The deceptions I use to work out three days a week

It's like back in my days when I used to smoke. I'd hide out in the back yard, usually on the side of the house.

A veteran smoker always know what way the wind is blowing.

A power move was going to the canal that runs behind my house, smoking a cigarette - An American Spirit of course because I'm a lifelong NPR listener - and then spraying myself down with Axe body spray and Febreeze and then always having a fresh shirt to put on.  It's like during my drinking days when I'd always have a pack of chewing gum in case I was ever pulled over.

I'd always have to come up with an excuse to leave the house to take a smoke break or take a swig of vodka. I'd always have a go-to excuse like "I have to turn the water off" or "I need to check the back gate, think I left it open."

Working out however is a bit more complicated: it takes time which I find myself having less and less of everyday.

I've tried going super early in the morning but the downside is that I have to get up ridiculously early as we are on site at 6:00 AM with a 35 minute drive if I want to call myself a responsible driver so that means I need to be at the gym at 4:20 in the morning which gives me just enough time to finish my workout at 5:20, take a quick shower, literally jump into my jumpsuit and power walk to my car and pray I don't get stuck behind an overloaded 2002 Chevy 1500 unlicensed jardinero truco. 

To be at the gym at 4:20 I need to leave the house at 4:10 which means that if I get up at 4:00 AM I have ten minutes to quickly take a dump, shave, jump into my gym clothes, tuck my daughter back in (I always fond her huddled without her blanket on) and then quietly leave the house.

I need to be up so god-damned early that for 7 hours of sleep I need to be in bed by 9 PM. The problem is that I routinely wake up after 4 hours of sleep and I'm up from an hour to an hour and a half.

I listen to these podcasters who talk about how they hit the gym early in the morning, read all these books and I ask myself how much sleep they're possibly getting.

On the weekends when I am not obligated to be up at 5:00 AM I will often go to bed at my regular time. During the night I'll wake up but there's enough time that I can go back to sleep, several times if necessary. This isn't an option during the week.

How nice it must be to have that DEC2 genetic mutation which allows you to function on four to six hours of sleep which I can't do.

I'd have to go to bed at 7 or 8 PM if I wanted to get a full night of rest to make my morning gym schedule work. Remember that there is no such thing as catching up on sleep. 

Afternoon Workouts

The best thing I found for my schedule was going to the gym right after work.

This has the disadvantage of find oneself bumping into other people and waiting for the dumbbells and the guy sleeping on the incline bench press.

The advantage is that I'm able to blow off some steam right after work, do some cardio, isometric and strength exercises which through some magic make me feel amazing afterwards to such a degree that it's a night and day difference.

Seeing these advantages for several weeks I'd stop off at home, take a dump, get my athletic clothes on, maybe drink a cup of tea, say hello to my daughter and wife and then head to the gym.

The disadvantage is that stopping at home gave me the excuse not to go. Last week I didn't go once and I felt like shit because of it. I'm not going to the gym to address my body dysmorphia with my bony pterodactyl-like shoulder blades which jut out as if I was an extra in Schindler's List. I go to the gym due to the aforementioned massive positive effects I get to my baseline mood that I have only seen with mind altering drugs.

The positive affect I thought would have been obvious enough that my mother who lives with us might see the importance of my going to the gym and would be able to take our daughter to Jiu-Jitsu three to four times a week. This apparently is a bridge too far. My mother weasels out of this important but low-stress, low-impact responsibility by using a passive aggressive strategy where she'll ask "So, should I take Shaniqua to Jiu-Jitsu... Or.... Ummm... Are you going take her?" I think there was one time where I actually asserted myself, said no and went for a two mile run and a 300 yard swim in the canal. I felt great afterwards but I angered my wife and somehow burdened my mother.

I should mention before I sound like a complete asshole that my day begins at 5:00 AM and ends at 9:00 PM if my daughter is behaving and I can get her in bed. 

