It is only when I have exhausted ALL possible activities and diversions that I resign myself to an update. I have checked my mail (dozens of times), responded to long forgotten letters, updated my calendar, played my move in the dozens of Facebook Scrabble games I'm being beaten in, read the news, checked the weather, and quizzed myself. As we say in my country, there are no more pumpkins left to conquore. So I blog.

Costa Rica was awesome. It was a fascinating, colorful, self-supporting corner of South America. I'd never been anywhere in that region, and not read much about the country in particular, so I had no real expectations. Hell, with all the flipping-out I was doing prior, I didn't have a spare braincell to lend to dreaming up what I may see or do there. Which is just as well, because I doubt any of my cockamamie dreams would have measured up to real Costa Rica.

Good thing I wasn't expecting another Peru, or Mexico, because there was little authentic culture to be seen. Apparently Columbus' pestilent presence had killed off the natives before the later Spanish settlers even had to deal with them. The little country was colonized nearly from fresh, with only a tiny percent of the local tribes left to color the otherwise rather white European settlement. In the modern day, that means everyone on the streets is in Western clothing, the food is rather standard Spanish fare (aside from iguana and capybara on the menu), and the language is plain-old Spanish. The sudden population boom the country has seen in the last four decades means there is little to nothing left of older architecture, even from the early Spanish colony days, and nothing to show of the natives.

But what is there, bears viewing. The streets are neat and orderly, lined with tiny block homes, doused in the most amazing colors. Any ground not covered by roads or homes is soon overtaken by greenery, and despite the crush of San Jose's development, trees still manage to poke through and tickle the low-lying sky above. Come evening, they turn into raucous bird condos. And though the homes were fenced and razorwired, the people who walked the streets seemed alive and unafraid. We never did catch a sight of whatever it was that caused the city-dwellers to baricade their homes, though the night would often jolt awake with the sound of a distant police siren.

The people themselves were refreshingly disinterested. A group of camera- and binocular-carrying visiting researchers made no impact on their daily lives. Even the children did not care, their home now a seasoned tourist hub, and foreigners old hat. All simply meandered on their own way, not stopping to gawk or beg, their own lives apparently complete and in no need of whatever benefit the attention of a first worlder may afford. Very different from South Asia, though the young men were similarly hopeful and occasionally obnoxious. Overall though, there is a quiet pride in in Ticos - stemming perhaps from the fact that their nation manages to spend far less on health care, but adequately cover all. Their social welfare system gives the US and many other developed nations, something to envy.

But it was the forests and the countryside that was the real treat. A sleepy ride outside San Jose brought us to the foot of Mount Arenal - the most active stratovolcano in Costa Rica. Soon we were at the Arenal Volcano National Park, hiking through lush (for lack of a better word) forests, that soon gave way to craggy hills of black lava boulders. Above loomed Mount Arenal, regularly catapulting car-sized rocks down its slopes and shaking the forest and lake below with Godzilla-like rumbles. Though the periodic productions sent shivers into our group, it didn't seem to bother much the howler monkeys in the trees above, who happily attempted to pee on us as we hiked through their home and pelted us with wild almonds. Toucans swooped down to eat fruit from the trees while blase Coati showed us why they were termed south America's raccoons, as they foraged for food at our feet. At night, the cloud covered peak was made vivid by the firecracker like eruptions that the volcano spewed like brief cascades of liquid fire.

Another bus ride took us to a rain forest station deep in the the old growth, but sadly, not virgin, landscape. Turns out they're called rain forests for a reason. All throughout our stay we were intermittently soaked by sudden squalls that would up and disappear before you even got your raincoat adjusted, leaving blue skies above. Though slightly off-putting to our group of fussy journalists, it's apparently heaven-on-earth to sloths, spider monkeys, boas, peccaries, iguanas, neon frogs, leaf-cutter ants, and all kinds of bats. It was strange to be in a place that looked like an Indiana Jones movie. I felt I needed a machete and a pith helmet to make my way through the dense forests and across tippy rope and wood bridges. But just in case I thought I was dreaming, I regularly got pinched in the form of bug bites. Costa Rica's rain forest not only have adorable and intimidating fauna, but also mosquitos, fire ants and giant spiders.

