LETTER FROM THE MIDDLE EAST

Sahara Ya Dune?  Yemen, I've camel long way and now I'm Tehran around and Bin Ali places you read about.  

Israeli Al-Khalifa hanger now - just in Hussein.  It Sahara’d to sleep because Euphrates in-Sultan you, like Hussein this? and Hosni anything to hide?  That Saudi do it.  And tear gas will Syria Sunni or later. 

Yassir, Al Qaeda you not, it’s a Beirut-al situation and it’s Saddam shame.  But what Jew expect?  The leaders Arafat bunch of politicians who lied to Yemeni times before. They could Cairo less and they're trying Dubai more time.  It should never have o-Kurd this whey. To Amman, it Mecca's the protesters angry and Arabs them of oil their worth and we've barely seen a Qatar or Haifa the battle.  Islam as it continues, people Muscat in Jordan hurt. 

I see it Aswan Dam big revolution.  Iraq my Bahrain for Emir solution Suez I can go home.  Damascus how, but Oman, they Muscat concessions or they Kuwait forever.   It seems there's Netenyahu want peace can do.  They won't Sudan and talk, and don't go Menachim Begin them to stop.  It's best to Gaddafi the issue or they won't Libya alone.  They are  in de-Nile and should Mubarak where they came from --  just get Riyadh of them --Tikrit or leave it!   

Khamenei times have Ayatollah ya that Armageddon tired of it all?  So I'm Lebanon the next plane, going to buy Sheik clothes and go off to dinar with the Manama dreams. 

Saddat’s dat. I'm glad Iran India.

Abu Dhabi do!    

DANCING WITH THE SCARS!

Life being the embarrassment that it is, I decided to take dance lessons and give the public a good laugh; these days, there are so few comical moments. I stopped dancing about 20 years ago as none of my boyfriends knew how, so instead we did guy stuff like action flicks, camping and washing his car. I recently discovered a girl can still go dancing without them! Just like in high school.

Forget the waltz; I look awful in a ball gown and, face it, Ginger Rogers I’m not. Tango looks too intimate to practice with some stranger breathing way too close. Yet I wanted excitement, fun, a challenge, a new me -- so I picked Zydeco. Oh, the music! The bands! The quasi-rock, quasi- roll, quasi- foot-stomping, fast and dirty boogying of Louisiana.

Glen Echo offers lots of dance classes. Sadly, at most Washington events, it's all women all the time. And even though that first night was a sad sight, seven men presented themselves! Shy, standing alone, nervous, sweaty palms - and that was just me - we actually had an even count.
The teachers were lively and charming, urging us to form lines and follow a basic count. "And-a-one-and-a -two and a shuffle-shuffle, step." Oh dear. They lost me there.

Let's get back to 'foot-stomping' for a second. We rotated partners every few minutes, giving me the full panoply of sizes, shapes, and styles. Let me apologize right here and now to all the poor fellas who hobbled away from me, grimacing, brushing aside a few hidden tears. I like to think they were they just sad our turn was over.

By the end of the first lesson, we girls were in pretty good form. But the guys were still stomping around, no rhythm, bodies stiff, puzzled by the whole concept. Again, just like in high school except my father wasn’t waiting outside in the car. Oh well, there were still four more classes, and seven hopeful women rolling their eyes.

Dancing is strenuous exercise! Aching doesn't begin to describe my agony the next day; hernias were sprouting all over. Lesson two went better though; we picked up the pace and if one had any natural rhythm at all, it came out. A couple of the guys had obviously practiced and were able to employ simple 'leading' techniques to side-step my feet. But a couple of others still landed right on them. Notice how I project blame.

Our big break came at a real Zydeco dance a few days later, Dancing by the Bayou, and open to the general public. We newbies were encouraged to join in. They must be crazy! A brief lesson was offered first. Instead of 7 guys, there were about 25 attending the class. As I was handed off from one to the other, suddenly a small nervous man of incalculable age landed smack in front of me, wreaking of cologne so overpowering, I asked that we step a few feet apart. He calmly and logically reasoned "I sweat so much, I have to wear it to cover up my smell". As the song goes, “Know When To Hold ‘Em, Know When To Run!”