My mother's day consists of... I have no idea. I think she drops her off in the morning to daycare, picks her up and... That's it. In the evenings she'll practice some letter writing with my daughter and that's about it 

I haven't seen the amount of chores or responsibilities decrease since my mother came to live with us in December. She moved down here to "help out" while my wife undergoes her treatment for her illness. 

Helping out would mean being available and reliable from the time my daughter gets home from school until the time I get back from the gym. This is a two hour window three to four (max) times a week. But she can't figure out how to do that. She's so emotionally unstable that she can't do what I see numerous other abuelas (usually) or abuelos figure out. 

If my mother wants to "help out" she doesn't need to contribute to the mortgage, buy groceries, or spend any money at all. I just need her to occasionally be available for several hours a couple of times a week to dress my daughter in her gi, drive her to a half hour Jiu-Jitsu lesson where she can sit and do whatever she wants and then drive her back. 

But I haven't had this uncomfortable conversation with her. I don't feel as though I should have to. Other cultures and nationalities just seem to figure this out: Hey, that guy that leaves five days a week at an ungodly hour to go do a job that pays for everything? Maybe do whatever you can to lighten his load a little so he can find three to four hours a week to go to the gym.

Apparently I'm an asshole and this is too much to ask. Its a bridge a too far. God forbid my mother has any responsibilities because she's retired and younger people should just pay for the boomers to live the good life because they had to go to work as if the rest of us didn't and don't continue to have to. At least they get social security which will be insolvent by the time I'm 65. 

So to avoid this uncomfortable conversation with my mother, I'll practice what I do best: Avoidance.

I'll just go straight from work to the gym. 

Retired From Life

 "Wake up Logan." My wife tells me 

I'm laying on the floor resting.

I got home "early" by which I mean on time as I work in an industry which is known for it's overtime.

"Does she really need to go to Jiu-Jitsu today?"

"IF YOU DON'T WANT TO TAKE HER JUST TELL ME!" she says in a raised voice.

Perhaps I should have discussed the subject of this blog post with her earlier: "Is it a bridge too far to ask my mother to take her to a half hour Jiu-Jitsu class four times a week?"

A little context may be in order:

My day starts at 5:00 AM when I groggily wake up after 6-7 hours of sleep where I always wake up four hours after sleep.

My day ends between 9:00 to 10:00 pm when I put my daughter to bed.

During the day the only personal time I can manage is during the drive to work and the drive home when my eyes and hands are occupied with the operation of a 3,500 pound vehicle on a two-lane road with drivers who routinely swerve past the center line and I once saw two bad accidents in the course of my round trip to and from work. This personal time is not an optimal time to say, write a blog post, take a master class or exercise one's abdominals.

The other personal time is when I am forced by the digestive process to take a dump whereupon I can peruse articles by Theodore Dalrymple or critiques of Athenian democracy.

When the day goes long at work it's not uncommon for me to have been gone twelve hours.

The point is that my mom sees it as some huge responsibility and burden to drive my daughter to and from school once a day and take her to and from Jui Jitsu four days a week. 

Today she didn't even pick her up from school.

My mother moved down here when she retired six months early after learning of my wife's illness so that she could "help out." In what way she helps out is unclear to me besides occasionally looking after our daughter on a couple of occasions that I could count on one hand.

My daughter goes to an all-day day-care and the drive to and from said day care probably consists of a thirty to forty minute (max) round trip.

If I get home "early" around 4 PM and still nasty and dirty from work in my uniform and my mother is out I've literally had her ask me "So... Umm are you or Leila taking Shaniqua to Jiu-Jitsu?" In this roundabout way of saying: "I don't want to go, can you take her?" 

It's this way of guilting me into doing it and I have never had the balls to confront her and say "DUDE. I've been at work all day and pay the bills. You said you moved down and and moved in to help out. Taking Shaniqua to Jiu-Jitsu is helping out." 

So add another family member to the list of those who have retired from life.  Boomers really have absolved themselves of any responsibility for anything because "I had to work for a living" they say as if the rest of us haven't had to or don't currently do so. 

