At Starbucks I sit and wait. I am not always sure what it is I am waiting for; a call? a smile? a sideways glance or dubious eye? Perhaps just a familiar face, tanned and crinkled with too much gel atop his head. He greets me with every ounce of himself, kisses my bearded cheeks and embraces me. Salaam Walaykum! Keif inta habibi? Keif Sahtuk? Habibi. His hands are still holding mine as he exposes his eyes, naked, and undresses each one of his teeth.
Nope. Here we grow agitated with strangers, ashamed of eye contact, dishonest with our own desires, afraid of their voice. Children play near me and a bashful man shoos them away. Don't bother the man. He bows slightly and smiles to pay for the offense. Mish mushkilla. But he doesn't understand me. He wouldn't even if I said it in English.
I look around at the infinity of expensive choices around me. I can't help but notice that a coffee here is ten over there. But I am not sad to be home; I'm just sad that a disant and evasive horizon separates me from dari (my home).
But there is this crazy thing called wifi which has made the horizon humbler. My phone vibrates next to me and I look down to those sweet words I didn't realize I was expecting. They don't come with a smile, a hug, a kiss, but they warm me with the comforts of those things. We are planning to use Skype to "see" one another. I look out the window and see Maine, glorious Maine. Tomorrow I will look at my computer and see Palestine, sweet Palestine. What a world this is. What a world.
My friend works behind the counter and I smile, my foot taps to meaningful music that drips with memories of those I said good-bye to. Life isn't bad, it isn't uncomfortable, it isn't undesirable. It is American, with everything this country offers. It is warm showers and choices choices choices. So I sit in Starbucks, adjusting and looking over the horizon, beyond her line in the sand, into time herself, her flowing gown and ask if I will sit someday in dari wondering about my home.
Nope. Here we grow agitated with strangers, ashamed of eye contact, dishonest with our own desires, afraid of their voice. Children play near me and a bashful man shoos them away. Don't bother the man. He bows slightly and smiles to pay for the offense. Mish mushkilla. But he doesn't understand me. He wouldn't even if I said it in English.
I look around at the infinity of expensive choices around me. I can't help but notice that a coffee here is ten over there. But I am not sad to be home; I'm just sad that a disant and evasive horizon separates me from dari (my home).
But there is this crazy thing called wifi which has made the horizon humbler. My phone vibrates next to me and I look down to those sweet words I didn't realize I was expecting. They don't come with a smile, a hug, a kiss, but they warm me with the comforts of those things. We are planning to use Skype to "see" one another. I look out the window and see Maine, glorious Maine. Tomorrow I will look at my computer and see Palestine, sweet Palestine. What a world this is. What a world.
My friend works behind the counter and I smile, my foot taps to meaningful music that drips with memories of those I said good-bye to. Life isn't bad, it isn't uncomfortable, it isn't undesirable. It is American, with everything this country offers. It is warm showers and choices choices choices. So I sit in Starbucks, adjusting and looking over the horizon, beyond her line in the sand, into time herself, her flowing gown and ask if I will sit someday in dari wondering about my home.