After a few days closeted away in the thick of the jungle we got back on our bus and headed to our one day of fun at Jaco Beach. As if traversing lava fields, picking through rain forests, and boating down rivers wasn't fun enough, on top of that we were to have an afternoon in a popular tourist location. There we had the pleasure of being accosted by bored prostitutes, and sneaky drug dealers, while enjoying surf and sun at a beach-side hotel. "Finally, we see why this is the developing world!" a colleague exclaimed as we watched homeless stoners troll the streets like lost zombies. "Nah. I'd blame this wholly on the visiting Americans. Wanna bet that bum in the box has a West-Coast accent?"

And too soon it was all over. After petting bats, tickling iguanas, feeding blood suckers, frightening lake otters, spying on sloths, encroaching on peccaries, and getting pooped on by a Howler monkey - it was time to go home. We traded in our dungarees and hiking boots for pocket protecters and Berkinstocks and returned to our lives as on-campus media geeks. Sigh

I am ever so tempted to put up a post I wrote a few weeks ago. But it's depressing, and I try to break up the downers with some nonsense.

And what is more nonsensical than me, and my complete hairbrained, half-assed, attempts at EVERYTHING.

I have become SUCH a space cadet, that I am beginning to wonder if I haven't had some undiagnosed head injury in the recent past. You know, one of those innocuous bumps that turns out giving someone a funny accent or causing them to be suddenly illiterate. What, is this another case of health reporter self diagnose and hypochondria? Mebbe. But read my latest stupidity and deny that I am a tard! I challenge yew!

Take for instance - this week.

A friend invited a bunch of us over for dinner at her house. And of course, in typical overachiever, Ivy League-style, it took a whole lot of drama and wrangling to find a day that worked with everyone's schedules. This, despite the fact that we're in an off month. So yeah, date is set, menu is set, everyone chips in something to bring. About a million emails are passed back and forth discussing everything. You would think, with this deluge of information, that I could not HELP but be informed. I was not.

The day of the party, I woke up on time, took care of my chores, and did my bit of the cooking. I found some clothes to wear. I Mapquested the location. Then I double checked the address against my street map for the quickest route. I gave myself an hour to bike the 6 miles, factoring in the possibility that I would get lost, and then I set out. For once, I found my way with no problems. I arrived with ten minutes to spare, at the house whose number I had wisely written on my hand, and the phone number of the host programmed into my cell.

I rang the bell, but no answer. I called her, but she didn't pick up. Hmm. This was not boding well. I hung around for a bit, wondering if she was on the train underground or something, or had fallen asleep, like some of these geniuses tend to do when left alone. Finally, I conceded defeat. It had to be me. Despite all my checks and double-checks, I MUST have screwed something up. So I pedalled back to my office, to check.

Sure enough. I did. I got the day wrong. It was tomorrow. Sigh. But I couldn't even get all that upset, and I definitely wasn't surprised. I've been doing this sort of thing way too often nowadays.

Like my big, honking, end of the term project for my fellowship. It had been scheduled for December, but snowstorms got in the way and had to be pushed back till January. I'd worked my butt off on it, insisting that I was going to challenge myself and educate my fellow fellows. When the presentation was delayed, I assumed I'd go back and polish it up. But of course, I never did.

Come the day of, I had not even accessed the file, let alone patched it up. And just my luck, I would be called first to present. After agonizing minutes of searching my laptop, I dug the file out, and pulled it up on screen. And then my mind blanked. I had no idea what I was suppposed to say. I don't think I'd ever actually visualized TALKING. I was just going to run the PowerPoint. But that wasn't allowed, so I floundered along, trying to read the now forgotten and unfamiliar slides. Oh yeah Owl, VERY professional. Way to impress seasoned broadcasters and writers - reading your slides FOR them. I didn't even actually get to finish my presentation, running out of time and getting gonged before I even found my stride.

Boo.

And then comes my much awaited trip to Costa Rica. This has been like, the jewel in the crown of my fellowship; a much talked about, much anticipated collective research trip. We've only been preparing for it since forever, and are deluged by a constant flow of emails, reminders, and memos. There was even a special pre-trip session the other day, where EVERY possible issue and question was discussed ad nauseum. So I should have been well aware of every detail, if not the basics, right? Why then, though, did I discover, just yesterday, that I was leaving for Costa Rica - tonight? I thought I had another day. But I didn't. Thank GOD I double checked my ticket. The fellowship folk would have KILLED ME if I'd goofed again.

