to eat like a man. But Miss Amy is from Dutch ancestry and we all know how they like good food, especially cheese and chocolate.</span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">So one Thursday in November, Miss Amy set about her normal schedule. Having stayed up a little too late the previous night, she arrived to work without her lunch bag, which had fortuitously been left on the kitchen counter at home.</span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Like clockwork, the lunch hour arrived and she was food-less and ravenous. As a teacher of English in Bahrain, Miss Amy found herself rotating back and forth between two tutoring centers. On this particular Thursday, the monumental day that she forgot her lunch, she happened to be at the remote center, located near the Saudi Arabian border. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Surely, she concluded, if she ventured into the nearby walled village, she would be able to find a suitable place to appease her appetite.</span><span style="font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">This is how she found herself in her car, headed away from the safety of the tutoring center, alone. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">As she drove down the narrow, half hazardous, unpaved streets, she noted the black flags flying from each doorway, ominously reminding her that it was the week of Ashura, which marks the martyrdom of Husayn ibn Ali (the grandson of the Prophet Mohammad). In the Islamic religion, there are two sects, Shias and Sunnis. After speaking with her students, Miss Amy had discovered that Ashura is solely celebrated by the Shi’a population. In some countries, like Bahrain, this holiday is often observed by self mutilation, as a way to avenge the death of Husayn, the last true blood line to the Prophet Mohammad. The black flags posted on every corner, signaled to Amy that she was entering a Shi’a neighborhood and it was clear that the people of this village were in mourning. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Spurred on by her growling stomach, she carried on down the narrow street in search of food. She located a sorry looking cafe with a sign that read “Hot Burger” and concluded that this was no time to think about gourmet food; it was simply “business.” This was going to be, “as good as it would get.” </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">She parked the car, locked the door, and strolled up to the cafe take-out window. The man at the counter, stared at Miss Amy with wide, buggy eyes. She concluded that little eye contact would be best and she thanked the heavens that she had worn a long skirt that day. After several attempts of asking for a menu, she was given a crinkled looking sheet of paper with words written in Arabic and English. She placed her order, or so she thought, and was shooed inside to wait. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Shocked to see that she had been issued into a small waiting area with a frontal view of the kitchen, she waited. And she waited. And she waited. One, two, three men came in after her. All of them seemed to know what they were doing. Order, wait, get your food. Feeling her stomach growling, she sighed a simple sigh of frustration. Why was no one looking at her? Why wasn’t the cook saying something like, “your order will be next.” </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Finally, the light bulb went on, “I am a woman.” And this simple conclusion sent her racing out of the cafe, back to the safety of her car. The workers, probably not quite sure what to do, simply had ignored her because she was a woman and they could not serve her food! </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">She abandoned all hopes of getting lunch and switched gears to “getting out of dodge.” Miss Amy, shaken by her cafe experience, made a wrong turn, and then another wrong turn. Each turn somehow led her deeper and deeper into the village. She passed an Iranian mosque. She passed frisky looking teenage boys moseying down the side walk. She passed several women, with pots of food in their hands. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">At this point, she lost all sense of direction and found herself stuck in the middle of a traffic jam. Cars were coming at her at all sides and people were crowded on the street corners. Panic rose in her throat and she cursed the fact that she was a white, female, lost in a Shi’a village. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Not entirely immune to dangerous situations, she reminded herself of the time her well water was poisoned, while living in Haiti. Miss Amy and her roommate at the time, were cooped up in their house for two days, with armed guards outside. They waited until the police could catch the culprit, a disgruntled grounds keeper who had been fired six months prior. </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Surely, she thought to herself, if she had survived that experience, she could get through this as well. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Just when all hope seemed lost, a man dressed in a white throbe, took control of the traffic dilemma. He parted the sea of cars, like Moses did when he parted the Red Sea and pointed Miss Amy in the right direction. All eyes were on her at this moment and she tried to give a friendly wave as she exited the scene. After a few more turns and plenty of horn honking (not on Miss Amy’s part), she found herself on a familiar road, leading her back to work. No food. A bit shaken up. Starving! But, she had survived! Lesson learned: ALWAYS PACK YOUR LUNCH OR YOU COULD WIND UP IN IRAN! </span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13969459446287804654noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2490920387948703992.post-40995503649255797142012-11-27T12:00:00.000-08:002013-01-17T00:37:17.999-08:00Car Batteries and Body Bags-Part 2<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">The clerk, eager to help, called Miss Amy a taxi as he shooed her towards the seedy looking couch in the hotel lobby. Being a proper lady and all, she cringed at the unsightly stains that had made their home on the sorry looking upholstery.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Finally, she found herself driving back to work in the sweet safety of a taxi cab. As she gazed out the window at her surroundings, she fumed at the fact that her “significant other” had left her behind to go on a vacation without her. "Where was he when she needed him the most" she thought to herself? Many thoughts plagued her fragile mind during that fifteen minute drive, like “Would a man who truly loves his woman, leave her in the Middle East by herself for a month?” I should think NOT! More on that later.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Miss Amy eventually arrived back to work, frazzled, dazed, and dripping in sweat. She was frustrated that her India visa mission had failed. It was a miracle that she made it through the rest of the day without falling apart. </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Unfortunately, Miss Amy’s car troubles were far from over. With the help of her friend, they concluded that the car battery needed to be replaced.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0px;">She tried desperately to keep her spirits up. Having little contact with the outside world, besides work, she spent the next five days car-less, cooped up in the house, and lonely. Being trapped in the house was a little too much for a bubbly people person like herself. Looking back, she probably had a little too much time on her hands to dwell on the fact that her </span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0px;">significant other had pretty much abandoned her to go on his "solo" month long vacation. He had told her they couldn't afford it and that she would "ruin his vacation." </span><span style="font-size: 15px;">Meanwhile, he proceeded to squander his money on partying and purchasing semi automatic weapons. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0px;">Over the phone he told her things like, "She was irresponsible in the way she was handling the car situation and that she was making a big deal out of nothing." </span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0px;">Once, while he was away, Miss Amy called him because she had gotten lost on her drive home from work (prior to the car breaking down). Miss Amy had gotten stuck in a traffic jam and there were tire burning protests on either side of the road. She was scared. He responded by saying, "Don't call me for stuff like this, I can't help you." So, in addition to being stuck in the house, feeling lonely, and lacking support; now, she had the car situation to deal with! It was a little too much to handle for Miss Amy.</span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b>The only thing that kept her going through one of the most difficult months of her life was her upcoming trip to India where she planned on freeing herself of all bad energy.</b></span></blockquote>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Okay, on with the story folks! Miss Amy continued her mission to find a car battery. She made an excursion to the mall to search for a car battery. Surely Carrefour </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">would have one? They sell everything under the sun. Right? Negative. No car batteries there! She followed every possible lead her work friends gave her. But her efforts to find a place that sold batteries were in vain as the shops were either closed for the holiday or the person on the other end of the phone did not understand English.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuJIAajKP0JhKRVKPgO6xqzaEwiB0RJBw-jbOWwYRXsc1kk_lxd24v2D-3xuQ2G6bZTFIbCCUdH1wXy5uy4ey_-Wf94z6rN-z8W9ia-BA9oXTBc8YoCOqtRnNoLUM-i8CYhW2yEtPJLN4/s1600/sitra.