Then there were the really talented Zydeco regulars who hauled me onto the floor – not realizing they picked a rank beginner - where I was hurled, tossed, and lurched around the room, begging for relief, explaining I had only done this twice before. Forget it, they didn't hear me. Exactly a year after my rotator cuff surgery, one guy nearly ripped my shoulder bone from its socket. A small price to pay for basking in public humiliation.

And while I can certainly appreciate the appeal of public dances, one better recognize the hierarchy -- those who are experienced dancers and those who are wannabe's -- because it appears never the twain shall meet! If you're no good, you're wallpaper. So on that note, my dance lessons ended.

What's my next step, so to speak? Well, in response to television's hit show "So You Think You Can Dance!”, the answer is "Yes, I think I can!" Too bad no one else does. Tennis anyone?

MY $50 BUS RIDE TO N.Y. -- OH, HOW THE MIGHTY HAVE FALLEN

"YOU are taking the bus to New York???" The looks from my friends were telling: Aghast. Agape. Appalled. Alarmed. And that's just the "A"'s. But at only $50 round trip, I accepted their loathing. I guess the trick is don't tell anyone.

But for heaven's sake, it's not as though it was Greyhound! It looks like a bus, acts like a bus, smells like a bus, but it was the classier Vamoose with departures from Rosslyn and Bethesda. I mean, the train costs five times that. Flying does too, plus you practically undress to go through security. And, besides, who doesn't want to save money these days?

So off I went (by cab, of course) to the depot, in culture shock amidst a full house of twentyand- thirty- somethings with bad haircuts. Hoping to fit in, I assessed how they lounged around waiting to board, looking zoned out from lack of sleep, every one on a 'yell' phone bellowing out their life’s stories, weighed down with backpacks, text books and pizza slices. No, not possible, not with my Fendi overnight bag, WSJ, and treats from Dean & DeLuca. I decided best to just be myself. To those who say "50's are the new 30's", I say "Get real!"

New York has its charms but the weather isn't among them; five hours later, the heat and humidity of New York streets scored 120 degrees. But this was The Big Apple, not Washington, so I should have expected one-upmanship.

I was headed to the annual Fancy Food Show to take in (literally) 2,000 specialty foods. Chocolate, olives, paté, cookies, crackers, cheeses, pastas, thirty kinds of olive oil, mustard, cheese sticks...well, you get the picture. "Balducci's on steroids." I tasted all of them and staggered out, thankful for my stretch waistband surrounding my newly stretched waist. Isn't technology wonderful?

In a further clash of environments, I stumbled upon Canal Street, where the odiferous environment spews forth splendid knock-offs of designer handbags, sunglasses, and watches. On every street corner, I was accosted by "Psst!" in various accents. "Wanna Louis Vuitton? Chanel? Follow."

So, never being one to turn down a potential new peril, I obediently
trailed one to a dark van on a side street. Motioned to climb
aboard, I was thinking this thing is going to take off and I'll end
up across some border, but was actually enveloped by floor to ceiling fake designer bags. I was indeed a captive audience,
dying to buy something without actually dying. Squirming and trying to figure out how to say No politely and safely, I finally called upon my best Schwarzenegger impression and swaggered out with "I'll be back."

A short time later, I did score a great replica Cartier watch for $30, thinking perhaps I would be redeemed by my friends after all. Not so. "You didn't buy one for me? I may not ride a bus but I'd certainly wear a good fake!"

The rags to riches adventure continued with an indigestible $2.00 street hot dog for lunch (their version of fancy food). Talk about dying of gustatory failure. But then, it's better than gagging on granola and overdosing on health food supplements like Californians. This was blissfully followed by drinks at the famous Sardi's, courtesy of a good friend who reminded me that I do have some standards and insisted I live up to them for at least one evening.

