Beautiful photos from some of my favorite moments of May so far, including a hike into the mountains surrounding my city, where we spent the night at a magical monastery. Also, a few glimpses into 2009's Macedonian International Leadership Development Seminar on Lake Ohrid in Peštani, with my wonderful friends and colleagues in AIESEC...

The breathtaking sceneries and unforgettable celebrations never end!!!

It was a sun-drenched early spring weekend, and many of us Peace Corps volunteers joined in to aid locals from a beautiful nearby village in a river cleanup. In just two days, over 30 tons of waste were removed from the river and surroundings of the village. These pristine photos were taken after the clean-up, in places that once resembled landfills. During the span of the clean-up, we stayed at a beautiful bed-and-breakfast (seen in the first two photos), ate delicious traditional food, and sipped local homemade wine.

"I keep my ideals, because in spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart."--Anne Frank

I hope I never reach a point in life when my trust in others is too risky to bear. When the fear of betrayal breaks down the solid openness I seek to have with others, in spite of all their differences.

The way I like to see it, you get close to a hundred people, and one or two will seriously let you down. Will blackmail your every waking moment well into your nightmares, for the psychopathic hell of it. Or will run off and marry a girl the week you break off the relationship. I'm honestly starting to questions the sanctity of marriage, after the fourth betrayal of a best friend or lover. When two people elope, it is an affirmation of a life commitment, so what serves in hiding it?

In any case, that leaves 98 or 99 feasibly trustworthy individuals. Is it naive? I put this number so highly, because I'd like to think that an individual with genuine good intentions isn't often poisoned in return.

What it comes down to is the sum of our experiences. When I reflect upon these moral calculations, philosopher and political theorist Thomas Hobbes comes to mind. Having lived through the 17th-century English Civil War, Hobbes took on an extreme realist (and justifiably cynical) perspective of mankind. Hobbes in Leviathan describes the natural state of man as "a war of all against all," and that in the absence of central authority, "life is solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short." Today's [western] theorists are quick to acknowledge his realist slant as the aftermath of having endured a bloody civil war.

This time a year ago, in the beginning stages of my Peace Corps service, in my everyday norm of peace and hospitality in Macedonia, I was convincing myself that society will meet an individual halfway. That if one strives to maintain an attitude of optimism, and a fundamental belief in the goodness of others, it will influence the relationship this individual has with others.

There were certainly more affirmative cases of my theory than not, but with just a couple major disappointments (hiccups along the way), I cannot help but reemphasize the honesty of the oath of Macedonia-born Mother Theresa:

"...

Honesty and sincerity will make you vulnerable

It doesn't matter - create.

...

You give the best you can to the world

The world repays you with punches

It doesn't matter - give the best you can."

So perhaps, what it comes down to is the sum of our experiences, and faith. Faith that in spite of it all, people are truly good at heart. Did Anne Frank still believe the words she wrote as she wasted away at Bergen-Belsen? Or did she like so many others, as holocaust survivor and logotherapist Victor Frankl suggests, lose grasp of her faith, her will to live, which is what Frankl observed as the final traces of human survival?

I am told time and time again that I am admired for my faith in others. I think the human mind is capable of perceiving society in so many lights, because the world is too complex, and reality too objective, as it is. Some may say it is simply the power of the human mind to uphold this faith in fundamental goodness, and to trust others. I think so too.

There is indeed much one can lose by trusting, but personally, and in the end when it really matters, I still see much more to gain.

In March 2009, I went on an unforgettable journey to Niš, Serbia, for the Balkan Entrepreneurship Initiative Conference. It was eye-opening and inspiring to meet people my age whom are so dedicated to further developing their countries' economies, and doing so in ways that reflect the values of corporate social responsible. I look forward to returning to Niš one day, and further exploring the city, the beautiful country of Serbia, and throughout the former Yugoslavia!

Here are some photos from my full album, which you can see for yourself.

Before I say anything, I want to send kudos to the developers of http://www.peacecorpsjournals.com/. The streaming blog posts, videos, and photos are a brilliant idea! The new site layout makes it seem that the world is at our fingertips--I may be hooked!

Life is absolutely full of adventure here in Macedonia, and I've got just nine months to go of my 27-month term of service! How did 2/3's go by so quickly? I was shocked today to discover that some deadlines are approaching in terms of securing things for my life post-Peace Corps. I'm thinking I'll stay in the region after my Close of Service (before pursuing a Master's in International Affairs in USA in September 2010), ideally Bosnia & Herzegovina or the Middle East! I probably have a good chance at landing a fulfilling internship with AIESEC or even with one of the US embassies in the Balkans...

For now, I still have big plans in 2009!!!

March: Writing a grant to beautify our office, Attending the Balkans Entrepreneurship Initiative Conference in Niš, Serbia

April: Attending a Peace Corps Language In-Service Training in Ohrid, Macedonia (improving my Macedonian, learning some Albanian and Turkish), AIESEC Career Days and AIESEC Elections

May: Macedonian International Leadership Development Seminar

June: Studying for the GRE's, taking over the role of AIESEC's National Support Team

July: Two weeks in Mongolia for Ugie's wedding and the Nadaam Festivities!

August: Peace Corps Close of Service Seminar--planning the final months!

September: Turning 24!!!

October: AIESEC picks up as classes begin at the Faculty of Economics

November: Macedonian Open Seminar for Education and Motivation

December 2009: Peace Corps Close of Service:-O...taking a round trip flight to New Jersey and New York City for the holidays! Then in early 2010, off I go again, until Grad School Fall '10 semester...

It's going to fly by so fast, but for now I am ecstatic just living in the moment...

(This is a photo of my city's center during a costume parade for Prochka/Day of Forgiveness 2009)

As in the 'Timeless' video posted below, here are my own views of Macedonia's most striking landscapes, just minutes away in Prilep. A bunch of us hiked up to the cross atop Marko's Towers on February 8th, 2009. Enjoy the view from atop that peak (photos taken from my balcony, on the way up, and from the peak)!

Perfectly captures the magic of my life here! The mountain views are just minutes from my apartment...and I spend my summers swimming in that exquisite lake below the monastery...this video was made by none other than Milco Mancevski, director of 'Before the Rain'.

Books I've read in the Peace Corps:

Shutterbabe: Adventures in Love and War (Deborah Copaken Kogan)

They Would Never Hurt a Fly: War Criminals on Trial in the Hague (Slavenka Drakulić)

How We Survived Communism and Even Laughed (Slavenka Drakulić)

Tell Them I Didn't Cry: A Young Journalist's Story of Joy, Loss, and Survival in Iraq (Jackie Spinner)

Night (Elie Wiesel)

The Attack (Yasmina Khadra)

Tales of a Female Nomad (Rita Golden Gelman)

Twilight (Stephenie Meyer)

The Alchemist (Paulo Coelho)

The Hemingway Book Club of Kosovo (Paula Huntley)

The Bookseller of Kabul (Åsne Seierstad)

Silk (Alessandro Baricco)

Love in the Time of Cholera (Gabriel García Márquez)

New Moon (Stephenie Meyer)

Eclipse (Stephanie Meyer)

Breaking Dawn (Stephenie Meyer)

Sophie's World (Jostein Gaardner)

Books in my pile to read in the Peace Corps:

Zlata's Diary (Zlata Filipović)

Macedonia: What does it take to stop a war? (Harvey Pekar and Heather Robertson)

Balkan Ghosts: A Journey Through History (Robert D. Kaplan)

Everything is Illuminated (Jonathan Safran Foer)

The Prophet (Khalil Gibran)

Walden (Henry David Thoreau)

The Host (Stephenie Meyer)

Angela's Ashes (Frank McCourt)

C'est le soleil qui m'a brûlée (Calixthe Beyala)

Исповед од Харемот (Бранко Миленковиќ)

За Должностите (Марк Тулиј Кикерон)

...

