Goodbye to the Sky ...

​Goodbye to the sky

that welcomed me.

Goodbye to the sky

that promised me blue.​

Goodbye to the sky

that ​amazed me.

Goodbye to the sky

that made dreams come true. 

Goodbye to the sky​

that remains here.​

The one that will​

will follow me home.​

Not in my purse,​

nor in my ​bag,

but in my heart.​

Goodbye to the sky.​

I'll see you in my dreams ....​

Speak to Me Not of Re-Entry ...

The time is fast-approaching to pack our bags and return to the Land of Sand.

We're transitioning; from sifting through drawers to pull out the warmest pair of ski tights, to packing everything up except for the last day's ski wear and a change of clothes for the train and subsequent plane ride home.

Days no longer stretch out languorously before us; rather, we're left wondering "where did the days go?" 

Soon, we will no longer be enjoying wine with every meal.  Before you tut tut us, be assured that we didn't partake in wine with breakfast ....  

For really cold nights! 

that's why Bailey's Irish Cream was invented, now isn't it? 

The mood is subtly shifting.

This morning Smilin' Vic packed up the recyclables to bring down to the village recycling/garbage hut.  Upon his return, he realized his "insanely expensive, brand new, progressive, photochromic, anti-scratch, anti-fog, titanium" glasses were missing.  Whereas two days ago he would have taken it in stride and walked back through the morning's activities calmly, today he became quite ornery and unhinged.

We found one bottle of Pinot Noir that we liked and decided to stick with it as you can see from the numerous recyclable glass "corks" we accumulated!

I finally suggested he trek back to the garbage shed to make sure the glasses hadn't fallen into one of the recycling boxes (ours being easily recognizable by the fifteen empty bottles of wine therein). 

Really, I was just looking for a means to search the flat without the blackness of his mood obscuring my vision.  And wouldn't you know it, barely five minutes after he'd gone, I found his glassed right where he'd left them on top of the camera case. 

You would think he'd have been happy when I announced my find to him upon his return an hour later.  Instead, he just barked "where are they?"

Being the sweet, fun-loving wife that I am, I suggested a game of hot/cold to find them.  You know the one: "you're getting waaaaarmerrrrr!" 

My suggestion was met with outright hostility and a few expletives.  He wasn't in the mood for games.  He blamed it on the fact that he'd been sifting through refuse for the last 40 minutes or so.  But that wasn't it and I knew it.  He was in the military for over 25 years for goodness sakes, I know he's handled far worse. 

Nope, I knew what was bothering him.  It's the same thing that's bothering me.  The one thing we won't talk about.  The thing that we won't mention out loud, even in hushed tones, even though it's been on our minds continuously for the last twelve hours or so.

Alas, all good things must come to an end, or so the saying goes.

The dreaded Re-Entry looms  .... 

What goes up, must come down .... 

High Altitude Flatulence Expulsion (HAFE) - Mountain Dwellers Really Do Fart More ...

Disclaimer:  If you're offended by talk of flatulence, you should have already stopped reading NOW!

It's been hard to get motivated to blog over the last few months.  For a while I thought it was the sixty-hour workweeks (at a job I love BTW, but which is rapidly depleting me).  

I thought I would get motivated again during the Christmas holidays, even though it didn't mean any time off.  But our computer decided to crash, which proved extremely disheartening.  I wrote, I posted, but my heart wasn't really in it. 

Then we went on vacation, and I thought surely my writing mojo would re-appear.  Inspired by the majestic views of the Alps, and the intake of O2 to the brain, I was convinced my writer's block would unblock.  Alas, after downloading the new mobile Squarespace app and losing two consecutive posts and about five hours of figuring out how to upload pictures, I became more convinced than ever that my writing days were over.

And yesterday, when I posted my first blog post in about three weeks, I still doubted whether I should be considering blogging at all.  

But then I got a few comments back regarding HAFS [sic] and I realized what was missing from my blog: information and enlightment.

I realized how selfish I'd been about making this blog all about me, ME, me.   

I mean, for goodness sakes folks, people are out there suffering from gas, unawares of the perils of mountain climbing, and here I am talking about me, ME, me, over and over again, when I could actually be HELPING people out there.

What greater gift could I give than to let mountain climbers suffering from excruciating stomach cramps know that THEY ARE NOT ALONE???? 

And that's when everything came together.  I finally knew why I'd been called to the blogosphere:  to rid the world of guilt-ridden mountain farters.

Not that it's never been done; according to Wikipedia, my favorite source of erroneous information, NASA apparently did studies on high-altitude flatulence expulsion (HAFE) before sending astronauts into space, so great was their concern for astronauts parachuting to earth if the stench began to engulf their pod.  Because we all know that farts have driven sane men to madness.