And to think, I am a full fledged grownup, a journalist on top of that, who's a bit of a lone-wolf globetrotter, and I can't get dates, times, and locations right. I need a minder. Or a keeper. Or a secretary. Or SOMETHING. I am NOT FIT TO MANAGE MYSELF! ACK!

Most of the time, being back in the US is much like I never left. A country doesn't change all that much in seven years. And though my wardrobe and my vocabulary have picked up new nuance since my self-imposed exile, I'm also pretty much still me. So living here should be about the same.

But it isn't. Where there have been changes - in me and in the country - they are powerfully significant and at no time does this fact become more evident than when it comes to prayer.

Muslims pray five times a day. It's part of the basic deal. And ever since I decided to "be" a Muslim, I've tried to uphold that no matter where I am or what I'm doing. Back when I was a teenager in the US, that meant when I wasn't home or near a masjid, I'd just find a washroom to wash up and a clean corner for prayer. Airports, libraries, malls, class rooms, parking lots - you name it, I prayed there. I'd wear my 'don't mess with me' face, and do my thang, and if it weirded you out, that was your problem, not mine.

But now, I don't know if seven years in Muslim countries has made me soft, or America has become that much more intolerant. What I do know is that prayer is no longer as easy as it used to be.

Try as I may to plan my day with a time-out for prayer worked in, I still can't help but feel the tension when it comes down to it. "When is the right time" to leave a class, conference or interview is a tough question to answer. Gone are the days when I'd jump up to pray as soon as the time changed. Now I seem to draw it out, waiting for a lull in the professor's monologue, or a bathroom break, or a miracle from God. When I've pushed it to the wire, and there is literally no time left, that's when I hurriedly leave.

And "where" is is even harder to answer. There is only one designated prayer place on campus, and there's a conference room at my office I can sometimes sneak into. Most days I am nowhere near either and have to improvise. I try to stay in a state of 'wudu' to be ready to pray whenever I can, but it doesn't seem to make the search for a place any easier. Once I've escaped, then it's a frantic search for a corner, somewhere, ANY where, I can kneel in reluctant worship. This has turned out to be stairwells, emergency exits, fitting rooms, parks, lounges and even, I'm ashamed to say it, restrooms.

The search is so hard because no matter where it is I finally find to pray, instead of feeling like a moment of meditation and gratitude, prayer has taken on the feeling of something criminal and hasty. I don't want to be caught bowing in worship and have to explain myself to anyone. It's terribly pathetic that I should care what people think about my behaviour. But I tell myself it's because I don't want to frighten them. Stories of Muslim faithful being detained for questioning when heard reciting Quran or security called when public places are used for prayer echo in my mind. It's better for them and me if I do this out of public view, I tell myself. But really, I know I'm just a coward.

Prayer is a non-negotiable. As long as I call myself Muslim - and Inshallah that will be always - I owe my Creator the five daily prayers. So I should pray that God make it easier for me to do what is right, and harden my heart against fear and perception. It is only Allah I have to worry about, and right now, I don't think He can be that pleased with me.

I am probably the biggest book worm you know. I maintained a book a day average for years, and still will inhale them like popcorn if they're handy. I can't even remember what all I've read, and on more than a few occassions I've bought or taken out books, only to discover, a few chapters in, that in some distant past, I'd read it. That, or I'm a 'book psychic'. Reading ranks above sleeping, eating, and socializing as a priority. And if you know me, you know this.

But I don't read anything of value. No really. It's some unspoken rule I have. I read 'fiction' - literature if I can help it, but nonsense if its slim pickings. I draw the line only at horror and romance - two idiotic genres I have no time for. Reading is purely entertainment for me. If I learn something from it, it's just a side perk. I'm just looking for the journey into another world or another mind.

I guess THAT part of my book gourmand persona I forgot to share, because last week my very awesome, very educated friend Bob let the cat out of the bag. "Hey, have you read this book?" she asked, holding up something philosophical and political. I cocked my head sideways to read the print, recognized it as some New York Times Best Sellers' List non-fiction, and shrugged. "Nope." She looked a bit taken aback. "Well, wanna borrow it." Kicking my feet over the arm of her computer chair, I spun a bit and answered, "No thanks."