The darkness crawls into daylight.

It is an immortal fear,

something supernatural,

unpredictable.

Evil personified,

inconsolable.

Pieces of my soul chipped off

Day by day

Like a long forgotten statue.

I manage to wake up

to walk the streets,

But goodness is cowering.

Decency as intangible as his intentions.

I’m up against cruelty.

One doesn’t win while one endures,

But others endure with me.

We’ve all lost in this game of good and evil,

Without ever having realized we were players.

Daylight savings time

Wakes me from another nightmare.

I fall and scrape my knee

Before my day in a town called liars.

Who deals the names

When the deeds are to be forgotten?

Who deals the blows

When the scars outlive our beauty?

One with virtue is not one with power,

Our humanity is our weakness.

Integrity and innocence say their farewells

As we are left to decipher dawn from dusk.

Views from atop one of my city's most prominent bell towers

Some mediocre portraits I took atop my balcony when stars aligned: the sun was shining and I was having a good hair day.

The following excerpt from the Foreign Service Journal is beautiful worded, written by former Peace Corps volunteer turned Foreign Service officer Erik J. Schnotala:

Every time I hear the phrase “transformational

diplomacy,” I cannot help thinking of my former Peace

Corps colleagues, who taught me to recognize two distinct

types of idealism, a lesson I’ve carried with me

into the Foreign Service.

First, there is the naïve sort of idealism, the kind

that people often associate with Peace Corps

Volunteers. This variety expects the best from people

but needs the adulation of others to sustain itself, so it

seldom lasts long. And when the world doesn’t change

overnight, these idealists are disillusioned — as happened

to many volunteers in my former host county.

The second kind of idealism is more enduring

because it understands human shortcomings and does

not expect too much from people. It is hardened by

real-life experiences and knows that partnerships take

time to develop. This kind of idealism still dares to

make the world a better place, but it has a longer horizon

and is not expecting praise or even tangible results

along the way. It sustains itself with nothing more than

a belief in its mission and unshakeable perseverance.

I found Mother Teresa's oath at her memorial house in Skopje this week, the city of her childhood. It spoke to me, because it perfectly reflects the selflessness I am learning it takes to truly give to others...Man is unreasonable, illogical and selfish

It doesn't matter - love him.

If you do good, they'll say you're selfish.

It doesn't matter - do good.

If you realize your goals,

You'll find false friends and just enemies

It doesn't matter - realize your goals.

The good that you do will be forgotten tomorrow

It doesn't matter - be true.

Honesty and sincerity will make you vulnerable

It doesn't matter - create.

If you help people it might be bad for you

It doesn't matter - help them.

You give the best you can to the world

The world repays you with punches

It doesn't matter - give the best you can.

"Between stimulus and response, there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom."--Victor Frankl, 1946Just as expected, this first year in the Peace Corps in Macedonia has been the most moving and fulfilling year of my life. I arrived last year to the date, with plenty of expectations in spite of all the recommendations to have none. I couldn't help but to expect more than just the up's and down's that seem to go hand-in-hand with any journey of this sort.

The funny thing is, life here for me has been almost completely up. I've been happier than ever before in my life, and almost regularly sigh to take in my new norm of well-being, comfort, and overall balance. Sometimes I wonder when the roller coaster nosedive will come; I've seen it happen to others and I've certainly experienced it before in my own life.

I perhaps imagined it happening when we first moved to our sites after three months with our host families, in the dead of winter, tredging down sheets of ice, celebrating the most 'christmas-less' christmas ever (in January, far from home, and over bonfires...really!?). But the down's didn't come then. It was all so new, and I had every reason to feel deeply grateful for my placement with AIESEC in this charming city I now call home.

Maybe it would come when everyone scattered in all directions this July, I calculated. My closest colleagues here were suddenly graduating and off to other places, many to new countries to take on glamorous internships with AIESEC. My local sweetheart, Dejan, was at last swayed to take advantage of his golden opportunity to move to New Jersey. Our favorite European volunteer headed back to Sweden and then moved on to London.

Instead of the loneliness I dreaded ever since I roamed the streets of Manhattan as a friendless zombie at age 17, a new cycle was kicked off, new interesting friends were made, and my daily jogs and diving into new projects filled my days with an even more refreshing fulfillment. I went into overdrive in order to meet new people and quickly branched out all over town, both socially and professionally.

At regular intervals I calculate how long it has been and just how long I have left. Holy crap, I think, over two years here!? I'll be in my mid-twenties by then! Even two years in New York City left me restless! I start calculating the ages of my friends and family members by 2010, some of whom I may not see until then. But then I remember--wow, if this was the happiest fall/winter/spring/summer I've pretty much ever had, I have a lot more to look forward to!

All of this babbling is marked with contradictions, in a sense. Today while jogging, for example, I considered if I felt free here in the midst of all this reputation bologna and Peace Corps confinement. Even just jogging brings plenty of odd stares my way. These aren't the things I focus on most, though. I focus rather on how absolutely grateful I am to have this life and these opportunities, because of the things I was merely lucky enough to be born with, like my supportive family and my citizenship. When I consider my current freedoms, I focus easily on things like the flexibility of my work schedule, and my long-awaited financial independence!

Is this path, these ultimately fulfilling choices I've made, and others have made that landed me here, a lucky or karmic draw? Or am I just recognizing the beauty in this experience, which I fought so hard to make happen? There are challenges every day which threaten my sense of balance, and yet I think what all this "karma" is actually about is that I'm so grateful for all of this. At some point early on here in Macedonia, it dawned on me that the more positive I am about everything, the more positives I and others recognize around me. This is as far as my faith goes, a philosophy inspired by Victor Frankl's 'Man's Search For Meaning'.

Frankl was a holocaust survivor who recognized a key survival skill in human psychology--recognizing meaning in life in even the most difficult of struggles. I could go on and on about Victor Frankl's experience and consequential psychotherapeutic developments, but the point is, I have found my meaning here. What could possible be more fundamental in life than to reach out to others, form meaningful relationships, and do good deeds? Beyond philanthropy, the connection alone, making the extra effort to touch someone's life and make it a bit brighter, is a gift that keeps on giving. This simple act gives me a deep sense of purpose in life.

This is a very basic lesson, one I have always known but haven't always put into practice as a lifestyle. The lessons I have taken so far from this year in Macedonia will continue to enrich my life and those around me in profound ways. As Frankl wrote in 'Man's Search for Meaning': “We who lived in concentration camps can remember the men who walked through the huts comforting others, giving away their last piece of bread. They may have been few in number, but they offer sufficient proof that everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms -- to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way.”If we look for it, freedom and purpose is everywhere.

