Christmas in... DC?

DC is kind of empty for the holidays - at least, that's how it seemed to me. It's such a transient city - many of the people you meet are not from here, so they go elsewhere for family events like Christmas. I certainly do.

But not this year. This was Kyna's first Christmas in DC so Dad decided to come as well, and arrived in time for Kyna's birthday celebration. A friend directed me to Black Salt, an upscale eatery in an upscale neighborhood of DC (where I had NEVER been, despite living here 13 years or something ridiculous like that. Ask me if I've been to X, Y or Z scummy part of town, sure, yeah... but Palisades? Where's that?)

Anyway, here we are at dinner.

I ate a whole fish called... what was it called? Let's name it Llewellyn, for lack of memory. Kyna had an halibut, quite obviously called Eric. And Dad ate this dish of stuff that had legs and tentacles and heads poking out of it like an undersea genetic experiment, and he had to beat all these little critters into submission before eating them and putting their luminescent exoskeletons on a plate right... in... front... of... me. Fantastic.

He did good on the gift though. Dad usually gives us a check for the number of years old we are, or somewhere near abouts, in case he has the year wrong. Well, imagine Kyna's surprise when he pulled out a little, black, velvet jewelry box. She tilted her head at it, scrunched up her eyes, put the back of her hand on Dad's forehead (checking for fever), and then opened it to find diamond earrings. Had I wanted to I could have knocked her over with a wee bittie feather just then.

Blowing out the candle on her trio of creme brulee, I wonder what she wished for?

 

We spent a fair amount of time cooking during the time Dad was here. Not traditional Christmas geese or turkeys, oh no. Here you can see me putting cheese on a cutting board! (Don't try this at home, kids.) The jar in my hand contains fig chutney, with which one is to dress one's brie before eating. I know, this is pretty advanced cookery. Don't be upset if yours doesn't come out as good, I mean, I'm practically a professional.

One night Kyna created a beef stew that was fantastic. Shane took one look at it and asked about the provenance of our Dinty Moore. Kyna is still going to get him back for this.

One terribly blustery day we found ourselves in the U.S. Botanical Garden, an indoor respite from the winds that threatened to carry us back to Kansas. Inside it was warm and the sun was coming in through the greenhouse roof. The air felt humid and was full of mist as the plants were watered. There was a fern that seemed to have its eye on Kyna. It had leaves that were the size of volkswagons and it could easily have eaten her whole. Fortunately we escaped unscathed, but it was a rough moment walking back out into that cold. 

On Christmas Day we coaxed Dad into a somewhat nontraditional meal, more like what we'd have eaten in Pakistan. Lamb and eggplant in curry sauce with mint and coriander; Chicken Tikka Masala; dumplings with fig in a cashew sauce; spinach and cheese stew. It was nearly impossible to stop eating. The waitstaff were humbled by our thoroughness; in some cases we even ate the toothpicks.

Then we rolled out of there, dropped Kyna at home so she could rest up for work the next day, and Dad and I went to feed Shadi (Ali and Shane's cat, who was under my charge this week.) She asked for the "kitty bag" from the restaurant but I lied and told here there weren't any leftovers.

Dad and I went downtown to check out the White House Christmas Tree, and my long-held belief that Washington was empty on Christmas was shattered for good. The traffic was incredible, and all Christmas goodwill was long gone for these tourists, scrambling over the battered husks of other, weaker people to get a photo of the ugliest tree I'd ever seen. We gave up trying to get closer to it, and instead took a tour of Christmas lights - including the tree at the U.S. Capitol. No one was waiting to see it, but it was much better anyway.

Trip home to St. Louis

Kyle came up with the idea - we'd all go to St. Louis to attend Pat's daughter's wedding. Pat and Kyle were best friends growing up, and Pat's family and our family were the closest of neighbors. So... we made our plans.

Kyle arguably had the best night of all of us, dancing with his S.O., Maureen and getting together with his old friends. But Dad also seemed to be really enjoying the dancing...