Wrong answer. "I don't get you. I thought you loved reading." I do. Just not serious stuff. My life is already a heart attack, I write news, devour newspapers, and talk politics, but that's all the reality I can handle. Books are escapism for me.

And that's pretty lazy, I realize. I know I should work harder on knowing and understanding. But I wonder if I can even read books with that sort of involvement. I'm not called ADHD Girl for nothing. It's damned hard for me to really focus on things, and I read at a speed that doesn't really allow for much absorption. Half the time I get to the end of a book, I can't remember a single character's name, though I can relate the plot and the subtext pretty well. Details fail me, and when you're reading a chronology and analysis of the Cold War, then you kind of need to pick those up.

So vat now? Is it time I grew up and started 'educating' myself with non-fiction? Is that even possible? But if I turn reading into learning, then will I have to find something else for fun, like fire swallowing? I can only hope.

I need to make an update topic label that relates specifically to my predilection for self destruction - aka my love of sports. I have - apparently - joined an ice hockey team. No, I've never played. I think I've ice skated all of two times in my life - none of which were in the past 8 years. So I'm as surprised as you when met with the kind invitation of "Hey Owl, wanna join my ice hockey team," I blurted out "SURE!"

So now, I've got a week before our first game, and I've still only had one 'practice' - which is a total misnomer. I wasn't practicing anything, I was LEARNING. Things like - HOW TO STOP. Which, I am not quite sure I've mastered.

Ei cheese. I am completely without sense.

But this is what makes me tick, apparently; throwing myself headlong into slightly risky things, pushing my own limits as far as I can, and forcing myself out of my comfort zone. I'll let you know how it goes. I'm kind of hoping that they'll take pity on my inexperience and make me goalie. And I rock at goalie, cuz all that involves is being hit with things. Which, you know me, I am a natural at - be it pucks, cars, or falling pianos.

And beyond that, I'm sort of mentally overwhelmed with junx that need doing, so I can't think of anything else to write. I leave you guys to pick the topic. What should I blather on about next?

Great googlymoogly! I am SO spent. I've just spent the past three hours locked in a life-or-death struggle at the card table with my family - made all the more tense by the constant presence of chips, cookies, and all-such-snackery. My mind and my stomach are completely overtaxed and should not be put upon in such a way until the next New Year.

And damn, it IS a new year. It's 2008. The year of the rat, if you're into Chinese stuffs, and the International Year of Planet Earth, if you believe the UN. Which no one really, ever, ought to do. They wear blue berets, if that tells you something.

For me, this is gonna be the year where I turn the corner on my 20s. Somewhere towards the end of the year, I'm going to be 26. Dear LORD. Who let that happen?! Wasn't someone supposed to revoke my adulthood card between 21 and 25 to prevent me from bowling through to the next round. I mean, can you imagine? Me as a 30-year-old, with my slingshot and crazy hat collections having reached mammoth proportions. Or worse, Owl as a 40-year-old - her customary scowl made all the more potent by wrinkles and her snarkiness only further sharpened by experience. And at 50, will ANYONE stand a chance when I deadpan my usual insanity with utter candor. I mean, you can't help but believe a bespectacled, hijabi, matron when she dourly tells you that Napoleon kept his hand in his shirt all the time time cuz he had a bag of chips in there. And I look forward to my geriatric years, where I can do all SORTS of things in decent society, and just plead insanity, senility, or loss of senses. (Oh, terribly sorry about running your ferret through the washing machine, but I just didn't SEE it there.)

This boggles the mind. But I guess, having safely made it half way through my 25th year, without defenestration from the Grownup Club House, I'm untouchable. And free to be as naive and goofy as I want to be. The Keystone Cops will not suddenly appear, armed with hoses and cream pies, when I admit aloud, that at a quarter of a century, I've still YET to own a credit card, cardigan or a pack of ciggies. Annoy people as it may, I'm going to stubbornly hold on to my wide-eyed innocence (read "ditziness") about all things categorized as gross, technological, and fashionable. Particularly the grossly technological things that are in fashion. And if I've made it this far without being carded, arrested, or caught, then I may just as well keep plugging along like this. I'm in the clear.

Somehow, I think 2008 is going to be an excellent, excellent, year. :)

Hope yours is too.