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuJIAajKP0JhKRVKPgO6xqzaEwiB0RJBw-jbOWwYRXsc1kk_lxd24v2D-3xuQ2G6bZTFIbCCUdH1wXy5uy4ey_-Wf94z6rN-z8W9ia-BA9oXTBc8YoCOqtRnNoLUM-i8CYhW2yEtPJLN4/s1600/sitra.jpg" /></a><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Eventually, after five long days of phone calls, she found a place that sold car batteries. On her day off, she took a long, costly, 45 minute taxi drive out to the town of Sitra. American’s are advised to steer clear of this often shady town. But, at this point, Miss Amy would have sold her kidney to have her car up and running again. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; letter-spacing: 0px;">To be continued</span><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="font-size: 15px;">…</span></span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://theadventuresofmissamy.blogspot.com/2012/11/car-batteries-and-body-bags-part-1.html" target="_blank">Car Batteries and Body Bags-Part 1</a><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; min-height: 17px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br />
<a href="http://theadventuresofmissamy.blogspot.com/2012/12/car-batteries-and-body-bags-part-3.html">Car Batteries and Body Bags - Part 3</a></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13969459446287804654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2490920387948703992.post-89355166454052311922012-11-23T10:34:00.001-08:002014-05-09T14:10:24.203-07:00Car Batteries and Body Bags-Part 1<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2DRrTLiN0JrZWVLkOqZjLabBxcveNlUCElFDOmCWNNV4XsuMHI8AMrR1XwgpIDoswiNBo8Nfg07GYz0OYtZZ5AN9YQz6QZNyBj5sXGE79huGzBP9qHQtJbFNv-SnAB2pgNGJQWTtN3_k/s1600/541170_10151023893131920_542183327_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2DRrTLiN0JrZWVLkOqZjLabBxcveNlUCElFDOmCWNNV4XsuMHI8AMrR1XwgpIDoswiNBo8Nfg07GYz0OYtZZ5AN9YQz6QZNyBj5sXGE79huGzBP9qHQtJbFNv-SnAB2pgNGJQWTtN3_k/s320/541170_10151023893131920_542183327_n.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There once was a girl name Miss Amy. And one day miss Amy's car broke down. Now, in normal circumstances, this might seem like an ordinary everyday type of problem. But, Miss Amy lived in Bahrain, a Middle Eastern country near Saudi Arabia. And her car broke down, during the scorching month of August. It gets so hot during the summer that one literally gets drenched in sweat the moment they step out the door. Eating ice cream cones outside, impossible. Morning stroll around the block, torturous. And don't even think about wearing makeup because it will melt off your face before you can say butter and biscuits.</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTlLqAQnvG5_TFqXCJcoXbOlRZOflgHW30sNi_7TTcyaRvGG6ao4nXVH-OLaw6cPnZTVzyQPtn4S3qATgkCjBwQaZpHGN3iyXzIXvXLQmei73vKgMZqBdSslFd3uNJeK5t0rzqOAjbOyY/s1600/bubblegum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTlLqAQnvG5_TFqXCJcoXbOlRZOflgHW30sNi_7TTcyaRvGG6ao4nXVH-OLaw6cPnZTVzyQPtn4S3qATgkCjBwQaZpHGN3iyXzIXvXLQmei73vKgMZqBdSslFd3uNJeK5t0rzqOAjbOyY/s1600/bubblegum.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />Bahrain is a predominately Muslim country and the month of August not only marks the hottest month on the calendar but it also marks the celebration of Ramadan. During this time the country comes to a standstill and most of the stores are closed until sunset. Miss Amy found it difficult to do much during that time and she spent an awful amount of time indoors. Most of the restaurants are closed until sundown. You can't eat out. The bars are locked up. You can't drink water in public. And forget about chewing gum in public or you will get deathly stares from the locals. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />So, one blissful day in August, Miss Amy ventured out into the sweltering heat during her lunch break at work. Her mission? To apply for an Indian visa at the Indian Embassy. Forgetting that complications could possibly arise due to the holiday, she set out makeup-less in search of the Embassy. She parked her car. Check. She locked the car door. Check. And she proceeded to the Embassy doors, excitement rising as she thought about her upcoming trip to India. As she got closer to the entryway, she noticed that the gates were locked. Disappointed, she squinted to read the notice on the embassy doors that stated the office was closed due to the holiday. Strike one for Ramadan.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />As she walked back to her car, she sadly concluded that her trip would have to be postponed to allow time for the visa approval. While deep in thought, she went through the motions of unlocking the car door, throwing her bag in the bag seat out of habit, and pushing the keys into the ignition. The only thing that awoke her from her thoughts was the fact that the car wasn't starting, She held her breath, shrugged her shoulders, and told herself that it must be her imagination. After several unsuccessful attempts to start the car, her fears became a reality. It was time for Miss Amy to face the cold hard facts; her car had died. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmpKVAWn3algkhoc5WjG7QalhCsHxY-oppoOZuB2t7qKCmHoc1oEIcDrYWqVaMJ5cOkSeb-Je-bJUpfnLqcvlLm9xWH0cWsK4EvGky6qhtoL9l4TotgMkrND9kMgvmqXws99LxNTERnUk/s1600/DSC01058.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmpKVAWn3algkhoc5WjG7QalhCsHxY-oppoOZuB2t7qKCmHoc1oEIcDrYWqVaMJ5cOkSeb-Je-bJUpfnLqcvlLm9xWH0cWsK4EvGky6qhtoL9l4TotgMkrND9kMgvmqXws99LxNTERnUk/s1600/DSC01058.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />Not quite sure what to do, as she felt panic rising in her heart, she called the taxi company she had previously entered into her phone for emergencies. The voice on the phone sounded sleepy as he informed her that there were no working taxis due to the holiday. "Okay." She thought in her mind, strike two for Ramadan. So, she did the only thing a girl could do in that moment…start walking. Mind you, she was wearing her work clothes and high heels. Sweat drenched down her face as she started walking back to work which was a few miles away. While walking, she was propositioned by an Arab man. "As if?" She thought to herself. Walking outside in the Middle East has its own complications. Men seem to think they can buy anything, including a professional looking woman, sweating to death, and walking outside in the 130 degree weather. Strike three for Ramadan. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />Eventually, she found herself out of breath, desperate, and at the doorstep of a shabby hotel. In she walked, relieved to be in the presence of air-conditioning. She rushed to the desk clerk and proceeded to sputter, "PLEASE HELP ME."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />To be continued…</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="http://theadventuresofmissamy.blogspot.com/2012/12/car-batteries-and-body-bags-part-2.html">Car Batteries and Body Bags- Part 2</a></span><br />
<a href="http://theadventuresofmissamy.blogspot.com/2012/12/car-batteries-and-body-bags-part-3.html" target="_blank">Car Batteries and Body Bags-Part 3</a><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13969459446287804654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2490920387948703992.post-71639235968237975572012-09-25T22:23:00.001-07:002014-02-09T17:07:07.167-08:00Kissed the Girls and made HER cry<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;">I have met some real characters during my nine months of traveling. In some ways I feel like I have seen the best and the worst of mankind. Unfortunately, one theme that stands out is the number of men who cheat on their wives while traveling abroad. And, the number that flirt dangerously close to disaster, is staggering. I apologize in advance if this post offends anyone as I may include some “choice” language while I retell some of my encounters. You may not like what I have to say but this is my blog and I have to get my thoughts out. These are the stories of the unfaithful. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Just today, while standing in the customs line in Chicago, I overheard a trio of NFL referees bantering back and forth about their “travels.” They talked of luggage blunders, unfamiliar hotels, and being apart from their families. Just when I was about to award these men imaginary points for being caring husbands, one of the referees stated, “Yeah, each night I travel is one less night I’m sleeping next to my wife’s “ass.” The other responded, “Well I MAY miss sleeping next to my wife’s “ass” but I have a substitute “ass” that I pay for to keep me company.” Oh boy, did I ever want to unleash my sailor’s mouth on these fellas. But I bit my tongue and gave them a long “squinty-eyed stare down.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Like I was saying earlier, I have met many people along the way. I’m not going to lie, I have had a number of men approach me with questionable intentions. I always tell them, “I’m taken.” The thing that has shocked me the most about these encounters are some the responses that I have gotten. A good number of men have replied by pointing to the band on their ring fingers while shrugging or saying something similar to, “That doesn’t mean we can’t have a good time.” Each time this happened, I couldn’t help but think of the women they left behind. You know, the ones who go to bed each night thinking of their husbands and looking forward to their return. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">And the worst part about it all, the part that saddens me the most, is this trail of unfaithfulness seems to have infected our men in uniform as well. It’s frustrating that many good men fall into this snare while serving in the military. Prostitutes are RAMPANT overseas and our men in uniform spend so much time away from their families that it’s an easy trap to fall into. Freedom really doesn’t come free especially when the families have to suffer. I am not trying to undermine their sacrifice for our country as I have a tremendous respect for their dedication and work ethic. But rather, I am sharing my real life experiences and I became weary and discouraged by the behavior that I witnessed. I truly wish I could go back to the time when I was blissfully unaware of how the world really works. I would give just about anything to go back into the safety of my rosy little bubble. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Now if you are still reading this blog post, I’m sure you are wondering about the women who cheat? I know they are out there; but I didn’t encounter any. In my opinion, this cross-cultural dilemma seems to be mainly a male epidemic. Don’t get me wrong. Not all men cheat. There are still some good ones out there. For example, I had an interesting discussion with an Israeli man on this very topic. He is married with two children and he chooses to stay in his hotel room while his colleagues see traveling as a license to go out and sleep with prostitutes or hook up with the women they meet at the bars. My response to his disclosure was less than lady like and I know I used a few choice words in retaliation against these men. He stopped me from my verbal fury as he said, “Amy, it’s not the cheating that makes this so bad, it’s the loss of intimacy that these men will encounter with their wives as a result of their choices.” Well I say, a HUGE props to the men who stay faithful and DOWN with the ones who don’t! </span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13969459446287804654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2490920387948703992.post-32060181805981171492012-09-24T05:29:00.003-07:002013-10-09T03:03:56.972-07:009 Months and 7 Countries Later…<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;">Tomorrow marks the final leg of my tour around the globe! I began my trip in Colorado, flew across the Atlantic Ocean, and simply kept heading East. Crossing over the Pacific Ocean in route to Colorado, will officially make this a 360° trek across the world map. 9 months and 7 countries later and I will finally be setting foot on American soil! The funny thing about this trip is none of it was truly planned, life just happened and I rolled with the punches.</span><br>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Highlights include sipping champagne atop of the world’s tallest building, camping in the Sahara desert, riding the Marrakech express, and kissing a few camels. I watched my twin brother’s tear up the football field in Dubai, witnessed the Taj Mahal, attended an Islamic wedding, and hiked the islands of Hong Kong. Not to mention that I navigated my way through tire burning protests and lived in a country where the American flag was burned just miles from my house!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">An extended visit to see my lover, one summer teaching job in Bahrain, a travel blog, and two graduate classes later, and I’m coming “HOME.” </span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13969459446287804654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2490920387948703992.post-24301477554540291502012-09-20T08:52:00.002-07:002013-01-06T18:57:37.283-08:00The Mistake I Hope You Never Make<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<h2>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Lord help us all, or me for that matter! </span></h2>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">On my way back to the States, I decided to feed my travel bug by making a pit stop to see my Dad in Hong Kong. While in route, I committed the traveler's worst crime. I left my wheely bag on the airplane. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Yep, I'm guilty! Unfortunately, this luggage blunder cost me an additional 16 hours at the Qatar airport.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Large Tub of Nutella)</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I will blame this crazy mishap on the man sitting next to me on the flight from Dubai to Qatar. Apparently, people in the Middle East don't adhere to the same airplane procedures as the rest of the world. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Moments after we landed, everyone bopped out of their seats to grab their luggage. Mind you, the seat belt sign was still illuminated and the plane was still taxying down the runway. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The man sitting to my right was in an awful rush to join the madness forming in the aisle. In a very loud voice he ordered me to, "Move!" I peered to my left and to my right, there was no where to go! The waving jazz hands appeared and he started shooing me towards the crowed isle, hands waving at me like I was a pesky animal. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Flustered and preoccupied by the unpleasantries this man was inflicting upon me, I obeyed and fought for a place in the aisle.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> My routine, the one where I check my seat pocket 3 million times and feel around on the floor beneath me, was recklessly abandoned. Thus, I exited the plane without my luggage.</span><br />