But as I started reading up on HAFE, all the information out there seemed so clinical, detached.  

And I realized that I could actually be the voice out there for your regular, everyday middle-aged individual wondering "what the f@€£ is happening to my guts?  I never toot, this is not ME!  Seriously, I NEVER usually let one go in public.  Why won't anyone believe me?????"

So here it is folks.  HAFE "does" exist.  It is a shameful, insidious, all-encompassing condition, but YOU ARE NOT ALONE!  

If you are a sea-level dweller who is climbing to grander heights, chances are you will be affected.  You might not feel it immediately; but there you'll be, in your mountain lodge at 1800 m, reclining in front of the firplace in a special-bought mountain-retreat negligee as the love of your life leans in for a kiss.  You'll look each other deep in the eyes and realize that you want nothing more at this moment than to F.... 

FART. 

It's hell, really it is, so humiliating.   

HAFE brings you back to a primal existence, one in which the urge to toot overcomes the urge to mate.  Kind of like the monkeys you see at the zoo.  You find yourself in a situation where the pressure on the outside of your gut is reduced, hence encouraging the pressure inside your tummy to expel.  

But no matter how embarrassing, you MUST remind yourself that it's  pure physics, not a physical or moral failing.

Gas at high altitudes is NOT a misnomer.  It is a FACT.  Stop feeling guilty about it NOW.

So you left the table with a white lie saying you had to go wash your hands (there's no shame in escaping to the loo to fluff ...).  So you encourage your hubby to turn the volume up high on CNN so you can toot at leisure while you write a quick e-mail to a friend.  So you used your own gas as propulsion to get you down the slope; believe me, THOUSANDS of world-class skiers have done it before you.

If I can relieve one single person's pain through my blog today, I'll know my work here is done.  Just don't let it ruin your life.  If your hubby toots the chorus to Eidelweiss, don't let it rip your relationship apart.  Appreciate his ability to turn something once thought shameful into something greater.  Who knows, your relationship could actually grow from the experience.

Mountain dwellers really DO fart more.  And yet they live wonderful, productive lives. 

Just because we come from sea level, does it make us less capable?

"Turn a toot into a tune."  That's my new motto.  If you're climbing a mountain, why not make it yours?

PS.  Farts make me laugh.  Yeah, I am THAT immature .... 

For more information on HAFE, feel free to drop me a line.  You are not alone.

Escape From the ME ...

To those of you who were born and raised in the desert, and for whom the desert beckons, please excuse my bafflement.  Please don't confuse my confusion with disrespect.  You see, I ache to escape the desert.  And yet I am so very grateful for the 'opportunities for escape' the desert has given me.  The desert is truly a blessing in disguise to me.

The fact is, I come from a world of spring blossom pinks, summer grass greens, autumn leaf amber and gold, and winter snow white.  And after all these years, I still fail to be enchanted by desert sand beige and gold.  For me, the ups and downs of the birth and death of the seasons is a quarterly re-awakening, and one I miss dearly living in the ME.

Definitely not something you'd see in Doha ... 

Zurich strollin' .

When we get a chance to escape the beige and gold, we normally head to a cooler climate, in the hopes of breathing in cool, fresh air that will reinvigorate our bodies, souls and minds.  Normally, we take a break from the desert every three months or so; it helps keep the sandy blues at bay.

Spatzle, salad with bacon bits and Bratwurst ... Thinking cold Alps and warm hearths. 

Does anything really warm the heart like an old fashioned candy shop? 

This time, we stayed in the desert for seven months, without escaping.  But on January 1, we boarded our gritty selves onto a freedom bird and made our way to a country that is the polar opposite of Qatar.  We landed in Switzerland, the land of punctuality and efficiency.  The land of cool, crisp, fresh air.  The land of physical activity and healthy (in the abundant sense, not the calorie-restrictive sense) eating.  The immediate sense of physical and spiritual renewal was like a re-birth.

Perhaps hot chocolate and steaming tomato soup under a warm woolen blanket? 

We walked for hours in old Zurich, ate warm wintery soup seated outdoors at a downtown café under a woolen blanket while warming our hands on a cup of gluwein, took a tram to the zoo and went skating.  

Zip lining at the Zurich Zoo. 

Total indulgence ... Smilin' Vic's BLT's, scrambled eggs with ementhal and bacon. 