Like in this photo with Gina, Kyna's best friend growing up...

 And here with Maureen! Lauren was having fun with the party favors from the princess theme...

 ...while Pat and his daughter shared their traditional dance. Dad, Kyna and Gina appear to be engaged in a really funny story here, but when I asked what they were talking about they told me I'd understand when I was older.

We also took some time to visit old haunts, like Kyle's favorite, Pelican Island. The river here is wide and slow, and made for some nice photos on a sunny, chilly day.

Kyle and Lauren spent some time sand-combing, looking for rocks and bird poop and arrowheads and feathers and stuff, as they are wont to do. Dad, Kyna and I retired to Alton Illinois for lunch and pie.

While it's difficult to find something we all want to do, among this diverse and bizarre group of blood-related people, it's not impossible. We played a rousing game of par three golf on another sunny, gorgeous fall day.

Kyna  proved herself a dead-eye shot on every hole - sometimes long, sometimes short, but never off the mark, and sometimes beating par. Another of her talents... but somehow I never knew she could do this!

Kyle was a very capable caddy. We like making him carry heavy things. Dad's looking onto the green, because he got on every single hole.

And then there's Lauren, natural athlete, even more natural goofball. I'm not entirely sure why she's loping along while Maureen takes her shot, but it reminds me a lot of the day. She was consistently goofy and fun!

I don't have any pictures of myself playing golf, for obvious reasons.

End of summer travels

After a blistering period of work through spring and summer, I began to make plans to take some time off. I was still in Kabul, finishing up a final project report there and also another one being turned in back in Washington. It was grueling, so I allowed myself breaks to poke around on the web and look for someplace fun to visit. SPAIN, I thought, my head spinning with how fantastic that sounded, compared to being shrouded physically, emotionally and occupationally in Afghanistan. Through strange fortune, a very dear friend was going to be visiting her inlaws in Spain, so I figured fate was sending me there.

I told my colleagues at work in Kabul what I was planning. "Oooh..." they cautioned. "Be careful! Spain has had some protests lately..." I decided I'd brave it despite their well-meaning warnings.

Getting to the airport in Kabul, I felt an unspooling begin to happen - I had been so tied up with work that I thought my neck would snap under the weight. After landing in Madrid (after overnight flights with multi-connections, the only way I seem to know how to fly) I boarded one more flight to Oviedo, in Asturias, along the north coast.

Mireya and her family picked me up and showed me around their region, invited me to the baptism of the newest little one in the clan, and kept me singing till three in the morning. Seriously - this is one singing family.

We took excursions to the area's sites, shopped, ate and drank...

 Mireya and her family invited me in like one of their own! But when I go back, I resolve to know the lyrics to more old Spanish songs!



Then I flew to Seville. I was sitting on stone steps in the historic center, listening to a busker play classical guitar, when these folks went past. This pic makes it look like these tourists are getting the ride of their lives, but actually it's just the low light setting. What a lovely night.

Then I went for tapas and found a trio of Sevillan friends who invited me to join them. We went around the city together - on a Tuesday night, mind - and saw a flamenco singer in a cave-turned-bar:

From there I went on to Granada to see the Alhambra - a fortress dating back about a millennium. It's too magnificent to capture in one picture, even the following few don't do it justice.

Around every corner there was another lovely view, a detailed mosaic, a fountain surrounded by gardens. And about ten million tourists. Including me.

A little remiss on keeping up the blog...

Yes, of course, very busy, blah blah blah; however, I have been making a roundhouse effort NOT to work too much or spend too much time in front of the computer. I've just gotten back from several weeks in Pakistan - in time for the holidays - and I can tell the difference for the effort. I'm in a better mood, such that the idea of work starting again tomorrow doesn't make me want to cry.