In Sardinia, we snorkeled and sailed to islands dotting the coast between la Maddelena and la Corse, to sardine-colored sandy beaches and untouched harbors, where we feasted on mussels and drifted peacefully upon the turquoise sea. In Sofia I navigated the Bulgarian cobblestone streets until dawn overtook the oppressive darkness, us drunk on life and cheap cocktails, time at a standstill as we got more lost with each turn until we stumbled upon our Boulevard Vitosha. In Istanbul I sat with friends of childhood Turkish friends on Anatolian rooftops, talking long into the night over tea and fruit-flavored nargila, with the view of Europe’s majestic gateway sparkling from beyond the Bosphorus Sea. In Afitos, the pristine Greek beaches beckoned us out to swim and explore another perplexing reality, the Macedonia lost to the Macedonians that inhabit a Greece lost to the Greeks. In Rome, I navigated the preserved renaissance alleyways with my sister, admiring open-air orchestras and preppy Italians on Vespas, indulging in stracciatella gelato, Sangiovese wine, Prosecco with a dash of blackcurrent in a shadowy enoteca, and multiple truffled pastas.

Neither the charm of Rome, the glamour of Paris, nor the greatness of New York City could have prepared me for the awe-inspiring, heartbreaking splendor of Istanbul. A long term life goal to visit Istanbul has been realized, and yet after just five days there, a new life goal to settle there lingers over my future.

Day 1, we arrive in a trans-continental train as dawn breaks and the meuzzins’ prayers awaken a city draped in red and white Turkish flags, revealing a humble pride and admirable respect for tradition and culture. We are welcomed with thick Turkish coffees near the Sultanahmet quarter’s Blue Mosque and Hagia Sofia, before the unforgettable Turkish hospitality carries us to far ends of Istanbul, to a fish restaurant overlooking yachts upon Rivieraesque inlets, sahlep sipping by the sea, and non-alcoholic nightlife with live Turkish acoustics.

Day 2, we bond in the suds of femininity in a hamam lit by sun peeking through rooftop holes, enjoying full body massages, then fresh robes and fresh tea despite the curious gazes of lounging Arab guests. I decide that Istanbul is much like a city-wide version of Princeton’s Grounds for Sculpture, a lush green sculpture park devoted to life-size interpretations of the world’s greatest impressionist paintings. Except that Istanbul is not a deliberate art project, but a contemporary explosion of majestically detailed Byzantine and Ottoman architecture, built to please even the most capricious of sultans.

Day 3, again embraced by the hospitality of our new friends, we are taken to Istanbul’s Anatolian side of the Bosphorus, in Asia. Wind flows through the car as a crisp radio wave drifts Sezen Aksu’s ‘Geri Dön’ out to ease the victims of a rush hour traffic jam. We eat kebabs and eggplant salad in an elegant tearoom of ottoman decor, we have our fortunes read in the grains of Turkish coffee, and we continue the night over nargila on a humbling Anatolian peak. I decide that Turks are generous, deeply spiritual people, and that this is what gives a sprawling, earthquake-prone city like Istanbul a refreshing edge of tranquility otherwise lost in the west.

Day 4, we ride the waves of the Bosphorus on a boat that permits us to daydream that we will one day be residents of the myriad of seaside mansions and palaces. We drive back through Istanbul at night, and I melt at the sight of a sky so alive, midnight blue light shows reflecting off of brilliant sparkling bridges that connect more than just continents. I decide that I underestimated the nightlife of a Muslim country, and that Istanbul has the potential to surpass the thrills of all cities I’ve ever painted red. The rooftop bar blasts the soundtrack of ‘Borat,’ and I dance Balkans-style in a global village of thrill-seeking Istanbulites.

Day 5, the day of my departure. My dear friend decides to stay the summer, and extends her plane ticket. We effectively lived a lifetime in five fleeting days, and I too fear I may never live my life complete far from this city. Luckily for me, I am neither going far in culture, cuisine, language, or distance. In the beginning of my bus ride back to Macedonia, I vow to begin learning Turkish, one of Macedonia’s spoken languages, to find Sahlep (a creamy drink made from orchard root) in Skopje’s Turkish-style bazaars, to make regular heaps of eggplant salad, and to consider Istanbul in the mix of AIESEC Middle East traineeship destinations at the close of my service here in 2010. So far, each of these goals has been realized...

So here I am in Macedonia, watching the Democratic National Convention live. It's well past midnight and I have an early morning meeting, but I just cannot seem to sleep!

New York delegates have just shuffled onto the floor, and Hillary Clinton officially suspended the delegate counts in favor of Barack Obama.

The acclamation marks an amazing moment in the history of our great nation! YES WE CAN!!!

What was endearing to me is that I held my breath to peer at the crowd of New York Democrats surrounding Clinton as if I were trying to recognize old friends. Indeed, I saw many in that crowd whom I met (Hillary Clinton for instance). Senator Chuck Schumer dropped in on my college graduation this time last year and gave a moving keynote speech that I still cherish to this day. And of course, my old boss, head of Ways and Means, Congressman Charles Rangel! And all the dear people I met at celebrations, historical leaders I may or may not have even recognized (like former NYC Mayor Dinkins!)

I felt so proud to be working for and beside New York Democrats...leaders who made the city and the state my ultimate favorite in the country, and more so, my home! I sure miss all the buzz of New York local politics...but international development and humanitarian work is hardly a tradeoff. I may be far from my fellow New York Democrats, but I'll post in celebration of an overwhelmingly positive, historical MOVEMENT in America. Sure, I have to watch the convention from across the world, in the middle of the night, and I can't do much canvassing for Obama here, and I'll be voting overseas in yet another presidential election...but one of these days I'll put in my time and support and I'll be part of it all!!! Upon second thought, however, perhaps I already am part of it all...

"Language is wine upon the lips."

--Virginia Woolf, on Language

"La felicidad no necesita ser transmutada en belleza, pero la desventura sí."

--Jorge Luis Borges, on Beauty

"On passe souvent de l'amour à l'ambition, mais on ne revient guère de l'ambition à l'amour."

--La Rochefoucauld, on Love

وليكن ملاك الأفراح واللذات المتبادلة مرفرفاً فوق حلاوة الصداقة. لأن القلب يجد صباحه في الندى العالق بالأشياء الصغيرة, فينتعش ويستعيد قوته

--Khalil Gibran, on Friendship

"Ако как овде с’нце ме стретит, ако пак мрачно с’нцето светит, на п’т далечни jа ке се стегнам, и в други ст’рни ке си побегнам, к’дето с’нцето светло угревjат, к’де небото дзвезди посевjат."

