Tomorrow I return to California. I'm not sure what I will find there. My son has been living in my bungalow since I went to Cyprus in January. I think he considers it "his" home now. What are the rules about squatters' rights?
I do know that my return to my busy life there will be without a car (disaster last December), without a working cell phone (it blew itself up this week), and without a verdant garden and yard (water-rationing and son-neglect have turned my green views brown.) That, plus a needed hair appointment, dentist visit, three weeks of mail, and four boxes shipped from Cyprus to unpack--my days will be full. Oh, yes. Did I mention the dogs? Charlotte and Brady will need to be loved. (And probably retrained!)
I am still trying to deal with "loss," the sadness of leaving the Mediterranean life and returning to "normalcy." Worse, I will now add the sense of loss from eager little grandson hugs and the pleasure I've had helping my daughter with the new baby.
But, I will be busy. As I face the coming week, I see a conference paper to finish for a July 28 deadline, motorcycle lessons to begin on Saturday, two syllabi for fall classes to construct, a reorganization of my office at CSULB, a restocking of the food and wine supplies at home, and a reunion with neighborhood friends. Life will be "normal," eventually. But that "normal" will never be the same.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Life Goes On
I am light years away from my life in Cyprus at the moment. I am in South Carolina, visiting with my daughter and family--her husband; three-week old baby boy, Walker; 17-month old son, Foster; and two dogs, Cotton and Shelby. Our days consist of feeding children, changing diapers, playing on the swing set or in the pool, going to the grocery, or taking long walks in the afternoon. Ideally, it is a great break from routine, a vacation of sorts. I have my own suite away from the bustle of the house--complete with computer, tv, reading spot, and bed. It's quiet here. Too quiet. No Cyprus traffic, no sms, no phone calls, no meetings, no travels, no friends, no escapes for coffee or white wine in the afternoon. However, I really can't complain, because I am with family--and I am loved.
But, I do not feel like "me" here. That "me" wants to be at an airport, somewhere in Europe, headed to a destination not yet specified. London? Vietnam, perhaps? Rwanda again? Or maybe back to Paros for a week or two, or maybe to see the full moon rise once again over the Mediterranean in Cyprus.
My adverturous self scanned the internet yesterday, looking for teaching positions across the globe. What caught my eye was an ad for World Teach and its need for volunteers to go to Kigali, Rwanda, for nine months, to teach secondary school English. "Could I do that?" I wondered. I immediately came up with three strong negatives: 1) I am probably too old, 2) There is no money to pay for such an experience (volunteers must come up with a $6000 fee and also pay extra living expenses, beyond the $200 a month stipend), and 3) I am a little afraid of getting malaria again--that was not a good experience! Still, I sent an email inquiry. Who knows?
But, I do not feel like "me" here. That "me" wants to be at an airport, somewhere in Europe, headed to a destination not yet specified. London? Vietnam, perhaps? Rwanda again? Or maybe back to Paros for a week or two, or maybe to see the full moon rise once again over the Mediterranean in Cyprus.
My adverturous self scanned the internet yesterday, looking for teaching positions across the globe. What caught my eye was an ad for World Teach and its need for volunteers to go to Kigali, Rwanda, for nine months, to teach secondary school English. "Could I do that?" I wondered. I immediately came up with three strong negatives: 1) I am probably too old, 2) There is no money to pay for such an experience (volunteers must come up with a $6000 fee and also pay extra living expenses, beyond the $200 a month stipend), and 3) I am a little afraid of getting malaria again--that was not a good experience! Still, I sent an email inquiry. Who knows?
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Leaving Cyprus
Leaving Cyprus was not easy. I tried to sleep through my 2 a.m. pickup for the airport. At 2:10, however, I stumbled after the driver who hauled my three overweight suitcases down two flights of stairs. Dragging my backpack and carry-on bag, I climbed into the Mercedes, and we were off to Larnaka.
Airborne three hours later—after check-in, bus ride to the plane, and waiting, waiting—I would not look out the window. I refused to look down at the island, spread across its spot in the Mediterranean. I didn’t want to see the Troodos Mountains in the mist, or the curve of the harbor, or the distant valley beyond Nicosia. It really hurt too much to leave the place I had called home for six months.
I knew that I was over-reacting. I was, after all, just a visitor on Cyprus; I had no family there, no roots, no real reason to stay. My six months’ assignment with Fulbright was over.
Still, friendships connected me to Cyprus, and my heart was heavy to see those daily contacts end. I wanted to find solace in journaling, and I began to write:
“Oh, where to begin and end. Ela, ela, Nancy.” But, the words wouldn’t come to describe the depth of friendships, Eva, Justine, Evi II, my students, Toulla, Ioli. . .the list continues. Whether brief, like Phivos and Popi, or long-term, like Alkis and Gül, I am forever changed because of their caring and generosity. Forever changed.
