So some of you know I used to be somewhat of a ‘blader’ back when I lived in the US. No I wasn’t the insane, extreme half-pipe-type. The highest thing I think I ever jumped was a bench, and that was just to see if I could. No, I just went nearsabout anywhere within 12 miles via inline skates. It was cheaper than public transport, faster than walking, more convenient than biking, and nothing could beat the shocked looks a hijabi on wheels can get.

I had to hang up my blades after moving to Pakistan. Not only is there a huge shortage of viable paved surface there, but there’s also this annoying cultural stupidity that mandates that a girl out of doors, doing any sort of physical activity (the more novel the better) is liable to attract you an unhealthy audience. So, unless you want to be the biggest attraction in your neighborhood since the first Pakistani replaced his horse with a car, you don’t blade in public.

What made that all the more a pain for me is just a year before we moved, I’d finally bought the blades I’d been wanting for years – Hypnos with wheels that locked on or clipped off depending on what you needed. That meant I could run errands or go down to the library without having to first sling a pair of kicks over my shoulder to put on when I got to my destination. I could just snap the wheels off the neato boots and stuff them in my bag. But when we moved to Pakistan, my lovely and still new skates were put in storage, not to see the light of day for four years.

Well my Hypnos got brought to Chicago with me for our short visit here and after two weeks of helter-skelter parties and meetings, I finally had the time to strap them on and hit the pavement the other day. Little did I know though that four years of withstanding the weather extremes of Islamabad in a musty suitcase is not conducive to good inline skate health.

The first few minutes of our trip down to the grocery store were good. I was gliding, weaving, sliding and dodging down the sidewalk and streets just like way back when. It was awesome. The fun didn’t last though.

Two seconds after taking a drop a little harder than I ought to have, I suddenly lost control. I hurtled headlong into traffic, flailing, tripping and trying to slow down, where finally one blade chassis snapped right off, sending my feet skywards. I opened my eyes and found myself lying face-up in the middle of a busy street. As the rumble of cars neared, I picked up my sorry self, limped out the way of oncoming traffic and sat myself down on the curb to figure out what had happened.

Close inspection revealed that my blades were missing, oh, say about fifty percent of the hardware that kept the wheels in place. The internal screws had been loosened, as they are wont to over the years, and were just waiting for a chance to fall out. One set of wheels had only been holding on to the boot by a single facing, and when I took that last drop, the last hold gave way, breaking off the boot-hook along with it.

There was no way the wheels would stay on with two latches missing. We had to complete our errand though, so I dug around in my purse in search of something that could take the place of the Allen wrench and Phillips screwdriver I needed. All I found was a bobby-pin, and in true Hollywood fashion, this female was able to do some emergency mechanics with that little bit of bent metal. Tweaking and turning with a bobby-pin and fingernails tightened them enough to get me to my destination and back.

On the way back we visited the ‘scene of the accident’ in the hopes of finding the pieces that had shot off when I went flying. Luckily for me, we did find all but one. Now I just have to find a Hypno dealer so get that one last piece I need to be able to use my blades without the risk of serious bodily injury.

Sigh.

The moral of today’s story is…

You can never go home again? (you’re never going to be as young as you once were)
The more things change the more they stay the same? (which may mean I’ve got a history of hurtling into traffic)
What doesn’t kill you could turn out to be a bruised rib and a serious backache the next day?
A stitch in time saves nine? (thus tighten any loose blade screws BEFORE going out)
Owl needs new rollerblades?

You decide. I'm too tired. I need some ibuprofen.

*limps off*

It’s been a whirlwind first few days. My elder brother and bhabhi (sister-in-law) very obligingly hosted an impromptu screaming-giggling-talking party the night of our arrival after word got out that we were back in town. A whole gaggle of girls descended on their home, ate copious amounts of cold pizza and donut holes, received gifts from the homeland, and made comments like “How thin you’ve gotten!” “Wow, food must be in short supply in Pakistan,” and “If that’s what life in the third world does, SIGN ME UP!”

After that it was an MSA picnic where I actually got to play outdoors for the first time in four years without attracting my own stadium-sized crowd. Volleyball and football were awesome (good to learn my spiral is still on), but my sore and badly bruised arms are a testament to my rustiness at both. Erg. Can’t wait to play some basketball.

Yesterday another friend hosted us for lunch, coffee and a walk down to the beach – where strangely the water wasn’t horribly salty, recovering from a recent oil spill or populated by poisonous jellyfish. How un-Karachi-like. On the way back I saw two women walking two animals that I was sure were either bears or walking sofas. Turns out they were dogs- Newfoundland’s. If we had those in Pakistan, folks would abandon goats and cows and eat them instead.

Then last night my elder brother took me on a 1 1/2 hour motorcycle tour of the city. I am a pretty experienced motorcycle passenger, as my dad has a cute little Honda 125 at home and for a while, it was the vehicle of choice for dropping me off and picking me up from work. But no amount of riding that glorified Moped could completely prepare me for nearly two hours behind my bro on his Yahama FJ12.