--Konstantin Miladinov, on Travel

I was told for three weeks leading up to the meeting not to shake their hands. It couldn’t be more simple to remember, I thought, until the moment arrived and habit nearly betrayed me. With a nervous smile I began offering my hand to the six Saudi men, until my boss Ana reminded me in hushed French to keep my distance. Instead, I prudently nodded and welcomed them in Arabic. The Saudi delegates were prominent professors from the University of Mecca, taking a diplomatic tour of the Middle Eastern Studies programs popping up in American academia. Ana considered their tour more so a public relations stint: a constituency of Saudis here to win over the approval of those skeptical of Saudi Arabia’s poor human rights record. When security informed Ana that they had just arrived, her sarcastic humor came out when she grumbled to us that “the Wahhabis are downstairs.” Ana, a Lebanese professor, was the only other woman present in our group to greet the Saudis. She and I had both dressed up for the occasion, a choice of baggy business casual that well covered our arms and legs. The men who walked in were wearing crisp black suits, and all but one had a full beard. My first impression was that they looked just like Hasidic Jews. Still, I felt a sense of ease when walking through Hasidic neighborhoods in New York, ease that was now momentarily absent. Our Saudi guests were on a short-term diplomatic tour, accompanied by a State Department envoy and interpreters. In this environment, we were meeting in the middle on diplomatic grounds, and so I felt like I just stepped one foot into Mecca. Thoughts I hadn’t anticipated raced through my head as I stood before the Saudi professors, the Arabic interpreters, and the diplomat by their side. How will my eye contact be interpreted? Should I smile? Is it best to avoid small talk? I offered to carry the tray of Middle Eastern sweets to the meeting room down the hall. One of the older men, whose smile made him stand out among his other colleagues, caught up to me. His English was good as he asked questions and told me about his past university studies in London. This isn’t a good idea, I thought. These men come from a society where women can be prosecuted just for being alone with men who are not relatives. Or whipped, or stoned, or killed. I shouldn’t appear too engaged in this conversation. I sat quietly down between my Lebanese and Iranian bosses. While the interpreters set up a line of headphones for the Saudis, I got a better view of those present. Two fellow students whose presence calmed my culture shock, one from America and one from Turkey. My supportive bosses, who urged me to come and uniquely represent the constituency of female Americans studying Arabic. Across from me, the lanky, dark skinned Somalian interpreter with gentle eyes. His posture seemed to lack self-confidence, a contrast to the polished, upright, blue-eyed Egyptian interpreter. A handsome Saudi with a chiseled, beardless face and dark eyes sitting on one end of the row. Five seats down, a grumpy looking old man with a wiry gray beard, downcast eyes, and a dark spot luring above his furrowed eyebrows. I had never witnessed until this moment the mark of a Muslim who prays so frequently. We introduced ourselves, me with a shaky voice but a confident, professional tone, wowing our guests with a few more lines of classical Arabic. When the Saudis began speaking, I was surprised by how much of their fluid, resonating Arabic I could understand without the interpreter’s help. And then we went down to business, Middle Eastern-style, over beverages and the honey-glazed pistachio pastries. My adrenaline rush was still in kick, but I was no longer focusing on my limits as a woman. I was soaking up every moment of this fascinating experience, feeling more relaxed by the minute. We spoke of academia for a while until the friendly conversation was strained by tougher questions. Why so little scholarly research done in Saudi Arabic? Well, why won’t the American Government issue research visas for Saudi scholars? My concentration was broken by the foot of the Somalian interpreter, who was stretching his legs beneath the table. It hardly grazed my ankle and I thought nothing of it. He, however, appeared mortified by the incident, apologizing profusely while making visible efforts to fold his legs beneath his chair. It was just minutes later that my boss Ana nudged me. She leaned in and in French whispered that it would be the perfect time for me to ask about the status of women in Saudi Arabia. What? My apprehensive eyes questioned if it was appropriate, but by then Ana had waved in the interpreter. “Marissa has a question she’d like to ask.” WHAT!?!? All eyes were now on me, including the Egyptian interpreter, whose blazing blue eyes revealed an almost undetectable flirtatious sparkle. Off the spot I blurted out the first question I felt met my comfort zone of confrontational diplomacy. “I’m interested in knowing about the status of higher education for Saudi women. How many female universities are available in the country and what are the most common specializations?” I know that fathers in Saudi Arabia have the right to keep their daughters out of even primary school. There are indeed segregated schools and universities for privileged females in Saudi Arabia. This I know because of a tragic incident brought up at a recent talk I attended on contemporary Islamist movements across the Middle East. In 2002, a fire broke out in a public school for girls in Mecca. Religious authorities hesitated to unlock the gates of the school for those left uncovered, their abayas already swallowed up by the fire. By then, it was too late, and to the shock of many both in and outside of Saudi Arabia, at least 14 girls were killed in the flames. So yes, there are indeed female schools in Saudi Arabia. As my question was interpreted, I could see the visible impact on the faces of the Saudis, and I sensed growing tension in the air. The answers were defensive yet detailed. They boasted of successful working Saudi women, and spoke of the higher education opportunities available to them. When it came time to cover the specializations of Saudi women, fields “appropriate for women” were brought up. Family-related fields like nursing and teaching are appropriate, oil engineering however is not. I thanked them graciously for their honesty. Small talk resumed on the details of their trip. What would they be seeing in New York today? The diplomat would escort them across the street to check out the view from the Empire State Building. And of course gift shopping, as one of the Saudis remarked in good humor, because his wife would never let him back in the house if he didn’t come manned with some American goodies! Our meeting was over. We had a few moments of one-on-one chat as the interpreters packed up and my boss went to retrieve some documents. I was first approached by my fellow American student, who came to me with hushed questions because he had not known of the fundamentalism of Saudi Society. I promised to fill him in later. Soon enough, the older Saudi who’d studied in London approached me, and this time we comfortably chatted. He was curious what my career plans are, now that I speak all these languages and have a focus on the Middle East. I said more confidently than ever before that I hope to be a diplomat. He encouraged me to pursue my dreams, smiling like a proud father. I saw the man with the dark spot race out of the room, still avoiding eye contact with everyone. The Somalian interpreter, still blushing from the foot incident, rushed over to me to apologize one last time before leaving. These pious men were to me a more extreme form of culture clash. I then joined the conversation with Ana and the younger, beardless Saudi man. They were speaking in Arabic, and I said a few basic phrases before we switched over to English. He was impressed by my language skills, and friendly small talk resumed. It was time to say our goodbyes and file out. The Saudi man offered an outstretched hand to Ana, a surprising gesture, and then to me. We shook hands, smiling amiably, and went our separate ways. It was such a simple, everyday interaction, and yet I’ll never forget the significance of that handshake. Back in the office, I was approached by impressed colleagues who had heard of my gutsy question. I shrugged off any praise, mainly glad that everything had gone so smoothly during the meeting. Maybe a culturally sensitive linguist, propelled with a healthy dose of confrontation, is the right equation for a successful diplomat. In the years to come, I will remember this meeting as an inspirational first step towards my career in diplomacy.

Me in Struga and Ohrid, Macedonia (April 2008)

If I had an eagle's wings

I would rise and fly on them

To our shores, to our own parts,

To See Stambol, to See Kukuš;

And to watch the sunrise: is it

Dim there too, as it is here? If the sun still rises dimly,

If it meets me there as here,

I'll prepare for further travels,

I shall flee to other shores

Where the sunrise, greets me brightly,

And the sky is sewn with the stars.

It is dark here, dark surrounds me,

Dark for covers all the earth,

Here are frost and snow and ashes,

Blizzards and harsh winds abound,

Fogs all around, the earth is ice,

And in the breast are cold, dark thoughts.

No, I cannot stay here, no;

I cannot upon this frosts.

Give me wings and I will don them;

I will fly to our own shores,

Go once more to our own places,

Go to Ohrid and to Struga.

There the sunrise warms the soul,

The sun gets bright in mountain woods:

Younder gifts in great profusion

Richly spread by nature's power.

See the clear lake stretching white-

Or bluely darkened by the wind,

Look you at the plains or mountains:

Beauty' everywhere divine.

To pipe there to my heart's content!

Ah! let the sun set, let me die.