People like my mom can't see the big picture. They can't understand what an hour a day means to a guy that has zero time to do anything without cutting into sleep. When I'm home with my daughter I do the best I can to talk, play, sing and interact with her; not park her in front of the TV. 

I guess I'm thankful that I see the wreck that my mother is and the symptom it is of a self-centered "me" society compared to the ones I see from overseas which sacrifice comfort see their family members as an extension of themselves.

Reyhanlı without the best part

First Antakya and then Reyhanlı.

Reyhanlı is situated about 5 km from the border crossing with Syria which makes it an ideal place to try to meet up with the "resistance" who are fighting the forces of Al-Assad and his supporters.

Not that it is an "ideal" place to meet them given that I've been here a day and managed to give up 10 TL to a seemingly friendly motorcyclist who gave me a ride to his house approximately a football field an a half from the border.  From his house we could here the intermittent "Thud" of a tank or artillery shell.

His name was Said and he picked me out easily on the side of the road as if I was a walking ATM with flashing dollar signs.

He made it mostly clear that the ride was "bedava" which roughly translates to "free, on us, ect..." but changed his tune when we reached the border and cooly asked me for 50 TL whereupon I found the smallest bill in my wallet - a ten - handed it to him in disgust and walked away.

Maybe I could've had some balls and told him to F-off but I thought that it would cover his fuel expenses and the time away from his "job" of doing whatever the hell he does that allows him to own a motorcyle and live in a house which is far better than anything I've ever lived in.

 My fortune changed a bit later when I met a news team comprised of a Syrian, Jordanian and a couple of Japanese reporters named Cho and Fatma (the name she gave me) who are based in Istanbul.  They agreed to give me a ride back to the city but then forgot to tell me that we had passed the city and were about 15 km outside of it on their way back to Antakya.

So, I got out, and hitched a ride with a truck from a melon patch where some men with weathered faces kindly gave me a couple of melons - one sliced! - and sent me on my way.


'No pictures, no comments'

I did manage once back in Reyhanlı to make my way to the State Hospital and was quickly told I couldn't take pictures or visit any of the wards.

I talked to the director who was quite friendly and welcoming despite telling me that he couldn't tell me anything that I didn't already know: "Yes, we have fighters from Syria recuperating in our hospital, no, none of them are foreingers, ect..."

I then made my way back to the city center where I tried to take a nap on the side of the road but was quickly wakened by two boys on a motorcyle - they couldn't have been more than 10 yrs old - asking me for change!  I yelled at them "but you have a motorcyle!!! WTF!!! I want a motorcyle!"

Later, in an actual dusty park, a gang of about 15 children kept crowding around me... I woudn't have been suprised if they started trying to poke me with sticks like they did to the caged bear and ostriches in Dohuk Zoo a couple of years before. 


'Adieu'

Nothing to report.... Istanbul is sounding better every minute I waste here.

Why did you only do three and a half years?

I keep getting this question a lot and there's so much background and context necessary for it to make sense (a lot of people don't know the rank structure, how it works and the significance and "culture" of it in the military).  Therefore, I've posted this short narrative here for all to see.

And for any vets reading this: Yes, I was a shitbag, yes I wasn't a "real" soldier in the context of legend and movies and NO, I didn't see combat.

I was stationed on the former Mukhabarat compound FOB Loyalty in East Baghdad back in the Spring/Summer of 2007.

The following letter was written to recruiters while I was pathetically begging to get back into the military after my failure to adapt to civilian life and live in the context of conflict and return a true man.

And here it is:

‘July 2007’

I was deployed to Iraq during the ‘Surge’ of 2007 and touched down in country on April 1, 2007.  I was assigned to HHC Medics of the 1/504 PIR of the 82^nd Airborne and began by working in the Aid Station on F.O.B Loyalty in the city of Baghdad.

When another medic went on leave I was assigned to A Co and began leaving the FOB on missions.  