My accommodations outdid any $800/night hotel, including better coffee and no need to tip. At a friend's condo on the water at the Jersey City Marina, I could
practically reach out and caress the magnificent yachts. Who knew such calm and beauty is just fifteen minutes from Manhattan...Nirvana meets Gotham. To top it all off, a water taxi transported me back and forth, playing the two skylines against one another.

The return trip was a mere 4 hours with wafts of perfume emanating from my seat mate and broken air conditioning. I asked a young person to switch seats as I have allergies to scents, but he ungraciously declined. When I finally got home and went out on the balcony to breathe fresh air, I locked myself out. I calculated (on my new fake watch) how long one could last out there, what with geranium leaves for a late snack and a dainty chair and figured until the first imminent thunderstorm. While I sure appreciated my wide open views that are sadly missing in downtown NY, it felt kind of lonely after dodging the teeming masses all weekend. Finally, help arrived a few hours later. A word of advice: don't try this at home.

So if you too are asking "What's wrong with saving money in this recession?", swallow your pride, shlep to the bus depot, and get your caboose on the Vamoose. But hurry! The price goes up to $60 in August! And with all your newly found savings, there'll be enough left over to afford Balducci's!

OH, THE JOYS OF A CHOPPER RIDE THROUGH SUBURBIA!

Many young girls dream of being a princess but I always wanted to fly a helicopter. Years ago, I'd signed up for lessons but was notified the company had shut down. I searched the obituaries for the cause but apparently it was just a business decision.

I was ecstatic to discover one could take beginner lessons in Manassas, VA. It cost $115 for one hour including 1/2 hour in flight. A lot? I would have paid double; I mean, it should cost more than my gym trainer, right? And surely it couldn't be harder than an hour of heavy weight lifting, I kidded myself. Best of all, they guaranteed that after training, I could take over the controls and fly it myself. They must be nuts! I have a hard time maneuvering my vehicle down here on earth.

My mind tantalized me: Would I get to buzz the White House? Flash the Pentagon? Wave down to my friends in Middleburg? The possibilities were seductive.

I was certain to be a 'natural', one of the "Great Women in Flight". There were online outlines on how it all works; I would learn to operate the machine through osmosis and go marching in there ready to rock and roll. (Unfortunately, that's what the whirlybird did when I took over the controls.) 'Natural clumsiness' was more like it.

It was worth it for the instructors alone. I was greeted by my pilot. Aha! So this is where all the handsome guys in uniform are. I admonished myself: 'pay attention to his words, not his looks!'

After a half hour of safety instruction, we strolled to the machine. Well, not exactly...the wind was howling, it was a freezing cold, blustery April winter day. He assured me all would be fine, despite the wind. I bet he also had a bridge to sell me. I raced to the helicopter to escape the cold, planning to hop right in - but it doesn't quite work that way. We first had to walk around it for a pre-flight inspection, kind of like a car rental but with words like FAA & UFO instead. It finally came time to board, and thankfully I had been working out enough to hoist my small frame up about 10 feet onto the seat. The only issue was that my legs couldn't quite reach the pedals. But no problem - the pilot gallantly rolled his eyes, then took off his jacket and folded it up behind my back.

My helicopter ("Buzzy") was tiny, more like a mosquito! It was so cute, I wanted to pet it. Built for executives to flit about from their offices to their mansions, it's small enough to land on a placemat.

We finally got to the serious part about how the thing actually works. Think patting your head, rubbing your belly and riding a unicycle all at once. I thought I had stepped into Little Nell from " You Only Live Twice." I'd settle for surviving this one life. After contacting air traffic control ("Tower, all hands on deck for this one!"), we lifted off the tarmac and my bravado vaporized. It was more like "Great Women in Fright" and hard to decipher which whining was worse - mine or the 'copter's rotor blades starting up. I urged him to stay low in case we came crashing down. Everytime we began a turn, the little bird banked, and I thought the door was going to fling open and I'd go flying out. Not like Peter Pan, more like an earthbound asteroid. Our attitudes were very different: "Lean into the turn", he advised. "Get real", I advised back.