After a few days, we went to the CoOp to buy bread rolls, ham, and a small bottle of red wine to enjoy as a picnic on the train ride to one of the highest inhabited villages in the Alps.  We hopped from train to train, rushing with our backpacks tied tight to make the 6 minute seamless transfer on the timeliest transport system in the world.  I complained of the weight on my shoulders a bit until I saw what had to be an eighty-year-old man heft a pack three times the size of mine onto his shoulders with nary a grunt.

We drank tons of water, hoping to temper the transition from humid desert sea level to 1700m in the dry mountains.  Despite this, we'll still be subject to nightly nosebleeds, sinus attacks, orbital swelling, lethargy, and HAFS (high altitude flatulence syndrome, I kid you not), as our bodies struggle to acclimatize to the change in pressure and altitude. 

View of the Alps from the train ... 

arriving at our final destination.  Not a car in sight, not a sound to be heard.  Bliss ....

We arrived a bit too early to get the keys to our flat, the same one we've been renting for the last five years.  But we have the routine down pat now, and headed to the ski rental shop, where they've got all our info, and the only update we needed to give them was the few inches Kiddo had grown over the last year and the few lbs we'd added on.  All our data updated, the shop owners - smelling slightly of stale cigarettes, last night's kirsch schnapps and firewood - kitted us out for the next two weeks of skiing escape.

Snow boots, pants and suspenders ... These don't get much use in the desert ... 

We just had time to drop in to the ski school to book ski lessons for the week and enjoy a quick gluwein at the bottom of the slopes before collecting the keys to the flat and settling in for the next two weeks.  Bliss.

Woolen tights on cowhide ... doesn't exactly scream 'Doha', does it? 

My toes, our deck, our view, and some random para gliders .... 

The last five days have been like a re-birth.  Thigh muscles burning as we re-awaken them to a sport they only get to enjoy once a year.  Sinuses clearing painfully as cold, dry, fresh air clears out a half-year's worth of dust.  Cheeks rosy and full from the cold air and wholesome meals.  Hearts light, with nothing to worry about but making it down the mountain and getting better at it every time.

This is NOT a painting.  It is the view that motivates me to make my way back up the mountain. 

Hiking my way back up the trail in my own snow prints.  The Alps are mine, if only for this moment... 

Morning view ... 

I have been doing a six km hike up and down the mountain every day.  The scenes I get to see are beyond breathtaking.  I've been reading Steven King's novel,"Dr. Sleep", unencumbered by thoughts of "isn't there something else I should be doing?"  It's the sequel to "The Shining", and oddly enough, the resort town in which we live has a majestic abandoned hotel.  Creepy cool.

Abandoned hotel ... Anyone thinking "The Shining"?  Un hunhhhhh! 

Me, reflected in the entrance to the abandoned hotel' snow defunct disco. 

The now empty show case, where the weekend's entertainment used to be displayed.

Kiddo was in her first race yesterday and came in a respectable 11th out of 18; not bad for a kid who traipses through sand during the 50 weeks a year she's not skiing.  It earned her a blue star pin from the Swiss ski school and a lifetime of confidence.  By the end of next week, she will most likely earn her red princess ski badge.  We will be there cheering her on, so proud of her and so happy to see her so happy; rosy-cheeked and smiling despite the crashes and the bruises.  So happy to see her breathing in gulps of fresh air, pushing herself physically and emotionally, and LOVING it.

And though I'm slightly shy to admit how insanely proud I am of it, I can't help but boast at having earned my own red ski princess badge yesterday.  I started skiing four years ago.  At the time, I could barely stand on my skis; after four years, at the age of 43, I can do short turns, slalom, ski backwards, tuck and turn at high speed, and get down that damned mountain!  I'm still scared as shit, but I have conquered the mountain, gosh blast it! 

A 43-year-old doesn't normally earn badges, mind you, but my instructor happens to be a village patron, former manager of the ski school, former member of the Swiss ski team, founder and honorary president of one of the biggest amateur ski races in Switzerland, ... Oh, and did I mention he's like 68 years old?  He is amazing, so  very, very amazing.  And patient, to deal with the likes of me!  And he managed to get me a badge, so he's sooooo OK in my books!

I have Qatar to thank for that badge; I can't forget that.  Because despite the lows I may sometimes feel, missing my homeland, my culture, my family, I have to remember these golden opportunities that Qatar has given me.

I mean, for goodness sakes!  To be in the Swiss alps, learning how to ski, under the instruction of a former Swiss ski champ.  Could I ever have even dreamt it so good?

I am blessed.  And though the beige and gold may bring me down, it's also brought me up.  As much as I may want to escape it, I have to admit it allows me escapes I would have never dreamed possible.

Majestic, and enough said ... 

How can you NOT keep moving forward when this is what lies ahead? 

Escape ...