--Konstantin Miladinov (1830-1862)

Six months ago today, in a fit of paranoia, I shut down this blog.

The thought of re-capping these first six months in Macedonia is momentarily too overwhelming, so I'll start off with my reasons for having closed and subsequently relaunched my blog.

I like to share my writing with others, and nothing so creative has come of me since I decided to stop writingly publicly in September. At the time, it seemed like the only option for me, as I am obsessed with accuracy concerning the details of my personal life. I didn't find censoring my own thoughts all too appealing, nor did I want my previous political venting to compromise the growing reality of a potential career in international diplomacy.

However, my attempt this week to start blogging anonymously ended up being even less appealing. I could write about my thoughts, but not about my life.

Clearly, I'd prefer to write about my life! So before my memories slip any further into the past, I've decided to relaunch this blog which will attempt to capture my adventures in Macedonia. I refuse to accept that I will write less and less as I grow older and begin my career. I think that writing is what I've always done best. Most importantly: my stories need to be told.

Hello family,

I hope you're all well. You better be, it's a beautiful day!

Just wanted to let you all know that I'm enjoying my little layover in Vienna, for the free wireless internet especially. Five hours of getting a lot of internet stuff down, resting after a couple of action packed days.

I look up at some interesting sights...

Israeli hippies girls sitting back to back, linking arms and singing. A Kosovar who befriended our group on the plane is next to me going through his photos of home on his laptop, and to be completely honest, they are gorgeous. He has three identical glass houses by the sea, in one big row...or at least his dad does. The cutest blonde Austrian toddlers running around like little men in sweaters. A marble fountain in the center of a large, seemingly environment-friendly (greenhouse-esque) terminal hub. A man on the run, using an electric shaver in the corner behind a plant. Some dapper well dressed eurotrash mulling by here and there. A group of 42 exhausted new friends, guarding one anothers luggage, chatting, surfing the net, sleeping, watching DVDs, reading, if not looking around in awe in their first hours of life abroad. People lined up to fly to Larnaca, wherever that is (update: Cyprus). Toronto. Tel Aviv. New York. Bombay. And soon enough, Skopje.

As we were landing here, they began to blast Mozart. I wanted to clap but reconsidered. Dara, I thought of your comment on how it's only the Latin people who clap in abundance. Unlike latinos, the Austrians did not clap...no surprise there.

We ate cured meats and cheese for breakfast this morning...it was one a.m. our time but whatever, free food. Now I suppose it's 3 am-ish, although here it's 9. I admit I'm in a 24 hour commute-to-Veles daze, but incredibly excited.

It was great chatting with you all before I sent off the phone in a heavily taped box. As you know, it may be a little hectic when we arrive, settling en masse in the hotel and the such, immediately attending the welcoming celebration where costumed Macedonians meet us for some traditional food, music, dance and overall jet-lagged festivities....

I'm expecting a lot of beautiful green autumn tinged landscape as we drive to Veles, a bit of well-anticipated confusion here and there, overall exhaustion, but overwhelming excitement about what is to come, and I'm especially looking forward to exploring the city the first week before our classes start.

For now, I'm sitting in this corner in Vienna, blasting Russian techno, too lazy to explore (these airports all look the same after a while). If I can't call you guys when I arrive, savor (saaaay-vor) this email in the meantime and expect a call sometime in the next few days.

All in all, I still haven't been to Macedonia, who knows what the expect :P

Love you all!!!!! Yey for fun new changes! Prijatno!!!!!!!!! Life here is about to translate into some funky Cyrillic...

It was the best last few weeks a girl could have in the big apple! Thanks to all of you for that! Check out some more of my photo album here!!

I lived an epic moment earlier this evening, by revisiting the infamous restaurant where I once worked for the “crazed Macedonian man.” Considering I used to cross the street to avoid being spotted by any estranged coworkers, it was a big deal seeing some of them again after four long years. I had such a rotten experience there, that much like high school, chills would run down my spine whenever I came too close. But these days, no hard feelings. I creepily called the restaurant a few weeks ago to recall the name of the “crazed Macedonian man,” and to inquire when would be the best time to find him there. He’s the only Macedonian I know of, so why not get some tips for my September move? The Eastern European voice at the end of the line seemed skeptical, it was hard to explain myself, so I just decided to pop by unannounced earlier today. I was walking by the restaurant terrace with a massive piece of luggage I brought back from New Jersey, for the move of course, chatting on the phone, when I saw him. Julian: the “crazed Macedonian” of my past, a hard-working restaurant owner. A charming white-haired man, always impeccably dressed, stunningly attractive even in his fifties. Still—I recalled one fiery temper brewing behind that good-natured smile. Georgio the manager was mulling around nearby; I made sure to avoid him like the plague. Never again would I voluntarily speak to that evil Bulgarian power-tripper after all the madness I witnessed when working for him. He was unacceptably disrespectful to me, as well as to Eno my Albanian “pseudo-boyfriend”, whom he randomly fired from the restaurant for dating me around the same time I quit. I got a sick sense of satisfaction in the fact that Georgio was still working there, and not on Wall Street where he thought he would be by now. I quickly suppressed these worthless feelings. So as I was saying, I spotted the “crazed Macedonian” from my past, Julian. I called him out onto the bustling Upper East Side sidewalk and introduced myself as a former employee. It may seem wacky, but it’s a huge deal, here’s the only Macedonian I’ve ever met, and I’m about to move to his country for over two years! Of course--he didn’t remember me whatsoever. This doesn’t surprise me, I was much different when I was a naïve eighteen-year-old waitress. Julian was extraordinarily kind, and genuinely happy to hear from someone who once worked for the restaurant. I couldn’t control my excitement, I sounded like I was asking a game show question when I said “and guess where I’m moving in three weeks!!!” He was stumped, so I gushed out the answer. Macedonia! Once my answer sunk in, the curious and excited look on his face deflated into an expression of horrified disbelief. “What!? Why are you moving there? It’s dangerous, honey!” Eek…wasn’t the response I’d anticipated. “Well…I’m going into the Peace Corps! Aren’t you Macedonian!? I could have sworn you were…” “No, I’m Croatian. I was born in Skopje though, but hardly remember it. I left Yugoslavia before the war.” So we chatted. I was positive he once told me he was Macedonian, but apparently my “crazed Macedonian” is in fact a “crazed Croatian.” Close enough? So it looks like the first Macedonian I’ll meet is whoever pops up first when I land in the airport in Skopje (heh). The more we spoke, the more enthusiastic he was for my going to the former Yugoslavia. He made it clear that two years there may be tough, but that in any case, he has no idea what it’s like now that the war’s over. I assured him that everyone I know living there feels completely safe, that they love the lifestyle and the people. He let the idea of my going sink in for a few moments and grew eventually more positive, supportive, and curious. I told him I’m planning to take my family to Dubrovnik, Croatia for the holidays. “That’s my city,” he shouted out, and insisted that Dubrovnik and basically everywhere else in the former Yugoslavia is breathtakingly gorgeous. He laughed when I said I’d be working for some kind of political NGO…men in passing keep doing that, as level-headed and astute as I am, I can only imagine that they view me as the main character of Legally Blonde about to take on Harvard Law. I may be young and cheerful, but little do they know that life in all these big cities has turned me into an assertive bitch when need be… “Oh my God,” he repeated to himself, “you’re going to have a Yugoslav husband!” I insisted I was too young for marriage, but Julian just said, “yea, you wait and see! These are crafty men we’re talking about!” When I asked Julian for any tips from a local, he had one response, “just stay away from those Albanian men!” Like old friends, we departed, and I called out to him as he turned back into the restaurant I once compared to hell, “see you in a few years!”