Even the preparation was extreme. Before leaving, my bro tossed me a jacket and instructed me to put it on. Though only about 10 sizes too big, the Teflon coating and metal plates at the back, shoulders and elbows were to protect me from serious roadrash in case we fell. As I vainly tried to keep the sleeves from dragging on the floor and hitting my knees, my sister-in-law Fuzzy, commented as I left that I looked like the future-son of Marty McFly in Back to the Future III. Har har.

Then I was given a helmet – another novelty. Strangely in Pakistan, although a good percentage of motorcycle drivers will wear protective headgear, never will you see any on the head of their female or child passengers. I could speculate as to why, but I’d rather not. The last request was that I wear something tough, like jeans, to cut the chill and serve as added protection.

With helmet not-so-firmly on head, and jacket hanging loosely off me, we went out. The bro told me to get on, and not that silly and unsafe side-saddle way Pakistanis make their women ride. So pillion I sat, holding on for dear life, and we blasted off.

The thing sounds like a jet. I kept wanting to turn around and check for some giant rocket-powered craft following closely behind us to explain the deafening rumble that accompanied us everywhere we went. I have a car in Pakistan that couldn’t roar that loud in any gear, in any shape, if its life depended on it. Hell, my bro’s chopper could put most cars in Pakistan to shame. When we pulled up to a red light, I heard a woman in a car turn and say “That’s too ----ing loud!” The bro says the noise is so that other drivers can hear him even if they can’t see him. Alrighty.

We sped down the local streets, leaning into turns and bracing for braking. When we got onto the interstate I followed the bro’s lead and flipped my visor down as we began to pick up speed. Later, when my nose began to itch, I flipped it up to give it a well deserved scratch, and found my eyeballs dried out within seconds and my face feeling plastered. I quickly flipped it back and hunkered down.

It really was a beautiful ride. My brother took the long way through the city and I was able to see downtown, Bellmont from whence the urban camo hijab was procured, Lakeshore Drive, and eventually the North Side, where I grew up. We stopped at a drive-in ice-cream shack where the elder bro treated his youngest sister to a giant ice-cream cone (“Holy moly, this is the small?!?”) before we headed back.

It was all sweet. The ride, and the cone. :)

Our flight is in, um, eight hours. That’s approximately 32 hours earlier than I was expecting. I thought we were leaving tomorrow. Guess not.

So yeah, that means madness as in –shop-till-you-drop-make-sure-you-have-gifts-for-everyone-and-clothes-and-medicine-and-everything-packed-and-and-and.

The day started at the usual time for me – 9 am. But that is to say that the day before ever truly ended. I went to bed after fajr, around 4:30ish the night before. With four and a half hours of sleep I pulled myself out of bed the next morning to call in dead at work. After that a cup of the blackest of black coffee was poured on my head, followed by various munchy type things that I can’t recall now, all in a futile effort to induce my brain to join the body at the table.

I then shuffled about finding things, listing things, packing things and thinking things till a decent hour dawned following which I could awake the Abez – never before 10, sometimes before noon, but preferably at 11:30. After force-feeding her a brownie and milk (the breakfast of champions), we quickly dressed, grabbed the Mominator, and stumbled out the door with a mile-long-list of things to be purchased, picked up and tracked down.

Shopping was a bore and a blur in one. I’ll just give you guys the high-lights.

• Matter over mind: After suavely bargaining down an item hanging outside a store, I swiftly turned, and found my forehead making surprisingly painful contact with a metal pole. *thunk* Not so slick now are we?

• In Search of Bling: We went about two miles out of our way because Abez couldn’t remember where she put that “tall, free-standing bling-bling-building that sorta leans.” Many buildings were passed, each measured for height, shininess and proximity of others. All were found wanting. Turns out we took the wrong turn. We did eventually find one that fit the bill.

• Two for one: As dusk fell today, I called my dad at the restaurant and asked him to pick up my shoes from the mochi (cobbler). I told him where (at the cobbler near the vegetable stalls by the restaurant) and what (clunky sandals and a pair of black high heels), and hoped he’d make it there before the guy packed up for the day.

Later, when we met up I asked him, “So did you get my shoes?”
“Yes beta. But the mochi didn’t want to give them! He insisted he never had any lady customers today. I had to make him open his box so I could find them. He told me ‘uncle, you can shoot me with a kalashnikov but I will not open this box for you! I don’t have your stuff!’ I made him though and I took the only two lady shoes he had, but beta, why did you send such ugly shoes to be repaired? They’re not fit to be seen in!”

“Um, what do you mean dad, they’re in fine shape.”
“You mean you didn’t give him two beat up chappal pairs?”
“Er, no.”
Speaking slowly and deliberately, he asked, “Tell me again, which cobbler you went to?”
“The one just over there, in the plaza, by the vegetable stalls,” I gestured.

