Left is right and right is wrong

Okay - I give up. Facebook has won.
Four months in Libya, things are going well and I try to get into Facebook to see what is happening. Well - everything has changed. My home internet connection is through LTT (Libyan Telephone and Telegraph) Sound Familiar "A" ?. Well Facebook recognized my IP address was from Libya and they accomodated me. They translated everything into Arabic.
Not a problem - except I don't read Arabic - just speak some street Libyan Arabic. So there I am - lost in the crowd. Fortunately, my sister - aka ( the creative one) walked me through the English setings on Facebook to change the language. And it worked, with one small exception. In English - we read left to right/ in Arabic it's right to left so ...... my Facebook was organized also in a right to left order. After some fiddling - I counted the tabs and saw a word - English and clicked. Like magic - I was now back home. Thanks sis.

A note of learning. Never get so fixated with the way you know things so that you cannot adjust your thinking to a new way of working. I look forward to my stay here for more opportunities to be challenged.

From Snow to Sand

Well, my arrival to Libya was a breeze. After waiting 4 weeks for my passport, and then another two for London to re-group from the storm of the century (8 inches), I arrived in Tripoli, my home for the next tour. I left the snow behind, but I did not leave the storms. As I landed, the Sahara was attempting to fill the Mediterranean with tons of airborne sand and debris. Hurricane strength winds were depositing sand, tents, and camels far offshore into the deep blue waters offshore. Nothing unbolted to the earth lay untouched. Tripoli was being covered by the encroaching dunes. But Libya has an answer to this and the unemployment issues.Teams of men, dressed in their sand scarfs, and bright orange uniforms were out day after day shoveling the sand from the streets to make way for the cars. But this was not a simple job. For the men ensured themselves of employment by taking their wheelbarrows from the street and neatly dumping them on the shoulder of the road. And you know what - they were out the following day doing the same. Ensuring clean streets and a long term careeer.
And then it hit me. The ancient civilizations were not conquered by armies, or subcumbed to disease. The perished for lack of shovels.

Pulling up Steaks

Well, this is it. My passport and work permit have arrived in my grubby little hands. After a four week tour of Washington, Dallas, Frankfurt, Tripoli, back to Washington and returning to London, my passport has an additional 25,000 frequent flier miles and a work permit visa neatly stamped inside. My flat has been packed for two weeks and I have been living out of a suitcase just waiting for the elusive book to appear. But appear it did on Thusday. I am now planning to leave this winter wonder for new experiences in a warmer clime. I took my final tour of the town today - but it was pretty quiet. The farmers are all snowed in, and the town square where they set up barren, save for the kids sliding on the frozen pavement. Leaving in the midst of the snowfall of the century for London makes the transistion easier. I will miss the British Culture - the bad beef, Indian, TexMex and Thai restaurants, the silent queing for surley service, the frozen, unsmiling faces of passers by.
But all is not sullen, for I have wonderful memories. The EPsom Playhouse, the Farmer's markets, outstanding West End shows, Visits of friends and family, the museums, Convent Garden, St. Pauls, the smells, the sounds of a vibrant, cosmopolitan city. To London, to Epsom, I say farewell. For I am now off to pitch my tent on the south shores of the Mediterranean.

Saturday Market

A Saturday market - somewhere in Epsom, Surrey. Opps - wanting to keep the location discrete. I awake early, wanting to do my produce shopping early and get the freshest choices, and not the dredges of selection. So with the rise of the sun (about 9 AM) I bundle up and head off to market. There I am, one of a few hardy soles (sic) braving the frost and wind. With my little, enviornmentally sensitive linen bag in hand I walk up to the hawker and enquire regarding the source of the rock like plums on display. Expecting a simple answer of country of origin, I get the Cockney response of "from the market guvenor". I am then reminded of the global society. This man is just a broker - moving someone else's hard work to market and ensuring himself a piece of the action. I say ' no thanks' and walk away. My vision of hard working, local people working the land dashed by the commercialism of this 'bank' of no value. SO I head off to Starbucks and MacDonalds for breakfast. At least they have no pretense of local sensititivities.