Lest I again indulge in my overwhelming excitement...This time next month I’ll be living in a country younger than I am. The plan: New York City to New Jersey to Philadelphia to Washington D.C. to Fairfax, VA to Vienna, Austria to Skopje to Veles, Macedonia.I’m living in a city of eight million, preparing to move to a country of two million. If we want to be sarcastic, I’m about to meet just about every other Macedonian celebrity…six times over. Six degrees of separation are about to be cut in half (something that has always fascinated me...hearing about charming little countries where everyone somehow knows everyone...) There are apparently two hundred Jews in Macedonia…as of September, there will be two hundred and a half (more "sarcasm"). Classes at Hunter College begin tomorrow…a few months ago I thought there was no chance that I would be graduating on time. If I hadn’t piled on credits and raised hell with Hunter bureaucracy, I’d be half-heartedly preparing for a fifth year at college and not packing for a Peace Corps stint in Macedonia. This time next year, perhaps I’ll be speaking seven languages and writing in three alphabets: English, French, Spanish, Arabic, Macedonian, Bulgarian, Albanian. When I'm not working...here would be some ideal trip ideas for the next three years, outside of Macedonia of course:Istanbul, Turkey...at last!

Un petit retrouvai parisien chez KelseyA Croatian Christmas with my family in DubrovnikA Romanian Halloween partying in Dracula’s Bran Castle

A trans-Siberian railroad journey to Ugie’s 2009 Mongolian weddingA couple months’ Arabic refresher course in Fez, Morocco...in 2010Kyiv, Ukraine: my grandparents fled persecution in Eastern Europe, and now...in a more enlightened time and place (knock on wood), I'm heading back!

…Despite all these bizarre midnight speculations, my goal is to keep my mind open, and have no concrete expectations! Once again, as Kerouac once put it: "I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till I drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion."

ﭑEva was awakened to the amber dawn by a lurching voice from beyond the open balcony, calling the city to prayer. “Allahu akbar,” was all she could understand of the muezzin’s impassioned melody, God is the greatest, before he broke into an increasingly familiar cry that stirs the city of Casablanca five times daily.Casablanca was otherwise silent, peacefully waking. Within their modest apartment, thick white sheets had been tossed upon the tile floor. Eva grabbed the sheets to cover her bare stomach and legs as she strolled over to the fourth floor balcony. She yawned, intoxicated by the empty dirt streets and the explosion of whitewashed buildings before her eyes.Zahir, still lying in bed, perfectly understood the prayers. He doubted regularly and foremost the second to last line: “prayer is better than sleep.” He had heard the prayers nearly every day for twenty-four years, yet in the past few years he was increasingly unconvinced, especially in the early mornings when forced spirituality invaded his vivid dreams. He sat up on the side of the bed for a few moments, slipped his feet into pointed leather slippers, and went to accompany Eva upon the balcony in the humid morning heat.His boyish figure and long tanned arms engulfed the mass of femininity now wrapped self-consciously in his mother’s old Egyptian sheets. Better than prayer and sleep was embracing his new wife, he thought, as he gazed at her faded green eyes that visibly fought the urge to return to sleep. Eva smiled, her blonde hair sparkling as sunlight crept unsteadily through the neighbor’s jasmine trees.Zahir considered whether to propose tea to Eva in French or Arabic. Her French was nearly perfect, yet her Arabic remained awkward and overly eloquent, a broken dialect that Moroccans struggled to comprehend.“You take tea?” Zahir teasingly attempted Eva’s Arabic, although he knew she preferred his French.“Sure, I’ll have our usual, thanks ya habibi.” Eva responded in French, except for her predictable habibi--my beloved--which the Casablancans use to trail every other phrase.Zahir lit the stove with a match, tolerating the heat for a split second before watching it fade out from underneath the pot. Eva looked on dutifully, noting the meticulousness of this process. She vowed to eventually brew Moroccan tea as naturally as he did, effortlessly for relatives or any new guests she would one day have over.Soon, Eva would return the sheets to their bed, and begin awkwardly wrapping herself in a pastel-colored silk robe they had picked out together in the markets. She would momentarily slip her humble wedding ring off, and stare into a faded mirror for a few moments before washing her hands and face.Zahir peered from the kitchen. “It’s ready, the tea. I thought mint tea would be the perfect way to begin such a warm morning.” Eva slipped on her ring and walked to the kitchen.The heat was already trailing through the open balcony, carrying both the scent of jasmine and a chorus of rushed voices of the neighborhood’s most ambitious shopkeepers. Another daily ritual, the men would set up tables of incense, Qur’ans, and kebabs on each side of the winding streets below.Eva smiled, exchanging an impromptu kiss for Zahir’s hospitality, and returned to the balcony. She sipped from the glass, the saccharine mint liquid warm upon her lips, and listened to the cacophony of voices from below, incomprehensible yet unmistakably entrepreneurial. She strained her eyes to see boats of all sizes resting serenely upon the green surface of the Atlantic Ocean. When she felt a light kick, Eva placed a hand on her bulging stomach. “I feel the baby’s kicking,” she called out to Zahir. Zahir momentarily recalled his interrupted dream from the night before. Images of twin babies flashed before his eyes. He was unsure why, but they bore striking similarities to his parents, who were killed in a car accident in the outskirts of Casablanca when he was nineteen.بEva arrived in Casablanca seven and a half months ago, initially planning to realize her childhood dream of hiking the Atlas Mountains. She first decided to visit some of the Moroccan cities her professor, who was also her lover, earnestly suggested she see the final year she was studying photography back home in Idaho.She met Zahir her first week at a small francophone school where she was temporarily hired to teach English to local children. Zahir taught and gave tours of the old city to adults, mainly English, German, and American tourists, who came to Casablanca to learn Arabic at the school.The two began speaking in between their respective classes, and decided one day to go for tea at a nearby café overlooking the bustling docks. Over the course of a month, their rendezvous’ became a ritual on Tuesdays and Fridays. Late one afternoon, when they were still lost in conversation after several hours, when the orange sun was already sinking into the horizon, Zahir invited Eva to smoke rose-flavored hookah on his terrace.She stayed in his arms the rest of the weekend, mesmerized by the view. He had never before imagined falling for someone so different from him, but Eva’s mystery was intriguing, and her worldly sophistication blended well with his idea of the passion of a thirty-year-old American woman. He had given her his virginity that weekend, and yet in spite of his frustration, she refused to answer whether or not she had given him her’s.They had not yet come close to considering a future together, but one evening in the months that followed, as they shared lamb couscous at a nearby restaurant, Eva broke down crying. She assured him that she knew she was pregnant, and that Zahir was without a doubt the father. Over time, Zahir’s disbelief evolved into dutiful support.Eva considered flying to Holland for an abortion, but she recalled her youthful, naive promises that if ever faced with such a decision, she would keep her baby. Because of his own ethics, Zahir promised he would be there for her and their child, and urged Eva not to consider abortion.Each night, he experienced powerful dreams which unlocked their future together, living in a large open villa closer to the ocean. Zahir relished images of Eva pouring tea as two blonde toddlers sat playfully upon his knees. The creeping sounds of the muezzin’s morning prayers would interrupt the recurring dreams, snapping him back into his conscious state, a mélange of apprehension and excitement.He proposed when the signs of Eva’s pregnancy were strikingly obvious. She was slowly gaining weight, often fighting queasiness, and was in an ongoing futile search for oriental pastries and something called peanut butter, which Zahir failed to find in even the most exotic of Casablanca’s markets.So as to avoid rumors of Eva’s pregnancy, they had a simple marriage, before an imam in the neighboring mosque among a small gathering of Zahir’s childhood friends and distant relatives. Apart from her mother, a free-spirited bohemian of sorts who visited the week of the marriage from Idaho, Zahir was surprised that Eva had only phoned a few friends about the marriage. He understood little of the English she used with her loved ones, and was often curious about how she described her new life in Casablanca.تZahir returned to the balcony. Morning had fully captured the city, the still heat overcome by breezes that swept in from the ocean. The contrast of his tanned hand was striking upon Eva’s rounded, porcelain stomach.“I know it sounds crazy, but I have this feeling there’s more than one baby,” Zahir said.“I can’t understand where you came up with that idea,” Eva said. “I do have a couple of twin cousins in my family, though. On my father’s side…we’ve all lost touched.”Zahir gave Eva a satisfied look, his eyes tinted like tiger-eye, long eyelashes and deep brown curls softening an otherwise intense face. He still knew very little about her family, her life in general.“One day I want to hear these stories. Of course, we have all the time in the world,” Zahir said. Eva smiled, her eyes soon trailing off.Zahir sensed that Eva was still adapting to being the center of someone else’s world. Over the years, she had habituated herself to self-reliance, to distance and a cynical outlook on love. Sipping the tea Zahir had offered, she looked out beyond the jasmine trees, the bustling markets beneath their balcony, the mélange of French and Arab architecture, the humbling mosques that peppered the city, and the backdrop of an infinite ocean. She wondered if she would ever have the chance to hike the Atlas Mountains.“Yes, all the time in the world, ya habibi.”*

