Author Archives: petitemahsa

a Student

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I have now finished my first official week of my Master’s program, and am already buried underneath a huge pile of reading and a paper due on Monday.  Somehow I thought the first day of “getting to know each other” would last a bit longer.  My group, which focuses on the role of business and trade on development, is small — about 15 people, from Japan, the States, Western Europe, South Africa, India, Zambia, South Korea and Nepal.  There are about 200 Master’s student in total, and together, we come from 47 different countries/cultures.  There are at least five different languages surrounding me at all times.  I have met an Iranian, a Farsi speaker from Afghanistan, and a Wolof speaker from West Africa, so I feel like all the corners of the globe I know of are represented.  I have met two other Baha’i's from Denmark and India which isn’t surprising considering the subject matter we are studying.

The reason I chose this Institute over the other places I applied to in London is that it is so close-knit in this way.  It is not a typical University program.  Our teachers are technically research fellows and we call them by their first name.  As a result, we have a very relaxed relationship with them — we are invited to go on hikes, to eat lunch together, and help them with their research if possible.  It is very casual, very informal, and incredibly inspiring.  The focus isn’t about grades and classes, it is about participating in seminars, networking, and learning from each other.  Both my small group and the larger group are filled with people who genuinely fascinate me.

If I had attended the other Universities, I would have paid the UK rates for tuition since I am a spouse of an EU citizen (thank you Europe!).  But IDS is considered a private Institute, so everyone pays a high tuition, regardless if you are EU, American or even British.  It is about 3x the cost I would have paid elsewhere.  Also, IDS does not have any scholarships or grants.  This wasn’t a decision I took lightly, and I am very lucky to have found the source of money to do so (and to be  encouraged by Pedram, aka sugar daddy).  While I am meeting everyone else, I am much aware that the path here for many other people was not so simple.  Someone from an African country told me about his repeated requests for funding being denied until finally, three years later, he was able to come here.  Another person told me about the savings their family had to put together in India to send them to IDS, and how their spouse is still in India.

Nobody takes this program for granted.  Everyone is fully trying to get the most out of it.  It has been an exhilarating week, but I am so grateful for this opportunity.  I think of my family in Iran who cannot get a higher education, regardless of how much money they have or their brilliance.  I think about how lucky I am to be able to spend my days talking about way to make a positive impact in the world with people who are truly making a difference.  I reflect on how wonderful it is to be a student again.  Learning.  Full time.

People say that education is a basic right, which I agree with.  But for me this experience is almost sureal, and it seems like such a privilege.  One that I won’t take for granted.

This is going to be an amazing year.

Heatwave

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I had already purchased a new sweater and dusted off my boots when the great European heatwave hit.  We took advantage of it, going to the beach, swimming in the frigid waters of the British riviera, biking along the coast, taking long sunset walks in low tide.  Rusby got over his fear of waves and joined us in the water.  We ate gelato, it was good.

I didn’t think I would see the British summer in August and September, but yet it made an appearance in October.  And suddenly, our decision to live by the water makes so much sense.

Wish you here…

Kindle is my best friend

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I have had alot of time and have read alot of books in the past two months.  One could say that my Kindle is my best friend.  I take it everywhere with me.

I won’t comment on each one, but I would definitely recommend Barney’s Version (great book, okay movie) and Norweigan Wood (which left me crying in the Calgary airport for two hours), and American Pastoral (which reads as one long run-on sentence sometimes).  I quoted parts of these books to Pedram, and still think about them and their message.  Most of the other ones I enjoyed for various reasons, either the plot or the writing style, or the way that they made me feel once I was done.  I would NOT read State of Wonder or Sarah’s Key again.

I am starting my Masters in Globalisation and Development this Thursday at the Institute for Development Studies.  I am very excited about the program, although all of the pre-reading material has overwhelmed me.  Thanks to Stiglitz and his ability to teach modern economics, my academic engine is slowly coming back to life.

A weekend trip

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We rented a car and drove to Luxembourg this past weekend.  For my geography challenged friends, this means that we crossed a body of water by car.  However, we did not take a ferry, we took a train, and went under the body of water, a la European.

A view of the euro tunnel train for cars, from our car

The train ride is brief, only 35 minutes, and incredibly convenient.  We did this because it is the only way Rusby can enter the continent.  Two hours to the border, a 35 minute train ride, and another 4 hours until Luxembourg.  Pedram wouldn’t allow us to stop for a pee break until we entered Belgium.  And then all of us got to relieve ourselves, including Rusby, who left a little present for Belgians, the same way many Belgian dogs had left me presents when I lived there.