Things seemed to be going really well until the 82^nd Airborne Association drive came around.  I didn’t want to pay the ten dollars to the organization and was told that I would receive reprisals if I didn’t.  I didn’t pay on the principle that their means of getting the “donation” amounted to extortion.  I then found myself again and again in front of my Platoon Sergeant and Squad Leader having to explain why I didn’t want to join.  The lack of ethics of the situation became very clear when Sergeant Laurentano brought the Aid Station medics out into the breeze way and told them that my refusal to pay caused me to be passed over on a promotion waiver for E-4.  I had received recommendation for early promotion because of my excellent PT score. 

            On June the 5^th/6^th I left with 1^st Platoon Bravo Company – at that time attached to Delta Company – to go to the Baghdad Hotel Observation Post a.k.a the “Dog House”.  The O.P was located on the Tigris River across from the International Zone and was shared by DynCorp.  I detail the location so that it is understood the circumstances in which the next event I will describe took place. 

On the last night at the Dog House I was on vehicle guard with Specialist Anderson.  The guard shift was enough to wear you down for a good six hours and thoroughly soak your equipment.  It was dark and we were into our third hour of guard duty when one of the rotating squads returned from their evening patrol through a newly built park along the Tigris. 

After most of the squad passed a dark figure walked up with a cigarette glowing in his hand.  The darkness made it impossible to identify him as I was relatively new to the unit. He began by going over the details of the patrol when he began boasting about pointing his weapon in the face of an Iraqi at the park.  He then went on to say how he enjoyed seeing the Iraqi Police ruff up the Iraqi men as they corralled them out of the park.  He then went on to brag about “beating up this homeless dude in downtown Fayetteville”.  We were in the military, and roughing up civilians is just part of getting the job done sometimes.  However, bragging about beating up homeless people is something else entirely so I confronted him.  At this point I didn’t know who he was or his corresponding rank. 

He then told me to address him as Sergeant.  Not believing that someone of that rank would be so immature in his behavior I continued to question him.  Upon stepping forward to further identify him, I recognized him as Sergeant Armentrout.

He then went on making me perform push-ups and flutter kicks and other calisthenics with all of my gear on – body armor, helmet, weapon, medical equipment – on the checkpoint of our O.P in the middle of Baghdad.  It was at least ninety degrees outside at the time.  We went on with this for about ten minutes until I started counting out loud in cadence “1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3”.   He then stepped over me and yelled, “Don’t fuck with me, don’t fuck with me” at the top of his lungs.  He then promised a counseling statement an UCMJ action. 

‘Back at F.O.B Loyalty’

The next day we returned in the mid-afternoon.  Tired I went to back to my bunk in the Scout Section to cool down and drink water.  SGT. Smith then came in the Scout Section and began throwing my equipment everywhere.  Confused at this behavior after a mission I had just returned from I stood there not knowing what to expect.  He then gave me a list of tasks so long and arbitrary I only remember one of them: Hospital corners on my bunk.  I then set about the task when he came in five minutes later and demanded me to explain my incompetence.  In his yelling he continued with “You want to fuck with NCO’s, then I will fuck with you!”  I was then told to perform calisthenics  – push-ups, flutter kicks – as he sat in a chair with his computer to write a counseling statement.   He said he was going to take away my “time and money with UCMJ”.  I told him that being in the Army and being deployed as a medic was not about money or my personal time.  I just wanted to do my job to the best of my ability and if possible exceed the expectations of those around me.  I was angry at the time that so much effort and energy was wasted on so many futile little things that were so easy to resolve. 

‘HHC Meeting’

When Sgt. Smith told me to stand at parade rest I told him “where’s the parade?”  He then took me to see the commander CPT. Schnable and platoon sergeant PSG Meaux. My commander, upon questioning me told me that I explain the situation to him.  I told him that I didn’t want to discuss anything without a legal representative given the proposed UCMJ proceedings.  CPT. Schnable then said “I’m going to put these NCO’s out of this room and put your head through a wall.  I’m fucking livid, and when I get fucking livid you don’t even want to know.”  I then said, “Go for it, I probably need to get some sense knocked into me”.  It was at that point that I would rather be beaten and have it over with and return to my platoon than deal with paperwork and more wasted time.