(I wrote the above for a creative writing project in the Spring of 2007. No, I've never actually been to the Arab world. Yes, I claim all creative rights...except for the gorgeous ::let's run off to Casablanca:: photo...)

As I always do on this blog when I'm robbed, I'll vent.

Ipods are such a waste of time and money!!! Seriously. I was walking to work today, 3 p.m. on a charming street corner in Harlem, and some worthless RAT of a kid on a bike rides up behind me and swipes it from my pocket. He had been obnoxiously following me the moment I left my apartment, so I crossed the street....it hit me like a snap, the (Russian) music stopped jarringly just as he grabbed me from behind for the IPod and cycled off.

Two minutes later, I was still chasing him across 124th street in hysterics, yelling at the rat fink as he turned a corner on his bike. It caused quite the commotion, I was so shaken at having been grabbed unsuspectingly, my shirt had fallen off and an ambulance eventually intercepted me.

A bystander said a cop car had been right near me on the corner, had witnessed the whole thing, but opted to drive in the opposite direction! I lost my taste for Harlem when I heard it. God...my morale is temporarily down, that's all.

There was a drunk old man hanging out of the ambulance car and they put me in the front seat to calm down. Some teenage guy was very supportive and a middle aged man said, "listen, you're here in one piece honey, calm down, it's not like you were raped!" Another guy told me how he had had his Ipod stolen just a week ago. An older man responded, "and you see, he even lives here!" I had to correct him, pointing across the street to where I live. He apologized awkwardly, it's no news to me, they call me the white sista' in Harlem, "snowflake", I stand out like a damn lighthouse in this part of town. Everyone assumes I live elsewhere, a lot is assumed...and to think, that rat fink with his brand new 60 GB Ipod video probably sees me every day, and I'll have no idea! I didn't see his evil little face!

I felt foolish for having run down the streets crying, but jeez, I've never had any problems in Harlem. It brought me back to Paris, when I had been blindsided from behind like this four times...screw what was stolen today, to be grabbed like that is so invasive!

I started reflecting on haves and have-nots. I felt foolish being judged about where I must live, how much more I must have, why I must be crying...I haven't even paid for that Ipod yet, music is a guilty pleasure and I took out student loans just to buy it. I grieved about my precious Ipod for a couple of minutes and moved on. I was just angry to be grabbed like that, I would be late for work now and dammit! I lost 6,000 songs, and I'll spend two years in Macedonia flipping through some b-rate radio!!!!

Such is life, I began telling myself. I wasn't hurt. I was advised by the police never to chase a thief down like that, he could have pulled a knife or gun on me...I need to stop doing that! In Argentina, without thinking, I screamed hysterically and fought some thief to save two cameras...I can only be so lucky choosing "fight" when I'm faced with "fight or flight"! It could have been so much worse.

Forget my lack of Ipod in Macedonia, I'm lucky enough to be sent to a country with electricity! And besides, what the hell would I be doing strolling around the former Yugoslavia with an Ipod!? Haven't I had enough problems standing out while abroad? I fought off a guy in Argentina to save the camera, only to break it last month. I was attacked enough in France and violently spit at in Spain, do I really want to attract any more of this crap? I'm tall, very American-looking, with wild red hair and a daring wardrobe...I've been told that I'm a fly trap for crazies!!!!

So, I've been trying to see it as a lesson learned. I'll reevaluate what I'll be packing, how I'll dress in Macedonia, I need to start blending in a bit more when I'm traveling. Crime is preventable only to a point, of course. We had gypsy raids at the Pâtisserie where I worked in Paris, a dozen little kids would run into the store screaming as my coworker frantically cursed in Albanian, and they'd steal all the croissants and pans au chocolat. They did it twice! I have a feeling I'll be seeing much more of that in Macedonia...

But honestly, I've had two Ipods since 2005, and I'm done!!! You invest hundreds of dollars and massive amounts of time loading them up, only to have one die on you a year and a half later, or it's stolen right out of your pocket. What a complete waste, and on top of it a way to become deaf and/or a target, only to have a cheapened relationship with "disposable" music...never again will I invest in one of those. An external hard drive is a much smarter option.

08.20.2007

(obrigado, Yuri)

The countdown begins,

One month remains...