My dad, now a shade of red, spluttered, “Oh, but I went to the mochi by MY vegetable seller, a few blocks away! The cobbler will never forgive me!”

Me, grinning - “Whoa dad, so whose shoes did you bring me?”

• It's dejavu all over again: My tailer seems to get kameez-induced amnesia. You say the word “my shirt” and his face goes blank and a uncertain and embarrassed smile plays upon his lips. Today was the second time he’d lost one of my tunics. Last time he did this he swore he’d never seen the fabric we gave him and even rifled through all his orders and scraps as proof. Two days later it turned up. Today though, we don’t have two days. We’re leaving tonight. If I don’t get it soon, he can have it. I think he’ll look stunning in pink.

• Owl in Wonderland: I spent a good amount of time at toy shops today. It was an enlightening experience. For instance, did you know that despite the fact that we’ve put a man on the moon, and invented a blue-million Barbies – including, incidentally, a blue one - Ken still suffers from a serious case of nappy bed-head? Every man-doll in the store looked like someone had pasted a bit of blonde carpeting to his little ping-pong cranium.

And storekeepers in Pakistan are more progressive than you think. One of them was very insistent about selling us a lovely educational baby-toy for my nephew. But this wasn’t your ordinary block set – it spoke Chinese. Yep, when you put one block in the hole, it told you the shape of the block, or so we assume seeing as how none of us were able to translate the lovely lady’s word’s. I guess any kid whose parents had the wisdom to buy the toy would have a leg up on the competition – they’d be Chinese-speaking.

So that’s it. I’m too tired to continue. My grammar is failing me. Inshallah, next time I blog, I’ll be doing so from my hometown of Chicago. Btw, I’d appreciate some duas that our trip is safe, enlightening and enjoyable, and we get there and back in one piece. Jazakallah.

To infinity.... and beyond....

*falls off chair*

"It is not righteousness that ye turn your faces Towards east or West; but it is righteousness- to believe in Allah and the Last Day, and the Angels, and the Book, and the Messengers; to spend of your substance, out of love for Him, for your kin, for orphans, for the needy, for the wayfarer, for those who ask, and for the ransom of slaves; to be steadfast in prayer, and practice regular charity; to fulfil the contracts which ye have made; and to be firm and patient, in pain (or suffering) and adversity, and throughout all periods of panic. Such are the people of truth, the Allah-fearing." (The Holy Qur'an 2:177)

I love the way Allah gives you reminders and wakeup calls.

Lately, things have been pretty hairy in my life. It feels at times that we go from one difficulty to a greater one. Around here it’s always out of the pan and into the fire. Things can seem so unfair and so hard, and sometimes I just get so tired of holding myself together and praying for the best. The weak and angry child in me wants to simply throw down everything and cry.

But when things are at their worst, and I’m walking around in a daze, wishing that I had a giant remote control that would let me fast-forward past the problems to when life is manageable again, I get hit over the head with a reality check that rains on my pity parade.

Today’s reality check was the Riverbend blog – the online journal of a woman in Iraq. The writer candidly and graphically describes the daily difficulties and worries that Iraqis face – warfare in the streets, elusive electricity, water shortages, political upheaval, poverty, insecurity, death and dismemberment.

It provides a gut-wrenching insider’s view to what war – even one that has been ‘over’ for months - means in the present. It is the fear of being shot while going to work, the worry that your child will faint from heat exhaustion because the school has no electricity and therefore no fans, the abject terror of being tortured in the search for insurgents, the hope that your loved ones won’t fall ill of anything too grave or exotic for the nearest, but over-burdened, hospital to cure and the frustration of being powerless.

As bad as things can be in my life, I never have to worry about those fears. Each morning I wake after a night of relatively restful sleep, breakfast on the foods I want, when I want them, drive to work unharmed, earn a living wage and return home later in the same safety and comfort to a family living in equal ease.

I have done nothing of course to deserve this wellbeing. I am no better than anyone and am owed no favors. It is simply by God’s mercy that I am not challenged and tried like others around the world for whom staying alive is a daily struggle.

I am blessed to be only tested with the minor trials – staying grateful when I’m feeling ornery, admitting my powerlessness in the face of circumstance, retaining my faith and trust in Allah that things will turn out for the best, remembering that this life was never meant to be one of comfort and that enduring our tests with patience purifies our hearts and erases our sins.

I forget all this of course. Like every other self-absorbed little person, my own pain and unhappiness is always paramount. I have a hard time seeing past momentary discomfort. All I seem to care is I’m hurting now and I wish I wasn’t. When you’re focusing only on how bad you feel, basking in your own misery, it’s hard to see the big picture.

“And We shall try you until We test those among you who strive their utmost and persevere in patience; and We shall try your reported (mettle).” (The Holy Qur’an, 47:31)

God grant us all the fortitude, the faith and the patience to bear our trials and withstand difficulties with ever-increasing gratitude and trust. Let us not be found wanting in mettle.