CPT Schnabel then had me removed from his office where I was put in isolation with SSG. Murphy standing guard.  At this point I started working out to release some of the pressure of the situation.  SSG Murphy during one of my sets then approached me and said that some would consider what I was doing to be “psychotic”. 

‘Going away’

I was then instructed by SSG. Murphy to disassemble my equipment.  When I asked why he told me to keep my mouth shut.  I was then flex-cuffed and told again to wait until the leadership had figured out what they were going to do. 

They brought in CPT. Torres, the unit Chaplain and then Lt. Makone.  I had a lot of respect for Lt. Makone and he told me to “not make anything harder than it already was”. 

I was then taken to the Aid Station where I was restrained to a casualty litter and given what I think was a shot of Diazepam, a muscle relaxant.  Five hours later I was put on a Blackhawk and taken to the International Zone where I was transferred to the Combat Support Hospital.  I was immediately released from restraints when the staff and doctors realized that I was a threat to no one. 

After three days I was transferred to Germany and then on to D.C and then back to Ft. Bragg for observation and release. 

‘Discharge’

A year later I was awaiting reconsideration for my discharge.  I had been working full time at the Womack Army Medical Center Emergency Department as an ER Tech and was awaiting decision on my discharge.  I had assembled references and the Commander made it clear that I was going to be reconsidered for discharge.  I then went on Emergency Leave for my father as he was ill at the time and needed my help dealing with the legal and financial difficulties regarding himself and my brother.  Because of a booking error I wasn’t able to fly back to North Carolina for two days without paying thousands of more dollars necessary for my flight.  My commander believed the delay was deliberate and denied overturning my Chapter Packet and then proceeded with the Discharge.  I was Honorably Discharged on November 1, 2009. 

‘Post-Army’

Since that time I have been attending college earning core credits towards my Associate’s Degree to attend a four-year college.  I am currently still EMT-B certified and intend to advance my medical EMS certifications.

Regarding my actions, I didn’t have the patience and discipline necessary to take stock of my situation and act accordingly to be where I wanted to be.  I acted selfishly and foolishly and I now understand that I let down my peers, my organization and ultimately myself. 

I’ve grown up since then.  I’ve had the fortunate consul of close friends and mentors who have allowed me to understand my mistakes and how to act honorably in the future.

Regards,

O.

Egypt, Libya, Egypt, Spain - Seville

Yes I did get into Libya, but I was turned around because I didn´t have a press card.
So, I went back to the border point and re-entered Egypt.

That´s it, that´s my war story.  Lame I know, but I was really only going there as a pornographer in the words of Anthony Loyd who wrote ¨My War Gone By, I Miss It So¨, which chronicles his times in Bosnia during the 1990´s. My War Gone By

Sheikh Said - my former boss - laughed at me when I returned to the Venice Hosokawaya in Cairo.

So, I stayed in Cairo, got a ticket for Spain with the intention of studying there for three months, missed my flight - I don´t know how - and then made it to Spain.

Slept in a stairwell for five days while I tried to sort things out with the VA and the University but it was a No-Go and I´d have to wait until Spring.

ATM card stopped working as I confused my library PIN or something with my banking one and my card was flagged.


´Leaving Leon, Palencia´

Hitchhiked to Palencia, found a party, found a nice girl named Ana, and she wanted to kiss but I told her she should wait for love, a few more Calimochos, and she disappeared into the night and her friends told her she got fed up with me or something.  Peace be with her and may she find a good husband.

The next day I wake up in a park, my head is buzzing and I´m cold but the effects of the alcohol seemed to allow to me ignore the 5 - 10 degree temperature, and I made it through fine.

Hitchiked to Valladollid, then got picked up by a Bulgarian and his kid.

Dropped off on the highway and then picked up by a man going to visit his father in Salamanca.