Notice the cows in the background

We did take a 90 minute detour to enter Brussels, where we quickly decided that we should eat dinner at Pedram’s favorite snack place near Malibran that makes amazing durums.  It has been awhile since we had eaten a good durum, and Pedram was salivating at the chance.  He quickly goes into Brussels mode — double parking the car in the middle of the street, running in, ordering two chicken durums, one with frites inside (me), one with frites outside (him).  Then he ran back into the car and we drove to the Abbey de la cambre to enjoy the durum on a park bench so Rusby could continue to bestow many many gifts to the Belgian public.

In Flemish, please poop here

It is at this moment I realized my husband is a freak of nature.  I snuck one of his fries out in the car, and he practically swerved into traffic while yelling “NO!  You cannot eat the fries like that!!  Do not eat my fries!”  Then, at the park, while I was thoroughly enjoying my durum, I saw that Pedram was only eating his fries.

“I don’t like my fries inside the durum, cause they get soggy.  I prefer them separate.  I get the samurai sauce on the fries, which is spicy, and then I eat all the fries, and then I get the garlic white sauce on my durum, which I only eat once I am done with the fries, and the garlic sauce is so good with the chicken, but my mouth is still feeling the spice from the samurai sauce.  Only once I am done with the durum do I drink anything.”

Ummm….okay, whatever.

Luxembourg was what Luxembourg always is, a good deal of eating (Pedram’s mom tries to ensure that we all get our favorite meals) and hanging out, and walking among cows.  Rusby was loving the extra attention and Pedram’s dad affection and the long walks.  He did not appreciate when Pedram’s brother’s dog, a bisexual french bulldog beast, continually tried to rape him.

Luxembourg is a nice country and although I could never live here, I do tell everyone I know about the things that make it a wonderful place to live.  But on this visit, the feeling of superficiality in such a rich country was more apparent than ever.  I think Rusby was the only dog in all of Luxembourg that didn’t cost more than 1000 euros.  Pedram’s mom joked that it was embarrassing to walk through the city center with such a mutt when everyone else was showcasing their prim and proper thoroughbreds.  Perhaps the most embarrassing part was when Rusby decided to take a dump on the busy Grande Rue.  Everyone is looking each other up and down, judging the watch on your arm, the car you are driving, the handbag you are carrying.  People make more money in Luxembourg than anywhere else in Europe, but they are still hoping to have more because everything in Luxembourg is so ridiculously expensive.

Me: Wow, that car looks expensive.  Where are the door handles?

Pedram:  That car is worth more than our apartment.  The doors slide up, they do not open.

We were clearly out of our element, which is made even more clear by our excitement watching our dog poop and the giddy feeling one gets when you realize, I don’t have to pick up his poop.  In Luxembourg it just evaporates or turns into gold with which the government buys everyone Mercedes with doors that have no handles.

Am making gold right now

English Food Conundrum

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This time last year, Pedram and I schlepped 7 kilos of tomatoes home from the local market.  The entire market was red with those end of the season, incredibly delicious ripe but also very ugly tomatoes.  They were delicious.  We ate them with gusto, sliced with basil and mozzarella, or sliced with a bit of salt.  Then with the remaining 6 kilos I skinned them, seeded them, and made a lasagna and three cans of tomato sauce to keep us going through the winter, when tomatoes are bland and tasteless and expensive, and have a sandy texture.

This is what the local market looked like last August.  Do you see the colorstorm of red — cheap tomatoes!

I cannot, for the life of me, find a similar market here in Brighton.  I find some tomatoes, but they don’t have the same feeling as the ones I have seen elsewhere.  And to find fresh ones that are local, that is nearly impossible.  Sigh…I miss my markets.

When it comes to other food stuffs, the English markets are plentiful.  A friend told me that they have perfected the art of “cultured” food, like meat and cheese and poultry.  My local butcher takes great care to explain to me where my local lamb eats its salt marshes.  He literally gives me directions to the farm, just in case I want to witness it myself.  The eggs here, their yokes are orange and the white hold together, rather than a pale yellow. 

But I am anxious.  I cannot find good local fruit.  I don’t want blueberries from Poland and zucchini from Spain.  I don’t want to have everything wrapped individually.  I want to pick through a huge pile of peaches and apricots, zucchinis and melons.