The trip from Cyprus to Heathrow was uneventful. In London, the connection was predictable and the plane, predictably late in leaving. The best news: I was bumped up to business class. I was the child in the candy store—“Do you mean the champagne is free?” “A choice of entrees? Steak or Chicken Diane? Wow.” “What’s in this bag?” Socks, a black-out mask, mints, tooth brush, lotion—it was my Christmas stocking in June! My travel partner, Jim Lemon from the Chicago area, was a joy. We started talking five miles from the airport and kept up the dialogue across the Atlantic: children, radio programs, software, Rwanda, global warming—one topic sparked another.
Landing in Chicago, I realized a glitch in the travel arrangements. I had only 45 minutes at O’Hare, one of the world’s busiest airports, to collect my luggage, go through customs, recheck the bags, find transportation to another terminal, check in through security again, and get on the plane. Problem was, it couldn’t happen. And, it didn’t. I missed that flight and, consequently, missed my connecting flight in Phoenix. Suddenly, I was stranded in Chicago. No working cell phone—the Cyprus sim card was defunct and my “so easy” minutes depleted. No helpful travel agent would change the tickets, and I had no idea what to do—spend the night in Chicago, fly out in the morning? Fly to Phoenix, rent a car and drive six hours to Long Beach? Mostly, I was tired--tired of suitcases and connections and hassles, and I was missing people so badly I was on the verge of tears.
Finally, after checking with two airlines in two terminals, and pleading my case of bad connections and missed flights, I was rerouted from Chicago to Los Angeles late that evening. Unfortunately, my suitcases didn’t get the message. They flew on to Phoenix.
I arrived at LAX, exhausted, after midnight, without most of my luggage, and without a ride home. I bribed the van driver to take me to Long Beach, despite his insistence that it was out of the way. At one thirty in the morning, 33 ½ hours after I left Nicosia, I was not about to stand in the shadows of the airport and wait for another van to arrive.
“Thirty minutes more, I thought to myself, thirty minutes more.” On the van, I chatted with a family, coming to the area with plans to visit Disneyland. They were headed for a hotel that night in the California town of Cypress. Odd coincidence. I smiled. What an adventure their seven-year-old would have with Mickey and friends. What adventures we all have when we move out of our comfort zones, away from the familiarity of home, and beyond the expected expectations for living.
At 2 a.m., thirty-four hours after I left my flat in Nicosia, I opened the door to my bungalow in California. My dogs greeted me wildly at the front door, first thinking I was the burglar returning; then the recognition! I fell into bed and slept, clothes on, for six hours, awaking groggy and jet lagged. No surprise.
The next evening, my sons and I had dinner at our favorite restaurant, the Belmont Brewery, perched above the white sand beach, with the blue Pacific stretched out endlessly from the Long Beach shore. It was lovely as the sun set over the ocean. But, it wasn’t Cyprus.
My first day home, I settled bank accounts, sorted through six months of mail, reconnected my cell phone, mailed a small package back to Cyprus, and tried to adjust to traffic flowing on the wrong side of the road.
Yesterday, I chatted with my department chair at CSULB. Registration, cutting courses from the schedules, over-enrollments, over budget, under staffed. She asked me to teach a grad seminar this fall. Of course, I will, no problem. (But, here I am with no books ordered yet, no syllabus, no thought to putting materials on reserve.) No panic. Yet.
On Wednesday, I board another plane, retrace my flight pattern east for five hours to Charlotte, N.C. and end up driving the last two hours to Lugoff, S.C. to see my daughter and her family, including 11-day old baby Walker and 17-month old Foster. Anyone for a babysitting gig for three weeks? I’m switching hats, changing personas, moving on through the calendar of life.
This isn’t my last blog about Cyprus. The “wrap up” will come when I have time to think about it all. . .what did it mean for me to be in Cyprus in Spring 2008? Whose life did I touch? How was my own changed? My photos and memories are bountiful. My thoughts, however, now are jumbled. Leaving Cyprus was not easy. All I really know is I want to go back--Some day. Some way. Some how—to Nicosia, to Larnaka, to Kyrenia, to Karpas, to Pafos, to Kourion, to friends.
Airborne three hours later—after check-in, bus ride to the plane, and waiting, waiting—I would not look out the window. I refused to look down at the island, spread across its spot in the Mediterranean. I didn’t want to see the Troodos Mountains in the mist, or the curve of the harbor, or the distant valley beyond Nicosia. It really hurt too much to leave the place I had called home for six months.