´Salamanca´

Sleeping under the arch of an old church near the Gran Via, eating at the La Gente Sin Fronteras - fish, bread, soup of lentils, assorted dishes, good quality - sleeping at the Cruz Roja for 6 nights with dinner and coffee for breakfast.

Met an Algerian and Moroccan and a guy from the Congo.  Hung out.   A nicely dressed street guy at Cruz Roja gives me a good fitting pink shirt for my travels.

The Moroccon is lost and the Algerian - Salah, is trying to work in Spain or France.  He´s a good man, but the conditions of law make it difficult for him to integrate/work.


´En Vivo´

A Christian organization called En Vivo.  Its a good group that have excellent programs three to four nights a week with Christian themes.  Coffee and Tea during English Hour and good company and a great guy named Hernan.  Peace be on them all, but he´s exceptional, may he have a happy marriage.


´Leaving Salamanca´

Off to Andalucia.

Its time to go.  Start walking 5 km to the roadway, get picked up by some Gitanos who drop me in the middle of the countryside near a gas station.

5 hours nothing.  Siesta on the on ramp and then I start walking. 

A mother, father and their two young kids pick me up, take me to the next town. 

From there I buy Baguette and begin walking again to the South.

A Hungarian on his way to Seville then stops, picks me up and we go all the way to Seville.

Parts delivered to an aerospace company near the airport and then I´m dropped off to Seville, thanks Jozef!

Design and the Art of Bothering People

Today is my fourth day passing out flyers on the busy pedestrian street of Istiklal.

The rules are a bit relaxed and I'm sure they won't miss me if I'm not not handing out flyers on Istiklal as of 1 pm.

I'm sure it will be just fine if I show up at 2 and tell Ana that I just didn't feel like showing up at 1.

I'm paid by the hour after all, and I keep an accurate log of my comings and goings.

The difference however between this job and others is that I don't feel a need of urgency to get started.  I just don't find myself highly motivated and energized by the art of giving disinterested and hurried people things they don't want when they don't want them.

Its the Art of Bothering, and I'm not very good at it. 

Only when I'm trying to entertain does it occur to me that bothering might be a good thing: As in the instance of getting people to smile on a particularly dismal day, or asking someone for directions instead of inquiring from my non-existent electronic GPS.



'Design & Attention'

It occured to me that I wasn't a very successful marketer.  Thus far, in the past thirty minutes - this could be any block of time that I'm likely to experience throughout the day - it occured to me that I hadn't been able to successfully get one person to take a flyer.

"Am I really this unprofessional?" I asked myself, "Or is it the weather?"   another thought suggested.

It turns out that its probably a combination of things.

Then, of course, I put myself into the shoes of a potential client:  Would I take a flyer from this bundled up guy who's standing there handing them out?

The answer was no.  Why? 

I looked at the delivery:  Here most people are on a busy street and how many of them actually want English lessons?  How many of them need them?  How many of them have the time for a three month course?  The funds necessary?

Second:  The Flyers themselves.

Picture a conservative looking flyer in Red, White and Blue, with a Brithish Union Jack flag in the corner.

Its by all standards well designed to its client's expectations:  It delivers information about the services, it gives the address... everything we'd expect.

However, does it possess something that inspires in someone the desire to stop, look it over and actually take in the information?

The answer of course is no.  The flyer gives almost too much information.

Further, it negates my presence by making all of the information - minus the costs of course - present in print.


So, there we have it:  Delivery and design.


Clearly though, if this were not an effective delivery method, they wouldn't have us doing it right?

Well, it is effective, only insofar as going to the point of chasing people down who are bored or unsuspecting enough to take one of the flyers from us.


'Jem'

He's 28 and he's been doing this job for five years.

He likes grunge music and he especially likes me because I lived in Seattle, the starting place for the grunge rock legend Kurt Kobain.

He makes four liras an hour.  That's approximately two dollars and fifty cents an hour... and I cringe at the thought that he insisted on paying for chai the other night.

He works seven hours a day, when its not raining.