I took over the controls and forced 'Buzzy' to climb so I could observe something besides my own internal panic. Gazing out over the verdant landscape, the view from above took on a unique perspective: "Jeez, that Monopoly house could use a new roof !" "Ants can jog?" "Wow, isn't that Costco? Let's land and make a quick grocery buy!" (certain that I was about to lose my lunch). My biggest challenge was 'hovering' -- much like keeping a paddle boat at a standstill with forward/backward motions, except adding up and down and side to side plus a little nausea all at once. But I liked it because I figured if we weren't moving, we couldn't hit anything.  I don't think the lesson could end fast enough for the poor guy.

OK, so Amelia Earhardt I'm not.  When we finally landed and disembarked, my sigh of relief was audible all the way to a very grateful White House and Pentagon.  It was scary to be sure but also exhilarating (kind of like the pilot).  For the life of me, I can't understand why they didn't ask me to sign up for advanced lessons.

http://www.americanheli.com (703) 368-9599

DON'T BOTHER ME, I'M CRABBY!

Whoever coined that was obviously a sophisticated, citified woman who had just experienced her very first weekend ever 'camping'. It wasn't such a crazy idea (my friends told me after they stopped laughing), it was only May, no bugs yet, and the cause was noble - volunteering for the official annual Horseshoe crab census count under the full moon in Cape Henlopen, Delaware. The crabs have been around 350 million years; it remained to be seen if I could survive two days.

Rule #1: Think twice before testing the great outdoors with a buff Nordic companion, no matter how cute he is. We were driving a van - not like a delivery van as I had feared, but a large, plush one, big enough to hold all our supplies and equipment; enough for Army maneuvers, in fact. I don't understand why he seemed genuinely puzzled that my belongings did not fit neatly into a backpack. Along with all the required gear, a girl still needs her pillow, chair, Starbucks, sleeping bag with built-in magnifying mirror and Chanel flip-flops, right?

It rained the entire day of the drive up to Delaware. But, being the perfect party planner, I had called ahead to verify that there were rooms available in Lewes as an alternative to a wet tent, which for any sane person is not an option. His alternative: Sleep in the van, of course! Since I’d never even made out in the back seat of a vehicle in high school, I certainly wasn't about to spend the night in one now. But as we sped right by the B&B's, me waving wistfully out the back window and choking up with grief as they disappeared into the horizon, I realized my fate was sealed.

It was actually pretty cozy after we set it all up - the equipment was in the wet tent, we in the cushy, dry van. With soft music, the light of the moon through the trees, it was the Ritz Carlton by comparison. It's all relative as they say. I was with a true Viking to whom the great outdoors was second nature; or probably first nature; to him, a civilized hotel is unworthy, what with all those annoying man-made conveniences like bed linens, hair dryers, and room service. I assumed I was in good hands.

That night, we embarked on our first 'stroll to the beach' maneuver, in the pitch dark, along a wooded trail, with rustling in the forest that I just knew came from bears and coiled snakes. We plodded on....and on....and on, my feet killing me, begging to turn back, whining that I was still 'in training' – until we were finally stopped by a Do Not Enter, Secure Area barrier. Whew! Now we could go back. Not! Like a dutiful girl scout, I halted but the warrior leapt over the barricade and disappeared into the black never-neverland, for what seemed like hours. So I took a much needed rest. We finally reconnoitered for the trek back, only to get lost amongst giant sand dunes, like Moses in the desert, wandering around, no water, no manna from heaven, no map. I never thought I'd be so elated to see a campsite.

The next day was another exercise, this time covering the entire length of the beach, sun blazing, perfect sky, with my 'Get in shape' sergeant by my side. (I kept insisting "Round IS a shape!", to no avail.) The Horseshoe crabs had obviously been on just such a forced march and were found dead where they collapsed, unable to make it all the way to the end of the Point. I wanted to join them. But I trudged and waddled to the end and back, where Harald the Horrible had jogged ahead in perfect form and settled in to await my eventual return.