Oh peaches.  Last year we filled up on so many delicious peaches, I had to cook with them.  And peaches that are so delicious on their own make the most amazing crumbles and tarts and pies.

When I was in Seattle two weeks ago, the local market (can you believe Mercer Island has its own market?) was a peach frenzy.  I could smell the peaches and nectarines, all ripen on a tree, juicy, ready to be eaten immediately.  I asked to see their back pile, which is where they keep their overripe and ready to toss stash, which is the way I like my fruit.  I bought a peach which I ate right away, and a handful of apricots for later.  It was bliss.

I am craving peaches.  Where are they?  Do I need to go to Spain or Italy (please say no)?  Help!

Pedram and I are going to a Saturday market in Brighton, and then I am going to hit up the London markets next week.  There must be a remedy to my craving.

The Four Year Story

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Happy Anniversary Cheri.

Washington DC

What is new this year?  New apartment, new city, new country, new job, heck, even Rusby has a new tail.

Havana, Cuba

Maybe this has happened in the past and I just didn’t think about it, but I feel this year more and more people are looking to us for relationship advice.  How crazy cool is that?  And when it happens, I talk and talk and talk, giving endless stories and ancedotes and tales about our interesting fights and our consulatation process, how it has evolved, and how we make big decisions together now.

Eastern Townships, Quebec

And then I turn to you, you who hasn’t said a word, and say, “remember Pedram?  Remember that??”  And you will say something to the effect of “Relationships are hard – that is the only thing I can say.”

And I think back to the time when we were going through a difficult period, and I was worried about the strength of our relationships, and you reassured me that we have become so entertwined that the weave our of relationship could withstand any obstacle.  That through our commitment to each other and the relationship as a whole, the fabric of our marriage is so strong, it can only get stronger, never disintegrate, regardless of what life throws at us.

Remember that Pedram?  Remember??

Tulum, Mexico

And this year, with our six months apart and the endless challenges that are being hurdled our way, it does indeed seem much stronger.

Perhaps before I told my friends that I have laid exposed my heart to Pedram and it scares me to death.

But now I say that I have laid exposed my heart to Pedram with complete trust, and it makes me content.

Happy Anniversary.  Four years, three countries, one dog, endless stories.  Remember Pedram? Remember?

 

Love you,

Mahsa

Of Beds and Dreams

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Last night was our first night on our new fancy pants bed.  After 23 days on a blow up mattress, we were so excited to sleep on our new tempurpedic mattress and beautiful locally sourced wood bed.

Seriously, eventhough we got new batteries for the blow up mattress, it still shook and wobbled so much that I woke up every morning seasick.  Every time I flipped over, Pedram rolled off the bed and vice versa.  And the lack of support consistently led to much much physical anguish.  So we were basically drooling over the idea of our sturdy bed and firm mattress.

When the bed arrived, it because clear that we really forgot what we ordered.  “Oh, it is a little dark” and “whoah, it is huge” were our first reactions.  And the tempurpedic, it was firm and the foam, it was so dense, I was really unsure of our purchase.   Since we both move a lot in our sleep, we thought this would be a good idea for us, since the bed doesn’t have any bounce.  And then, for good measure, we got a huge bed so that my elbow can no longer reach Pedram’s face and Pedram can only kick air rather than me.

My repeated dream for the past 23 days?  Alone on a raft on the Amazon, anacondas all around me (this was influenced by a book I was reading).

My dream last night?  Me, same Amazon river, being held onto by an anaconda while trying to get on the raft.  Not being able to move my arms or legs.

Perhaps foam is not the best idea for people who move a lot in their sleep.  Pedram also complains that the bed is too hot for him.  But our choices are to either adapt ourselves with the new mattress or go back to the blow up until we find another.  So we will deal.

That said, the bed is still our only piece of furniture in the house. We have sat on every couch in all of Brighton and London, but yet we cannot make a decision on a sofa.  Also, our shipment from Montreal won’t arrive until October, so we will be eating out of the same paper plates and using our two pots until then.  And our internet and phone lines won’t be connected until early September.  Basically our house is ghost town except for a huge bed, and if you came over you’d join us for dinner on the floor with paper plates and limited utensils.  And for dessert we try to steal internet off our neighbors so we can get an idea of the new of the world.  Sigh…we love our new place, but can’t wait for it to become our home.  Rusby, who does not need internet, can sleep and eat off the floor, is doing the best out of all of us, loving the English weather and the Brighton grassy fields.