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<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3eThxvBevG4uVEtzf7nFtcvf3HNPGYiJKWGvgBmeB_XIF2kQguwoROW5HjMfuQVBNYuPwOj-bxSKgpIKE3SKZOzNuz9e6zrpGgu1iV76Untg-7S0PomvGM-v5k4VfJ5TeMlv2r3mav6w/s1600/DSCN0537.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3eThxvBevG4uVEtzf7nFtcvf3HNPGYiJKWGvgBmeB_XIF2kQguwoROW5HjMfuQVBNYuPwOj-bxSKgpIKE3SKZOzNuz9e6zrpGgu1iV76Untg-7S0PomvGM-v5k4VfJ5TeMlv2r3mav6w/s320/DSCN0537.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Random photo of the baby changing room)</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Unfortunately, I realized my mistake a little too late. Once you exit the plane there is no turning back. My pleas and cries to reboard the plane to get my luggage, fell on the deaf ears of the grounds crew. They informed me that it would take 3 hours for them to put the bag through the security process. I was given two options: leave at the scheduled time and file a baggage claim in Hong Kong (we all know how that would have turned out) OR stay at the airport for 16 hours until the next flight. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">I opted for the second option as my baby, aka my Apple computer, was nestled in the safety of my suitcase. You may laugh at my computer-baby comparison but it's no joke! My friends talk about giving birth to their children. Well, I joke about giving birth to a beautiful MAC! I wasn't about to leave my baby behind!!!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Two calling cards, multiple bars of chocolate, random photos of giant Nutella jars and baby changing stations, and four lattes later it was FINALLY time to board the plane.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13969459446287804654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2490920387948703992.post-45499950323068163922012-09-13T02:44:00.001-07:002013-04-25T05:05:05.770-07:00Road Trip Gone South<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<h2 style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Sophie and I set out for a little Arabian adventure.</span></h2>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJFt_JBuuR8xoLi0kttJEZti9RFS7F43_Zjp81aAMQyUgvGdyQqmJp840TQNT7DFaKVy_A3PYsgHGnFrfToNjpFF_iKN9U1hLDFIrmzhx8DpkmIOVhLBVE46Ypd6924SFV_3uqO2XyDtE/s1600/DSCN0416.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJFt_JBuuR8xoLi0kttJEZti9RFS7F43_Zjp81aAMQyUgvGdyQqmJp840TQNT7DFaKVy_A3PYsgHGnFrfToNjpFF_iKN9U1hLDFIrmzhx8DpkmIOVhLBVE46Ypd6924SFV_3uqO2XyDtE/s200/DSCN0416.JPG" width="152" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-weight: normal;">This was just an ordinary road trip to get out of the city. Destination? Anywhere the wind would take us. We ate ice cream cones, kissed a few camels, and dipped our toes in the ocean, all the while keeping an eye out for that "perfect photo." With Tim McGraw blasting on the speakers and not a care in the world, how could life get any better? Little did we know that our "road trip" would eventually lead to disaster...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Lucida Grande;">After visiting a camel farm, we decided to embark on the hour long journey south to see the famous Tree of Life, which is basically a huge tree growing in the middle of the baron desert. After the tour, which included driving around the tree and performing a photo shoot, we got OUR CAR STUCK in the sand. There was nothing but sand and oil rigs as far as the eye could see. Our efforts to push, dig, and finagle the car out of the sand was futile and only burrowed the wheels deeper and deeper into the sand. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';">We gingerly guzzled the last drops of water from our water bottles and started trekking towards civilization, which appeared to be an industrial building about a mile away. With the Arab sun rays beating down upon our heads, the ominous thought that we might just die out there in the desert, crossed our minds.</span><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';"> Just when all hope seemed lost, two locals in the form of tiny specks, appeared on the horizon with SHOVELS in hand! Help was on it's way! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';"><br /></span><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';">The local men, offered to help "dig us out." They shooed us to go sit in the car. Even though we felt guilty for sitting in the protection of the shaded vehicle, while the men were working, we gratefully accepted their offer. At this point, we were on the verge of heat exhaustion and feeling quite delusional. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';"><br /></span><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';">After about 15 minutes of digging, a white fan appeared on the dusty road. Knowing that we still needed more help, I got out of the car and started jumping up and down while yelling, "Over here, over here!" The men in the van, heard our cries for help, and they drove our way. Two husky American military men, out for a scenic drive like us, hopped out of their cars and joined the rescue crew!!! The local men abandoned their shovels and we all worked to pull our car out of the sand, with the aid of a sturdy rope and the strength of the van.