The food was delicious, especially the lamb steaks which he grilled to perfection. Tip of the day: Don't eat meat on a camping trip if you're not used to it. Fortunately, the public bathroom was within sprinting distance and remained my best friend for most of the day. I decided not to further test my system, so while he sipped Pinot, I guzzled Canada Dry. Little did I know that meant I would have to drive the van. What? I'm 5'3"; how am I supposed to conduct a locomotive? My panic reared its ugly head but the choice was made clear: either drive or walk. (Note to self: Next time (ha!) just say "Yes Dear", then shoot him.) I finally decided it was preferable to risk our lives with me driving than try to hoof it yet several more miles at night and become roadkill. I pity the driver behind me as I zig-zagged the giant tank down the dark road, but we finally made it to the crab census in one piece.

Although there were zero, count ‘em, zero live, spawning Horseshoe crabs to count because of a recent storm, the event was unique and serene, the lighthouse twinkled and beamed, and we twinkled and beamed back. Remarkably, even the dead horseshoes were an awe-inspiring sight, like little slain knights in shining armor scattered across a battlefield.

Would I do it again? Perhaps, armed with experience, imodium and relationship-training. There's a lot to be said for a taste now and then of the simpler life, where nature rules, and the sight of giant campers skulking silently by their campsites is preferable to the cacophony of the city and traffic jams. And I’d know next time to slip a sedative into my companion's drink upon arrival.

DOUBLE RAINBOW - National Cathedral, DC

Taken June 18, 2008 following Tim Russert's memorial service

(photos may not be republished either in print or on the web without consent)

What makes a double rainbow? Sometimes we see two rainbows at once; what causes this? We have followed the path of a ray of sunlight as it enters and is reflected inside the raindrop. But not all of the energy of the ray escapes the raindrop after it is reflected once. A part of the ray is reflected again and travels along inside the drop to emerge from the drop. The rainbow we normally see is called the primary rainbow and is produced by one internal reflection; the secondary rainbow arises from two internal reflections and the rays exit the drop at an angle of 50 degrees° rather than the 42°degrees for the red primary bow.

Why is the sky brighter inside a rainbow? Notice the contrast between the sky inside the arc and outside it. When one studies the refraction of sunlight on a raindrop one finds that there are many rays emerging at angles smaller than the rainbow ray, but essentially no light from single internal reflections at angles greater than this ray. Thus there is a lot of light within the bow, and very little beyond it. Because this light is a mix of all the rainbow colors, it is white. In the case of the secondary rainbow, the rainbow ray is the smallest angle and there are many rays emerging at angles greater than this one. Therefore the two bows combine to define a dark region between them - called Alexander's Dark Band, in honor of Alexander of Aphrodisias who discussed it some 1800 years ago! (Courtesy of http://eo.ucar.edu/rainbows/)

DON'T CRY FOR ME, ARGENTINA

How did I like Buenos Aires, you ask? I liked it a lot. Mainly because it's cheap!
Let’s start with the important stuff:
A curling iron cost $5. But there’s a catch. After letting it sit for fifteen minutes, the rubber tip and rubber ring holding it to the handle melted. When I returned it, they said I should not have left it on for more than 10 minutes. Silly me! It happened to the second one also. OK, the third one too. For $5, I had to keep trying!

It's cheap to eat, too! Lunch in a parrilla in the best part of town, Recoleta, was typically great steak, salad and good wine for two for $11. Dinners averaged $20 including tax and tip. Though at one restaurant, we handed over a $100 peso note and got $50 back, which was fine until we tried spending it elsewhere and were told "Falso!" Guess this particular place saves the counterfeit stuff for us drunken, ignorant gringos, awash in cholesterol and alcohol. Our complaints to them only yielded their version of “How do I know it’s mine?”

Then there are the ‘all you can eat’ restaurants. Now, I’ve nearly bankrupted such places back here so I was up to the challenge. Great quality, massive choices. I played my hand, but the house beat me!