To help us deal with the situation, I did the most logical thing and booked a ticket to Seattle, leaving Pedram to deal with the dog and the paperwork and logistics and his job while I go to weddings and hang out with family.   I leave tomorrow, and am anticipating some great dreams on the plane ride over.

Moving Back Pains

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We have arrived in England.  William and Kate weren’t there to greet us as I expected them too.

Traveling with a pet to the UK from Canada was quite a pain, especially with all the paperwork Rusby required.  And then we had to drop him off at the cargo part of the airport FOUR hours before the flight.  While sitting at the Montreal airport waiting for our flight, we actually saw Rusby’s crate drive by in front of us to the plane, which was a sigh of relief.  On the other side we had to drive to a distant office building where Rusby was on the other side of a wall, unseen to us but barking like I have never heard him bark before.  He doesn’t really bark, so he was obviously in some distress.  We went to give them the paperwork and be on our way.

Four hours later, he was still barking.  Some paperwork was missing, Pedram and I were dizzy with bureaucracy and jetlag and customs forms.  Finally, a miracle.  He was released.  He was confused.  And then, he was himself.  Leaping from one of us to the other, frolicking in the grass, stretching out his limbs, shaking with excitement.  He is thrilled by England.  He loves the Brighton beach and has already made many good British dog friends.   He is very happy that he can go into pubs, furniture stores and coffee shops with us.

Currently, we are homeless, but hopefully moving into a place in a few days.  In the meantime, we are in a luxury suite in an adorable boutique hotel near the seafront.  We have an English size bed, three large suitcases, two carry-ons, 3 computers, and one dog in a 75 square foot hotel room.  It is so small that from the bed we can touch almost all the walls.  We are very excited to move into our apartment.

We spent our first day looking for beds.  After spending 7 nights on our blow up mattress in Montreal, plus one night on a plane, we thought a bed would be the best purchase.  First thing in the morning we take turns cracking our bones and twisting our backs, trying to relieve some of the horrible back pain from the lack of overnight support.

We passed the entire day testing out beds and mattress shopping.  This might be some people’s nightmares come true, but we had never been happier.  We spend ridiculously long times lingering on the beds, closing our eyes, sighing, and then moving on to the next bed.  I think we tried out all the beds in the store, trying to get the equivalent of a good night’s sleep through trials.  Even Rusby was enjoying the simulated “bedroom” experience, sleeping comfortably on their plush carpeting.

We found one, plus a bed frame, but it won’t arrive for another two weeks.  We are so excited to sleep on the blow mattress for another two weeks!

Oh yeah, and there is rioting all over the country.  Although we haven’t felt anything here in Brighton, London is too close for people to not to be talking about it non-stop.  IKEA shut down early, and a we’ve rearranged our plans to avoid the city at night.

Finally, a conversation between Pedram and me after talking to his mom, who warned us for the millionth time to make sure that we clean our new apartment immediately after moving in

Me:  ”Do all continental Europeans think that the British are dirty?”

Pedram: “Yup”

Me:  ”Is it just the way people think that the French are dirty?”

Pedram:  ”Who thinks French people are dirty?”

Me:  ”Americans”

Pedram:  ”Why?”

Me: “Cause they use perfume instead of showering, and the public bathrooms in Paris are disgusting”

Pedram:  ”How many French people do you know who don’t shower?  That is so not true”

Me:  ”None. But the bathrooms are gross.  Why do Europeans think British are dirty?”

Pedram:  ”Cause they have carpeting in their bathrooms.”

Cultural differences, I guess.

A little perspective

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Packing sucks. We have too much stuff that we can’t organize. The professional packers sucked. Our stuff will never get to our new destination. We have two days to figure a million things out. Rusby keeps gnawing at his tail, reopening the wound and increasing the likelihood of infections. We are exhausted, sleeping poorly on our blow up mattresses, camping in our practically empty house, groaning from sore shoulders and aching backs in the morning.

We were supposed to stay with close friends, occupying their apartment while they were on vacation. But last Friday, we got a call from a mutual friend who came home to her apartment and smelled smoke, went upstairs to see flames, called the police and had enough time to grab her kids, her dog, and a handful of personal items before it was too late. The firefighters controlled the fire, but not before serious damage was done. She can’t live there, and most of her belongings are a mess.  Pedram and I tried to help, we set up her family in the vacant apartment, and then promptly stopped our complaining about our trivial issues. Why is it that some one else’s tragedy puts your own life in perspective? We are so lucky. Why do we need reminders?