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';"><br /></span><span style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande';">We were finally free! We waved goodbye to the hansdom military men as they drove off into the sunset. As we got back into our car, one of the local men, pointed towards his house, which resembled a tiny shack, and invited us for tea. Desperate to get back to the comfort of our own homes, we declined and went on our way. This may have been a "Road Trip Gone South," but we had an adventure!</span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13969459446287804654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2490920387948703992.post-41519756909418256402012-09-10T09:49:00.000-07:002012-12-19T20:56:34.361-08:00Salma Gets Hitched-Bahraini Style<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A
whiff of fragrant herbs filled our nostrils as we approached the door to the
wedding hall. Each step brought us closer to the booming sounds seeping through
the door. Not knowing what to expect at our very first Islamic wedding, we
excitedly opened the door into the unknown. </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Our
senses came alive as we walked through the threshold and into the reception hall,
which was elaborately decorated in shades of vibrant colors. The bride’s cousin
greeted us with a smile and a kiss on each cheek. As we were issued to our
table I couldn’t help but admire the beauty of the ornately dressed women. Men
and women celebrate separately for these events so it was fun to see the women
free from their abayas.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The
bride, who wore the traditional Bahraini wedding dress, looked absolutely
stunning. As you can see in the pictures, her dress was woven with intricate
embroidery and she displayed the same golden jewelry that her grandmother wore
on her wedding day.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Towards the end of the celebration, the groom arrived at the ceremony with his guests, which is called a "baratt." The women scrambled to put on their head coverings as they formed two parallel lines in the center of the room. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The groom, with musicians in tow, proceeded towards his beautiful bride as she welcomed him upon the stage. Flutes played and drums beat as we all cheered on the happy couple! </span></div>
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<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The
wedding was full of color, ceremony, local tradition, and </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">plenty of dancing. I left feeling honored to share in such an experience. </span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13969459446287804654noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2490920387948703992.post-34722620063592341752012-09-03T13:47:00.000-07:002012-12-23T20:21:17.641-08:00Dear India & Lesson Learned <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNDp9Ol49Pa5P87UKPFlC-wV7q-R4gtd5KNsZhbl-JAscMhtInxqcTjbuN-y38-7V9SEeG8eFM6LCJ6GFU51WYndy7f7nQOS04SXjxI0qI_msuwjaBfh7JzR6HCQZ-B0enK-rBxy2ZfHo/s1600/480522_341444125945473_34993213_n-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="385" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNDp9Ol49Pa5P87UKPFlC-wV7q-R4gtd5KNsZhbl-JAscMhtInxqcTjbuN-y38-7V9SEeG8eFM6LCJ6GFU51WYndy7f7nQOS04SXjxI0qI_msuwjaBfh7JzR6HCQZ-B0enK-rBxy2ZfHo/s400/480522_341444125945473_34993213_n-1.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Dear India,</span></div>
<div style="min-height: 19px;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf_40IOJ3-kXLgGPDBTef1LYLyhM48rPPOxnVIvzAfpGee5apOqewFnAwgeG-pphUwhalCmfWjrMHzQIUJakUeEvDjhuj8DySY8HY7wq-qaS7uflYXm3WpNhkr3ohucMZFa90z_mOhypw/s1600/DSCN0178.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></a><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">You have taught me so much about myself. Perhaps it was the spiritual energy that you emulated? Or, perhaps it was the simple fact that I navigated my way through your foreign streets by myself? Whatever the reason, I feel stronger and more resilient. I will be forever grateful for the lessons that I have learned from you. I have learned to overcome my fears. I have learned that I am 100% capable of taking care of myself. Most importantly, I have fully embraced who I am. I no longer care what other people think of me. I will no longer waste my energy on trying to get everyone to like me. </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">People can judge me all they want, I really don't care. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKgrpZBw24h7Bj9SZ5JIMpPSopOQLf5380bEau6ZvCeAqrpubh_j5F0dF9LWNFR7U005P-NQNxVDf7MPuzEb2dCW79ufPG13WdgScVDv88dIYkPqeLw8bkTWbfDKpI1YZGfWlH2q94d0I/s1600/DSCN0328.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKgrpZBw24h7Bj9SZ5JIMpPSopOQLf5380bEau6ZvCeAqrpubh_j5F0dF9LWNFR7U005P-NQNxVDf7MPuzEb2dCW79ufPG13WdgScVDv88dIYkPqeLw8bkTWbfDKpI1YZGfWlH2q94d0I/s400/DSCN0328.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I am outgoing. I can be crazy. I like to travel. I am emotional. I am expressive. I get easily excited. I am a dork. I can be a drama queen. I am opinionated. Sometimes I make bad decisions because I am impulsive. However, sometimes that impulsiveness leads to grand adventures like visiting you, dear India. </span></span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMb-ukMDQJx51m1F1bq7ZmUrq5d0KVgGDwYYNUV5EJsgsoS32RCrl0h81jVvTmdvFiO64Tvh-BX8jNxwRV-lTJSXdE46QsMYzoQohI4jpDnlHVRKDpVzO6qPoj5MjP6nL-SaGwmN3kzZM/s1600/DSCN0021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMb-ukMDQJx51m1F1bq7ZmUrq5d0KVgGDwYYNUV5EJsgsoS32RCrl0h81jVvTmdvFiO64Tvh-BX8jNxwRV-lTJSXdE46QsMYzoQohI4jpDnlHVRKDpVzO6qPoj5MjP6nL-SaGwmN3kzZM/s320/DSCN0021.JPG" width="240" /></a><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;">I have many passions. I love fashion. I like to cook but will only do so when I have someone to dine with. I secretly want to be a journalist or a photographer. I believe in fighting for women's rights and I am against animal cruelty. I enjoy learning about different religions but I will always stay true to my faith. I love deeply and with all of my heart. I can’t wait to have children. I have many friends but very few people know the deep secrets of my heart. I have made mistakes and I have </span></span><span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;">learned to live with those mistakes. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;">When I’m old and grey, I hope to spend my last years on this earth, working on the mission field in Africa. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I am “ME” flaws and all.</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
<div style="min-height: 19px;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Signed,</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;">MISS AMY</span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13969459446287804654noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2490920387948703992.post-91879977238062576052012-09-01T10:52:00.000-07:002013-04-23T01:17:20.317-07:00We ALL scream for ice cream<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<h2 style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: small; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: 0px;">Now I know what a mother hen must feel like. </span></h2>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMo7QrsyguMjPMk64vUvH4BYdzdd8NGD2mpcU8Xs21p19K7Ql9KOKmUrEsSM-VkPOpvh2nMfgBw7-uc9t7F86A_r7_FdkFd4iCtK5TuT70zCNT-skYLHp0eKm6YuPdBkup7zbdyzxvHCU/s1600/DSCN0304.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMo7QrsyguMjPMk64vUvH4BYdzdd8NGD2mpcU8Xs21p19K7Ql9KOKmUrEsSM-VkPOpvh2nMfgBw7-uc9t7F86A_r7_FdkFd4iCtK5TuT70zCNT-skYLHp0eKm6YuPdBkup7zbdyzxvHCU/s320/DSCN0304.JPG" width="240" /></a><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; letter-spacing: 0px;">After my tour of Sardarjung’s tomb, I leisurely exited the museum and was promptly greeted by a rosy cheeked boy. We was adorned with raggedy clothing and a huge smile. He asked me for money. However, I decided to treat him to ice cream. Due to our location, I was worried that an adult might steal the money from him the moment he left my sight. </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyk-jafySLFBl9NU4N7Y1OORjGmFHEqTXNrWa-Q_VF5Lrl25Gle5xuy5AnMWnpjTkevpViEsrfzvd_Oe9DLa2VphwkfTq5HWYr_BC-0VUDaA7c1xSGV4Z1Vpm7VFlKtfq7YvWyODj3xY0/s1600/DSCN0237.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyk-jafySLFBl9NU4N7Y1OORjGmFHEqTXNrWa-Q_VF5Lrl25Gle5xuy5AnMWnpjTkevpViEsrfzvd_Oe9DLa2VphwkfTq5HWYr_BC-0VUDaA7c1xSGV4Z1Vpm7VFlKtfq7YvWyODj3xY0/s320/DSCN0237.JPG" width="248" /></a><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;">As we were walking to the ice cream truck, 3 additional boys appeared out of thin air! On we continued, across the parking lot to the tiny ice-cream stand. I ordered </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;">4 ice cream cones, one for each of the boys. And j</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: large; letter-spacing: 0px;">ust like that, a little girl with an injured leg came wobbling up with her little sister towing behind. That dear child was wearing a top but no bottom. “Okay, make that 6 cones,” I managed to sputter out just as 3 more children magically appeared. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; letter-spacing: 0px;">I think you get the picture. Altogether I purchased 12 delicious chocolate ice cream cones. We all parted ways with smiles on our faces.</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
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