While in Pakistan I ran a 10K in the Diplomatic Enclave - one loop and a half around a space that is walled off for outsiders and their Embassies. For the last couple of years I have only run 5K at a time, but I wanted to try - all my friends were doing it (all three of them). There are some very gentle hills - at least they are gentle in a car driven by a nice Pakistani man who is telling you about his wife and family or asking where you want to go shopping. When you have to run up them they are decidedly Mont Blanc-like, and set in pairs - first one, which you cheer as you master, then a second one that kicks you in the teeth and laughs at you. 

The run started at 11:30 a.m. after the earlier start of a half marathon, so it was pretty hot by then - maybe 28 celsius? Mostly sunny but some nice shady parts. The half-marathoners ran the opposite direction around the loop and did it almost three times. There were not quite 80 runners thusly rotating. I'm not really happy with my time - 1:09 - especially when I found out the winner of the half-marathon, an American man in his 50s, did his 21KM in just 1:26!!! That's 4.1 minutes per KM, folks - really speedy for anyone, let alone some diplomat on a bunch of hills far from home!

The pic below is four of us runners: me, a German woman who won the half-marathon in her age group and ONCE CLIMBED MOUNT EVEREST (see her link here), my colleague Julie from Britain, and another new buddy Sallee from Australia. They gave us wine after the race - great idea, give liquor to dehydrated people who haven't had access to any for a couple of weeks. Brilliant!

One thing I noticed as I went through the list of participants is that the race organizers included our nationalities in the listing, since we're all from all over. The Americans were a really diverse bunch - European surnames, Latino, Asian, and a Persian one I wouldn't dare try to spell. Yes, she's Persian, and yes, she can cook gormeh sabzeh (sp?) and lastly, yes, I asked her to cook it for me!!! I'm sure it will not hold a candle to Ali's version but hey, any port in Islamabad. Anyway, it's cool that our country advertises one of its best qualities - we're from everywhere and somehow still get along!

Work IS busy, and exciting. The entire team (save one ego-blind scuzzbag) is fantastic. Smart, funny, and love a good challenge. I have five staffers so far and will hire four or five more before this is rolling on its own. We're also contracting a lot of data collection - public opinion polling, focus groups, ethnographic research - and will (someday) have to analyse all that. That's my team's responsibility; the rest of the 20-some-odd people are gearing up to do different kinds of projects - legal awareness campaigns, training police cadres (including women officers, who are really really rare and under-powered here), support to local governments to improve service delivery, and the like. 

Soon I'll post about a little junket to London. Stay tuned!

Kabul Confidential

Oh, yeah, right, like I have anything interesting to report from Kabul. If I want to be important, daring, bold, or devil-may-care, everyone else here has long since beaten me to it. There's an article in the local expats' magazine with the top twelve things you should do to appear to be "in-the-know" here - like number 5, "Make the odd trip to the wild hinterlands and make sure you write about it on Facebook or Twitter, telling everyone how tough it was (you broke a nail or got athlete's foot.) Take pictures of yourself in body armor somewhere." (Afghan Scene, 2012, Angry Advisor column.) Damn! I was going to do that, before this writer made it sound so trite. The writer also suggests that you "go to parties and stand around looking bored until someone asks how long you've been "in-country"." - hilarious. It's so weird here that way: there are these flocks of expats roaming around the restaurants and bars and whatnot, standing out like sore thumbs when around Afghans, and (we hope) somehow doing something to make things better here.

Because, dammit, things need to be better here. The people I have met are so bloody tired of war, and not-war - this in-between state that has everyone watching their surroundings as if the nearby bakery is going to blow up. The country's own development has been smacked backward in time over and over by three + decades of other countries using Afghanistan like a pawn in a chess game.

Okay, enough politics, back to my own cool personal tales of bravery and excitement.

Tale Number 1. Lockdown. The first week, I wasn't allowed to leave the compound at all, for any reason. Sounds cool, right? Oh, Keri, how dangerous! How frightened you must have been! Well, yeah, sure. But even though I'm American, I'm not coalition forces or embassy staff or anyone that would be targeted. I'm a lowly contractor. My fear came from my media diet, not from reality. Here are pix from our place: me on the roof, the bamboo shields so I can go on the roof and not be seen, the barbed wire fence around us and the gorgeous mountains behind. That's what lockdown looked like to me.