He's tall and handsome and has a very friendly demeanor.

He speaks a fair amount of English and he loves 90's grunge rock.

He must be a Jedi Master, for he brings people in the door one after another.

Me, I didn't even manage to bring in one yesterday.

So, today I will surrender.  I will quit.  I will go to work and say goodbye to the temporary friends and aquaintances I made there, and I will look for something, anything new.

Its not that I don't like work.  Ask anybody down in Yazikoy how I handle a 25 kilo bag of olives...

The truth is that I just find value in certain types of work.

I'd honestly rather shovel sand for half the pay for twice as long, than do what I'm doing now.

Its just what it is.   I've always been a better mule than anything else. 

In this world though, there's plenty of mules, many of them automated now and run by gas and electricity.

So, perhaps my usefulness has its limitations.

Luckily for me though, they still haven't found a cost effective way to deploy anatomically similar droids or cyborgs to do agricultural or building work. 

So, it looks like there exists labor after all... in one form or another.


'Values'


I've always been incapable of turning off that part of my brain that looks at something and says, "Whoa, we could do this more efficiently and waste less time and resources."

Such is the case with handing out flyers, or moving boxes, or putting out a fire.

One of my many downfalls is my inability to do things inefficiently, even at the behest of my co-workers or superiors.

And that, may be my downfall...

The purposes of publishing & some words on 'Courage'

Its just easier that everyone can see this...

People will often ask me what I did for the last 12 months when I return back to the states... or then again, most of them probably won't.

If they do, then I can tell them that most of the time was spent not doing much of anything: reading, waiting, walking places, talking to people I'll never see again, randomly getting lost just because, informally meeting with people, browsing through markets, ect...

Most of it isn't that exciting.


'Oh, Really!'

Raised eyebrows always follow the hot words like "living in North Iraq" or "going to Mosul", but the truth is that most of it - the experience of it - and most importantly - the experience of the people that live there - is actually mundane and ordinary.

Sure, I lived in Egypt and North Iraq and a myriad of other places in between; but so have many other countless people from the novice like me to the expert in languages and customs.  Lets not also forget the millions who were born and live each and everyday of there lives in those places.

The difference between them and me is that I'm trying to get in while they're desperately trying to get out.  Some even go as far as to sell their own daughters or organs, if that means a better future for their family or themselves.


'Truth'

Anybody can do any of the unremarkable stuff that I did.  In fact, I really didn't do anything.  I just got on buses and had a bank account with which to fund my travels.

Just showing up is the biggest part, and I invite anyone who hasn't done it to do it at least once.

The 21st century's advances in technology have made it ridiculously easy as well:  It took me a whole ten minutes to surf the internet and find a ticket to Istanbul from Seattle.

Stuff that years ago would have taken phone calls, office visits and hassling trips to the local consulate are now largely bypassed by the use of a debit card and some extra spare time.


'Courage'

I've often been patronized with phrases like "so much courage that you have."

While such comments are well meaning, they often don't do justice to the fact that real courage has nothing to do with getting on a plane and flying to another country.

Any douchebag or coward can get on a plane and fly to another piece of land.  That's easy.  It takes no courage and in fact might be an indication - in my case at least - of an underlying lack of courage and fear of commitment and patience.

So, that's what I want to emphasize here.  I have no courage.  I just had a good salary for three years that allowed me to stay abroad for long periods of time without having to return to contracted work/life commitments.


'The Real Courage'

I think courage is when people face the realities and situations before them in life and take them by the balls.  It takes lots of courage to commit to something and see it through.  It takes lots of courage to have patience, training for years and years, even if you don't see the result of all of your effort.  It takes courage to do mundane things day in and day out, because without it, the economy wouldn't operate that allows people like me to travel in the first place.  It takes courage to unconditionally love people and be there for them day in and day out.  It takes courage to sacrifice personal endeavors in life in order to fulfill those commitments and responsibilities to the other relationships in your life.

That's what courage is.

Its not, and I repeat, not what I've been doing for the past 13 months.