The 'white food' is delicious too – Atkins must be turning over in his grave: It seems almost everyone eats ice cream, meringues, cookies, lots of unusual breakfast pastries, along with the customary high tea at 5 or 6 p.m. with more goodies. So civilized. I ate it all and didn't vomit until the day before I left.

I only got dressed up once - to dine at a new restaurant just featured in Gourmet Magazine and located in Santiago, Chile (went there on a 3 day side trip). Unfortunately, El Jardin Secreto was indeed so secret it had closed down five days earlier. We made up for it at other local eateries by consuming huge and succulent quantities of ceviche and Chilean sea bass coupled with superlative Merlot. All meals began with complimentary Pisco - like a strong whiskey sour.
Being a much more expensive city than BA, a typical dinner in Santiago was $20,000 Chilean dollars – very scary - I still have no idea what it really cost.

The weather was fine - no rain at all - 80's for a few days then 50-60 the rest of the time. Mock me if you will, but I wore all 7 pairs of shoes (a pair at a time), all jackets and turtlenecks, often two at once to keep warm. "All black, all the time" worked well. When the feet gave out, taxis averaged $1.50.

I had heard BA was the leather shopportunity but I wasn't very impressed; lots of it but nothing worth trading in current attire. Besides, it is almost impossible to negotiate without the language - or do anything without Español for that matter. We added "o" to many of the words, and sometimes it worked but not enough to get by-o. Except for "n-o".

The people were wonderfully kind, helpful and friendly. As soon as they heard me utter ‘buenos días’, they assumed I knew Spanish and rattled on and on about who knows what. I politely nodded and smiled a lot. I have probably agreed to send all their kids to American schools.

We actually took a private Spanish lesson for only $10/hr. Not bad except it only works in Argentina where the words are pronounced with letters that do not appear in them. For instance, LL and Y is SH. Who thought that up?

Who knew my credit card wouldn’t work outside of North America? Apparently, I was supposed to notify not only my mother but also Bank of America that I was leaving the country. It was declined a humiliating three times before they finally agreed I was I and I was there.

It was easy to keep in touch by internet. Every few steps is an internet café without the café. It costs about 20 cents per hour. And with my phone card, clients never knew I wasn't at home in bed, I mean in my office. Oh, and before I forget, cappuccino is only $1.25. Take note, Starbucks.

You can see the old charm and elegance that used to be. But BA is poor, the country is poor, the people are poor. Kids help open cab doors to pick up change. I felt safe though, didn't wear much jewelry, didn't see or hear of any problems. But it was best to walk with eyes to the ground. That was to avoid tripping on the broken and chipped sidewalks, most in great disrepair, I learned after the first few ankle twists. (Not that Washington streets are much better.)

Made it to the beautiful Recoleta cemetery that includes Evita Peron’s family crypt. The mausoleums are buildings - many look as large as my apartment. But the ghoulish state of many of the above-ground graves is evidence of either lack of attention or money. I also clawed my way through the mobbed Sunday flea market at San Telmo where lots of graceful Tango was being performed and the main things for sale were a type of antique pewter and some real silver…lovely objects, crying “Buy me!” and several now adorn my dresser.

Hotels are cheap! Our 4 star hotel in a good area was $40/night including buffet breakfast and 21% tax. Just don't select the scrambled eggs – there it’s scrambled salt. I luxuriated in large modern bathrooms to die for and good service throughout. A great lifestyle is so affordable! Who knew?

I did not want to leave. My friend rented a gorgeous apartment for $500 per month, furnished with antiques and a large terrace. But I do have a job so I went to the airport and after an hour in line, was told the flight was delayed until the next morning. We were all shlepped to a five-star hotel, had a great dinner, and luckily, flew home first class the following day, spending the next 10 hours reclining in my barca-lounger-in the-sky, napping, eating, and watching all the movies I had missed in theaters. Oh, and let’s not forget a final shopping spree – Duty Free objects, presented to me for inspection. I simply waved my credit card and picked up all those items I never knew I couldn’t live without.

So don’t cry for me, Argentina - I’ll be back.