Last night I went to a wedding with some friends. The going was a long and involved process: they picked my flatmate and me up from our apartment at 4:30 in the afternoon, and we didn't actually get to the wedding until almost 11:30 that night. What happened in the meantime? A excursion to the hairdressers, a run-in with security at a Metro stop, and a bit of wandering lost through the streets of a not extremely nice part of town (especially so late in the evening). All intermixed with the usual relaxed pace of life that pervades this culture. (Americans would say we wasted a lot of time.)

The trip to the hair salon was definitely a highlight of the day. Consider: in the States when women make themselves up for a fancy dress party, dance, what-have-you, they have a stylist pile all their hair on top of their heads in french twists and beehives and other more elaborate concoctions. But here, in a place where generally women's hair must be covered, or at the least pulled back from their faces and tightly bound, women go to a stylist to have their hair straightened and brushed down around their faces, or curled into long sausage curls that bob down past their shoulders. Even after this older women will often still cover their carefully arranged loose hair for the evening. But it doesn't matter. That's how you do your hair for a party.
My friends insisted that Allison and I do the same. But here some complications arose. I would be willing to place a fairly large sum of money on a bet that we were the first foreigners (Westerners) ever to walk through the front door of that hair salon. This in itself caused a stir. But more amusing than this-- our hair simply isn't like theirs. Allison wasn't as bad off-- her hair is thick, and she decided not to have it curled. But my hair is fine, very fine, and tangles at the slightest provocation. So this poor man, who I'm sure is quite competent in his craft, was completely baffled by my hair. Everytime he tried to do anything, it slipped out of his hands, off the brush, out of the clips, and then became (in his eyes) inexplicably snarled. Everyone was quite frustrated, and I know that none of them were satisfied with the end result. Which in some ways added to my discomfort at walking through the streets... at night... with my hair blowing about my face. It felt wrong. And I've haven't even been here two months. Imagine how I'll feel after two years.

The wedding itself was great. "Wedding" is a bit of a mis-translation into English, I think. The ceremony is not actually public, so to picture where I was think of the biggest reception you've ever been to... outside... with carnival lights... and a throne for the bride and groom that has for a backdrop an eight-foot tall fan-shaped extravaganza of air-brushed hearts and rainbows and clouds... and a live band (whose repertoire is definitely not that of The Wedding Singer; this was a Sudanese wedding) playing music pumped out of speakers at such volumes as might be heard if you were leaning up against the front mains at a Metallica concert (my ears were still ringing this morning)... and hundreds of people laughing and talking and clapping and singing and dancing-- and warbling the odd traditional call of celebration that sounds rather like a jackal mourning his dearly departed mum... and then throw in some more noise and people and color just for effect... and that might be something like the wedding I attended last night.
It was wonderful.

When I woke up this morning the swollen ball of pain that had been lodged in my throat for the past two days had dissolved enough to allow me to swallow. At the time it seemed an improvement. After twelve hours of dry coughs that threaten to tear out my much-abused throat and leave it in a bloody heap on the floor, however, I'm no longer quite so sure that it was such an improvement. Maybe the knotted lump was better.

As a celebratory gesture towards being out of bed and able to stand upright for more than a few minutes at a time, I worked on rearranging my room this afternoon. My goal is to shape it into something that at least resembles a place in which I might voluntarily live. So far I haven't had much success, though today's efforts did bring at me least a tad (a skosch?) closer. Of course, I do have to realize that by my standards it will never truly be home until at least one wall is smothered in books-- and that's simply not going to happen here.

Still, despite the aesthetic and literary inadequacies of my flat, it does feel surprisingly like home. Maybe that's partially because after nine (or maybe more?) moves in the past five years it doesn't take me long to settle into a place. But the feeling of home-ness extends beyond the walls of this apartment and out into the streets of the city. Returning from Cyprus earlier this week gave me a quite shocking sense of homecoming, of regaining the familiar and secure. Granted, I only have to walk out into the street and try to talk to someone (female, of course) to have at least some of that illusion swept away. But the sensation is there none the less.

After two days of imprisonment I'm eager to go out tomorrow and conquer the world. Or at least watch some of it go by. But my desire for freedom is in some part quelled by my body's sudden and insistent craving for more sleep. Perhaps I shouldn't have moved all that furniture on my own this afternoon. Maybe I simply need to drink more orange juice. Whatever the case, I betake my weary self to bed.

I spent the past few days in the mountains of the island of Cyprus, enjoying the trees and the quiet and the fresh air. I even enjoyed the company of the nearly 200 women there for the retreat-- though during the first evening the waves of estrogen and emotion threated to overwhelm and consume me completely. I shudder to think how many trees had to die in order to provide tissues for these past five days.

Our end-of-the-session final exams begin tomorrow and continue for the two days following. They won't be difficult. In fact, I would relieve myself of any burden of studying at all except that I've neither heard nor spoken Arabic for several days now, and at this point in my studies it's easy to lose the edge. Like a poorly learned habit, my ear and tongue quickly slip out of practice.

But there is a thing that makes returning to school tomorrow morning bearable-- after Thursday, el-ham-del-allah, I am finished with school. I switch over to community based learning as soon as this school session ends this week, and from there I fire on ahead at what I hope is a faster pace. One of the best things about the retreat was the opportunities to discuss projects for my second year-- sooner, if I can reach the required level of language proficiency before then. I believe I can. And positive thinking is half the battle, right? The sooner I finish my language studies (the formal part of it) the sooner I can go live in a mud hut. That's motivation for you, eh? Yet that's exactly what I want.

Dropping out of school also frees up about three hours every day. Most of that comes from transportation time. And this should make my life at least a little less frantic, leaving time for some important things that have fallen by the wayside during the five weeks I've been here. Like eating. Sleeping. Reading. Writing. I might even be able to post here a little more often.

It rained yesterday. Rained. As in water fell from the sky.

This was no sudden downpour, of course. And it wasn't even a gentle shower. It was no more than a sprinkling of drops, never so much that one became unable to distinguish individual splotches of water in the dust that covers everything here. But there were raindrops nonetheless, and I felt their coolness on my cheeks and hands as I stood with my face turned up to the clouds. Real clouds, too. Not just the usual smoggy haze.

With this the heat broke. After at least a week in which temperatures every day stretched up to break 100 degrees, even the life-long residents of the city were crying uncle. We're hoping that was the last heat wave of the year; things should be cooler from here on out. Till next spring, at least.