This is without a doubt the most excited I’ve been since the summer I was 16, about to head off to Nice, France, tabula rasa, not knowing what in the world I’d expect from Europe, without the slightest idea what I'd be encountering once off the plane. Except this time, I’m not going to study a language in a commonly visited country for the month of July, I’m going to learn two languages and then work in an NGO in a "remote" one until nearly 2010. In Macedonia…my mind is still incapable of envisioning life in Macedonia! A few months ago, when I discovered the “Republic of Macedonia” was a possibility, I kept haphazardly confusing it with Mauritania until I sat down and coolly researched the country. I then recalled the one Macedonian I've encountered, the owner of a Mediterranean restaurant where I once worked, a handsome and charming man who surrounded himself with a posse of Turks, Bulgarians, Albanians, and his Polish wife. The drawback, he had a fiery temper, once bringing me to tears when he repeatedly accused me of being a “stupid idiot” (ooh, he's the "crazed Macedonian man" I write of in this 2004 entry). I had no excuse, I wasn’t foreign like the others, but American, there was absolutely no excuse for me to make a mistake on an order! Once, he got into a fight with a Romanian girl who called him a “gypsy piece of shit.” Eastern Europeans were beginning to startle me; I quit soon after. I was eighteen then, now I’m twenty-one. Obviously this is not characteristic of a typical Macedonian. I know that, but can’t help finding a sense of irony in the story. My deadpan humor makes me chuckle every few minutes when I envision my life come September. For the sake of cultural and professional sensitivity, I will take my observations once there with all seriousness. In just a short time I will know Macedonian culture as well as I do French. Two years and three months, working in the Peace Corps, will yield me such an incredibly enhanced perspective on the country and the world in general. For now, I must admit I can only envision life in Macedonia as I once envisioned life in France before leaving: romantically, exotically, based on my own absence of perspective. France to me was full of big-nosed Frenchmen wearing berets, carrying baguettes, who would woo me with poems and flowers. France to me was my first love, Mike, asking me to send a lock of my hair and sending a selection of perfumes his mother picked out in return. France was Serge Gainsbourg, or at least a Zazie pop hit, fine wine, and the rocky topless beaches of the Riviera. Macedonia until I started doing some serious research? My charming former boss with a bad temper, Alexander the Great, and Mother Teresa! Anything in Cyrillic, whatever sounds Slavic…this includes the cornball stashes of Russian CDs I’ve piled up from Brighton Beach. The Cranberries song Bosnia: the damaging aftermath of ethnic cleansing in Kosovo, Serbia, Albania. Absolutely NOT Greece! Borat-esque? Or full of my favorite people, Eurotrash? The Moldovan O-Zone song “Dragostea din tei”, or Putumayo’s Gypsy Caravan, or…the list continues, because other than the Eurovision songs, I am still unable to find any Macedonian music! “Fairly developed” compared to elsewhere in Eastern Europe, as a colleague put it who recently visited. Breathtaking natural beauty! The other day I started reviewing the basics of the Macedonian and Albanian language, as requested. The Cyrillic alphabet is a mind trip! Although not as complicated as Arabic, many of the letters are “false friends” for a writer/reader of our Latin alphabet. Their B is our V, their 3 is our Z, an “inverse” N (и) is our I, their H is our N, their P is our R, their X is our H, etc! But at last, I am now reading all these Cyrillic songs I have on my IPod correctly, which until last week were just a bunch of symbols I’d ask my Mongolian friend Ugie to interpret. My first Macedonian word, авион, pronounced avion, was an immediate relief as it is the same word in French and Spanish! My second Macedonian word is љубов, love, pronounced lyubov, just like in Russian! Moral of the story? I am going out of my mind in anticipation; I cannot sleep or even focus, every morning I wake up at the crack of dawn because my mind races as soon as it attains consciousness. Five weeks is just enough time to prepare, pick and choose my belongings for packing purposes, process my second passport and Macedonian visa, and say the inevitable goodbyes. Goodbye New York, goodbye dirty Jerz and the rest of America, a bientot all of my dear family and friends…at least until early spring, I’ll be living one of those fanstastic transitional adventures...like a drug fix, they always leave me feeling more awake than ever in my life, my observations all the more astute, every day faced with challenges to overcome, lessons and language nuances to learn, new people and places to get to know. That’s what I love about traveling the world, I suppose… September 20: Arrival in Georgetown, Washington D.C. for staging.

September 23: Flight from Fairfax, Virginia to Vienna, Austria! From Vienna, we fly to Skopje, Macedonia...the first three months, we all live with host families in Veles, for language and professional training.

December 14: I’ll head off to a mystery town, working in a mystery NGO, for two years!

January 2007: Began Peace Corps Application/Requests for Reference Letters

March 19: Lengthy Application Complete!!! I went a little overboard on perfection...

March 29: Peace Corps request for reference/legal information (fingerprints, college loan details, etc.)

April 30: Peace Corps Interview at NYC Headquarters

May 1: NGO Development skills addendum requesting further details on my political field experience

May 3: Program Nomination (ambiguous) details sent from D.C. for me to rank (see previous entry)

May 4: Nominated for an NGO Development program leaving in September '07 for Eastern Europe

May 9: Medical Clearance Kit arrived (DUH duh duh)

May - August: A whirlwind of dozens of needles, lab tests, wisdom teeth extractions, repeat lab tests, waiting room breakdowns in Harlem clinics (no insurance;), nail biting, blood, disappointment, tears, pleasant surprise, an infinitely sharper respect for bureaucracy, etc...

August 3: Medically Cleared!

August 7: Notified that an invitation is in the mail! Over two years of my life is in the mail, FedEx Overnight, what will the future hold for me?!?!?

August 8: Invitation arrived at 11 a.m.!!!!

MACEDONIA/NGO DEVELOPMENT/9-20-2007 to 12-13-2009

“Life is no straight and easy corridor along which we travel free and unhampered, but a maze of passages, through which we must seek our way, lost and confused, now and again checked in a blind alley. But always, if we have faith, a door will open for us, not perhaps one that we ourselves would ever have thought of, but one that will ultimately prove good for us.” - A.J. Cronin

Woohoo! I've been accepted into the Peace Corps, for one of these five programs (in order of my first choice ranking to my fifth). If I end up invited into one of the following departing in 2008, I'm planning a mental-health hiatus back to Buenos Aires from September to February to "kill time"...

Option 1 Program: NGO Development Region: Eastern Europe Description: Volunteers work with NGOs and municipal governments to provide support in organizational development. Strong applicants will have previous experience working with NGO, experience in proposal writing, fundraising, strategic planning and/or organizational development. Date of Departure: late September 2007Option 2

NOTE: There is only one program for North Africa/Middle East which you could qualify for. It is a Health Education program, departing in March 2008. At this time you do not qualify for a Health Education program. In order to qualify, you will need to set-up some volunteer work with a health or HIV/AIDS organization. If you do so, we can consider you for this program. Option 3

Program: Community Development Region: Central/South America (Spanish-speaking) Description: Municipal development assignment Date of Departure: June 2008 Option 4 Program: Community Development Region: French-speaking Africa Description: Small Business Development based community development program Date of Departure: Early June 2008Option 5 Program: Community Development Region: Africa Description: Health based community development programDate of Departure: May 2008

Also, I've added some photos of my last week's visit to Philadelphia/New Jersey. One is of my brother and I in his Mustang in dirty Jerz. The other two were taken behind the Philadelphia Art Museum, a breathtaking view high up from a gazebo. My first boyfriend Kemal is in the photo, a Turkish guy I hadn't seen in five years who now lives in China and was visiting Philly for a couple of weeks. The rendez-vous was a reminder of how unpredictable life is...and now that I'm graduating, there is nothing I fixate on more these days than exactly where life will be taking me next...

Trop occupée avec mes examens finales pour écrire, mais...pourquoi Sarkozy!?!?!

Ugie and I are crazy crazy girls. Mongolian dresses are breathtaking! Sorry everyone, I have a case of severe writer's block. Actually, I'm just disturbingly busy these days. On top of classes I have a new job at the Middle East Cultural Center here in NYC, I've been coordinating/attending more events, plays, concerts than I can keep track of these days...:) And I nanny, and I'm working the upcoming Tribeca Film Festival, and I'm preparing for graduation. Finally! Life is good these days. But I still have writer's block :(