I could take notes watching our friend handle losing her house and her possessions.  She is so upbeat, so amazing at managing the reactions of her children, and so incredibly strong. She is a model of adaptation and perseverance.  Her opposite-of-wonderful insurance company has been scamming her to get some cash from the disaster, and even then she has been positive and confident of resolution.  She calls us and invites us over for dinner, eventhough she has a millions things to do and the reality of knowing that SHE HAS NO HOME.

Truly inspirational.

And then there is this:

U.N. declares famine in Somalia; makes urgent appeal to save lives

I have been reading the news for the past two weeks, wringing my hands in the distinct feeling of frustration and helplessness.  This is the worst famine in a very long time, and human lives are at risk everyday we do not act.  As Pedram’s work has been on the Horn of Africa, I have become more and more familiar with the area and with the impact of droughts on the region.  It is so hard to sit here in Canada and read about it.  The numbers are staggering — 3.2 million people are in need of urgent care, 29,000 children have died in the past 3 months alone.

If we are all a part of a human family, how can I do nothing while people are suffering, struggling to live?  The international community knew this was going to happen, the aid agencies aren’t able to get the help to those who need it, the leaders don’t care people die, it is a mess. And I don’t know what to do. Pedram and I have been brainstorming, and have a few ideas. But if you know any other action I can take, please share.  I personally like this link, which breaks down the giving from many major organizations.

I realized by reading this article (thanks Shirin), why I am hesitating giving to some of the large mission organization.  Recently there was a commercial for the famine on Comedy Central that showed some incredibly disturbing images. I get very agitated when pictures of people starving, mothers mourning, children suffering. The reality is harsh, and I find that some journalist manage to portray tactfully and bring awareness. Others use it as a marketing campaign. I know that the people at the Red Cross and other organizations have good intentions. They feel passionately about the crisis and want me to feel the same. But I don’t want to react from my gut everytime these ads make me cry and write a blank check.  I want to be more involved in the efforts, somehow.

And I am still trying to reconcile knowing what I know and feeling the need to do something about it.  All suggestions welcomed.

The difference between us

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Growing up in Luxembourg as a child, Pedram was taught by his teachers to keep his desk clean, his pencils and pens stacked neatly, his paper filed properly.  As a result, Pedram is the best suitcase packer this side of the Canadian Rockies.  Honestly watching him put away items is like those Volkswagen commercials where 25 people come out of a car — I am not sure how he does it.  (on a side note, he is also really good at folding clothes and sheets).

As opposed to the Brussels to Montreal move, this time we have hired professional movers to come pack our things and ship them to England.  We knew they were arriving today (Monday), and in preparation I put a few things here and there.  Pedram, who has no patience, started packing in advance.  He bought boxes and packing tape, and managed to fill 5 boxes before I managed to convince him that we are actually paying people to do this for us.

I imagine in his head, he is sorting and organizing all of our things into appropriate boxes.  He managed to guess (correctly) how many cubic meters all of our belongings are, so he must be mentally disassembling, wrapping in bubble, stacking and packing things into a truck.  When someone asked me how many cubic meters our belongings are, I went from room to room, eyeballing all of the furniture, and came up with 22.  The answer is closer to 5.

Today, the movers have arrived.  They are professional in the most broad sense of the word — we are paying them for their work.  But watching them handle our belongings, inexperienced is probably a better definition.  The boxes they have packed are bursting open, my lovely frames are haphazardly wrapped in paper before being jammed into loosely taped boxes, and there are random questions, like “is this vase breakable?”.  But I know that they will get the job done, that I need to just relax and be fine with the situation, and to occasionally give feedback like “that is very precious, maybe add another layer of paper and some bubble wrap”.

I am now sitting on the couch, eating a bagel and drinking coffee, surfing the web and playing it cool.

Pedram, on the other hand, cannot be in the house.  I see him watching, cringing, shaking his head and wanting to unpack everything and repack it.  I imagine if I wasn’t here he would probably pay for the guys to go to lunch and take over himself.  He tried giving gentle suggestions, he tried making kind observations, but in the end he just couldn’t handle it.  I send him out to go get drinks just so he can avoid the messy transfer of our kitchen ware.

He is now sitting outside, taking deep inhales and exhales.