Shimmy till you're sore.

It's not exactly that I'm homesick. But as I prepare to pack up and move from my host family's building to an apartment in Garden City, I'm suddenly more aware of where I am and how long I've been away. The move, along with passing the "one month" mark on the 29th, has jostled me awake out of my pleasant rhythm of life here, bringing to mind all that I've left behind and how long it will be until I see home again.
I lay in bed last night, listening to the ceiling fan and the sounds of my host family's voices next door, tracing in my mind every inch of Seattle. I slowly brought to mind every tilted corner and homey smell of my old apartment, the color of the wildflowers in the 12" grass out front, the feeling of a steering wheel and gear shift in my hand as I drove through wide, clean streets, the rustling of leaves in the loop, Cuban toast and Mexican mochas at el Diablo, swing dancing at the century. Each place is marked with so many ordinary moments, so many strange phases of life.
It's not exactly that I'm homesick, but compared to the endless barrage of beige and grey here, memories from Seattle took on a tangible, technicolor quality in my mind that were somehow more real than anything in Egypt. It was like waking up from Kansas in the Land of Oz. I miss the rain and all the colors that it brings.
In my mind, I walked more steadily, saw more clearly, felt closer to the ground back home. Maybe that's just because the streets and sidewalks here are all lopsized and cracked. Maybe this is nothing but asthetics.

All the same, there are moments when I realize how at home I feel here now. Two days ago, I submitted a proposal about a cultural forum to the A.L.'s office in DC for approval. My director ordered pizza hut to celebrate. As I sat eating pizza with my director and another colleague, bullshitting and laughing about life in Egypt, I couldn't have been happier—and the fact that it was my first pizza since the States certainly didn't hurt, either.
Last night, bungled Arabic with my host family had us all laughing to the point of tears, and expertly plucking falafel and beans from communal plates with pita bread with some other co-workers last night, I realized how comfortable I had become. Meals with Egyptians used to strike terror into my heart when I was studying here before, unsure how to eat with just one hand, unsure how to put off their endless petitions to eat more! Eat more! Oh yes. I am a savvy pita bread eater these days.
We realized a few nights ago, after discussing the alarming list of health problems my host family has, that they had never heard of back rubs. They had never even seen a back rub before. What?
To continue our Feminine Diplomacy (electric heat pads will be en route to the family in a matter of weeks), we've now begun dishing out back rubs to the family as fast as they can request them, mostly under the expert hands of my roommate E. A lot of their problems—high blood pressure, domestic violence, husbands working overseas, a poor economy—we can't do much about. But sore backs? Done.
I started packing my bags last night, since we'll be moving to our new apartment tomorrow morning. I couldn't bring myself to do it, though—it was too sad. This family has become very dear to all of us. We're sending ourselves off with a bang, however: I'm buying kilos and kilos of desserts tonight, some liters of fanta (hey, Egyptians are already suffering from a bad diet—one more night of sugar won't hurt any), and all of our favorite bellydance cassette tapes. Shimmy till you're sore. Laugh until you forget. It's the Egyptian way.