Tale 2. Lockdown lifted! PARTAY! Last Thursday I went to a shindig at the Croatian base, entry to which I gained by virtue of the two enormous Croatian guards who keep us safe on our compound. Walking through the base at night was eerie - tanks, man, there are loads of them, and in silhouette they are very daunting. I can't imagine facing one in the stark light of day.

The Croatians fed me some spicy pork and beans provided by the resident chef (and you know, pork here, well, it's not very common) and then we all went to the garage for box wine and karaoke. Yeah, the garage - looked like someplace Kyle would have enjoyed. Everything was neat and orderly (aside from the people.) On learning I was from Denver, they played "Rocky Mountain High" in my honor. The rest of the time, it was nostalgic Eastern European music (there was also a Hungarian contingent) and that kind of dancing where you join hands in a circle and say "Ho!" a lot.

Tale #3. Around Kabul. On Sunday I went out to lunch and then to a bakery, and then to the office of our subcontractors, to talk turkey. It was almost the full day outside the compound, driving through massive gridlock, watching people through the car window, trying to figure out at least one letter from the alphabet (no luck yet; I'll keep you posted.) It was a blustery day, so the pictures make it look bleak. When the sun is out, the city actually sparkles - like a high mountain town. In reality, it's just about a mile high - which I noted to the subcontractors, and suggested a Sister City relationship with Denver. He said he'd get back to me.

The city is surrounded by mountains, and on many of these the houses go straight up the side of the rock. I saw an old-school Ferris Wheel but wasn't fast enough to get the picture. I wish I had; it makes things seem so much more normal, family-oriented, or something, rather than the media images we all have in our minds. Anyway, here's a mosque under a heavy sky.

And here are those houses climbing up the mountainside. (Note the bicyclist in the shot - my crappy phone camera makes him look like he's going really fast!) Other scenes were even more dramatic - clinging to the lamely to the rock walls like something out of a Roald Dahl novel. They've only recently gotten electricity there - made me think of the favelas in Rio.

The data collection supervisor in the field gave us a good idea of what had happened out in the provinces and districts while my big ol' dataset was being carefully assembled from the experiences and opinions of nearly 2000 Afghans. (The video above shows him writing notes during our meeting - it's so strange to me (still) that they start at the right hand side of the page.)

Anyway, twenty-two data collectors went out to various parts of the country to collect data on how people's disputes get resolved in their villages. You might have heard of the "Loya Jirga" on TV, when all the powerful regional leaders got together to make decisions about Afghanistan's future. The same thing happens on small scale in villages, where the "white beards" form a jirga to help people resolve disputes - like whose livestock are grazing on whose land, who's taking water from someone's well, or whose son beat up some other kid. My research is on how this works, now, so that after another team comes in to train those white beards (and elder women as well), we can check: has dispute resolution changed as a result of the training?

So now I'm writing the report on the data collected. It's a lot - lots of stories told by people involved in disputes (white beards, livestock owners, parents of fighting kids) and citizens in general. I'm back on personal lockdown - I need to get the report done before I leave, so even though I'm allowed to go out, I won't.

So I take my fun where I can find it, like this meal cooked by our Afghan chef:

Baked chicken and mashed potatoes covered in gravy, peas-n-carrots cooked to a pulp, and a salad - looks like something my mom would have made, circa 1977. It's pretty strange to be HERE, and eat THAT.

Another thing I find hilarious in this house in our compound is some special photograph wall tiles that are grouted right into the kitchen backsplash. Here are two photos:

Both show delightful, well-lit breakfast scenes - vases of flowers, flaky croissants and plump muffins, zig-zag cut fruit with maraschino cherries jauntily floating on top, brimming glasses of orange juice... and hamburgers. I just imagine someone setting up these scenes, getting the lighting just so, arranging the spoons... then saying "Alright crew, where's the hamburger? How can we have a breakfast scene without a hamburger! Get it in there!"