I knew that I was over-reacting. I was, after all, just a visitor on Cyprus; I had no family there, no roots, no real reason to stay. My six months’ assignment with Fulbright was over.
Still, friendships connected me to Cyprus, and my heart was heavy to see those daily contacts end. I wanted to find solace in journaling, and I began to write:
“Oh, where to begin and end. Ela, ela, Nancy.” But, the words wouldn’t come to describe the depth of friendships, Eva, Justine, Evi II, my students, Toulla, Ioli. . .the list continues. Whether brief, like Phivos and Popi, or long-term, like Alkis and Gül, I am forever changed because of their caring and generosity. Forever changed.
The trip from Cyprus to Heathrow was uneventful. In London, the connection was predictable and the plane, predictably late in leaving. The best news: I was bumped up to business class. I was the child in the candy store—“Do you mean the champagne is free?” “A choice of entrees? Steak or Chicken Diane? Wow.” “What’s in this bag?” Socks, a black-out mask, mints, tooth brush, lotion—it was my Christmas stocking in June! My travel partner, Jim Lemon from the Chicago area, was a joy. We started talking five miles from the airport and kept up the dialogue across the Atlantic: children, radio programs, software, Rwanda, global warming—one topic sparked another.
Landing in Chicago, I realized a glitch in the travel arrangements. I had only 45 minutes at O’Hare, one of the world’s busiest airports, to collect my luggage, go through customs, recheck the bags, find transportation to another terminal, check in through security again, and get on the plane. Problem was, it couldn’t happen. And, it didn’t. I missed that flight and, consequently, missed my connecting flight in Phoenix. Suddenly, I was stranded in Chicago. No working cell phone—the Cyprus sim card was defunct and my “so easy” minutes depleted. No helpful travel agent would change the tickets, and I had no idea what to do—spend the night in Chicago, fly out in the morning? Fly to Phoenix, rent a car and drive six hours to Long Beach? Mostly, I was tired--tired of suitcases and connections and hassles, and I was missing people so badly I was on the verge of tears.
Finally, after checking with two airlines in two terminals, and pleading my case of bad connections and missed flights, I was rerouted from Chicago to Los Angeles late that evening. Unfortunately, my suitcases didn’t get the message. They flew on to Phoenix.
I arrived at LAX, exhausted, after midnight, without most of my luggage, and without a ride home. I bribed the van driver to take me to Long Beach, despite his insistence that it was out of the way. At one thirty in the morning, 33 ½ hours after I left Nicosia, I was not about to stand in the shadows of the airport and wait for another van to arrive.
“Thirty minutes more, I thought to myself, thirty minutes more.” On the van, I chatted with a family, coming to the area with plans to visit Disneyland. They were headed for a hotel that night in the California town of Cypress. Odd coincidence. I smiled. What an adventure their seven-year-old would have with Mickey and friends. What adventures we all have when we move out of our comfort zones, away from the familiarity of home, and beyond the expected expectations for living.
At 2 a.m., thirty-four hours after I left my flat in Nicosia, I opened the door to my bungalow in California. My dogs greeted me wildly at the front door, first thinking I was the burglar returning; then the recognition! I fell into bed and slept, clothes on, for six hours, awaking groggy and jet lagged. No surprise.
The next evening, my sons and I had dinner at our favorite restaurant, the Belmont Brewery, perched above the white sand beach, with the blue Pacific stretched out endlessly from the Long Beach shore. It was lovely as the sun set over the ocean. But, it wasn’t Cyprus.
My first day home, I settled bank accounts, sorted through six months of mail, reconnected my cell phone, mailed a small package back to Cyprus, and tried to adjust to traffic flowing on the wrong side of the road.
Yesterday, I chatted with my department chair at CSULB. Registration, cutting courses from the schedules, over-enrollments, over budget, under staffed. She asked me to teach a grad seminar this fall. Of course, I will, no problem. (But, here I am with no books ordered yet, no syllabus, no thought to putting materials on reserve.) No panic. Yet.
On Wednesday, I board another plane, retrace my flight pattern east for five hours to Charlotte, N.C. and end up driving the last two hours to Lugoff, S.C. to see my daughter and her family, including 11-day old baby Walker and 17-month old Foster. Anyone for a babysitting gig for three weeks? I’m switching hats, changing personas, moving on through the calendar of life.
This isn’t my last blog about Cyprus. The “wrap up” will come when I have time to think about it all. . .what did it mean for me to be in Cyprus in Spring 2008? Whose life did I touch? How was my own changed? My photos and memories are bountiful. My thoughts, however, now are jumbled. Leaving Cyprus was not easy. All I really know is I want to go back--Some day. Some way. Some how—to Nicosia, to Larnaka, to Kyrenia, to Karpas, to Pafos, to Kourion, to friends.
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