Michelle May

Just came across a few great images of Iran from my 1st trip there in 2007.  That visit was pre-website/blog…  spent a month hitch-hiking & taking public buses around the country- often staying with people I met in the street or on public transport.  May be one of the last places on earth where you can do that?  I want to do a reality show where I hitch across Iran with no $ yet live like a queen with the loveliest of people- it is the reality, in fact- I already did it- you can do it too, you know… well wait for it to quiet down, InSh’Allah. 

Tags: 2007, hospitality, Iran, summer.

Happy end of Ramadan to all my friends who are Muslim, and Happy Rosh Hashanah to all my Jewish pals.  I hope you have ALL had amazing holidays.  I started Ramadan out in Egypt- on a foluca on the Nile River (above).  At the time i could not fathom how any individual- moreless a whole society (& in reality, many societies around the world) all go through a month of fasting together.  It would be great to try something like that in America- the whole of society participating in it.  No matter, I truly commend you for what you have done.  I know many of my friends look forward to Ramadan as a time of reflection & getting back to basics of what is important in life.  In a way i have had to have my own mini version of that coming back to the US.  It was a rocky return but in all i now feel focused, positive & ready for all the work & good deeds to come.  Happy New Year & Eid Mubarek my pretties!

Tags: Cairo, Ramadan.

.

Can somebody please photoshop the hair out of my eyes in this photo?

I just returned to the US after a long eventful summer, and finally have the time & space to really think about it all.   I have been looking through all the little scribbles i wrote on the road- would love to start sharing some of that here with you.  I will start at the beginning then- in Tehran.  I wrote a brief jounal like run down of the week rite after i left there.  It may not be the most interesting or clever stuff you’ve read but maybe it will illustrate the vacilation that week between feeling elation/inspired & feeling paranoia/fear (for good reason!).  No matter- here it is (note identity & details have been changed & personal stories have been omitted, for obvious reasons):

After nearly 24 hours of travel, my plane touched down at the Imam Khomeini International airport on a tuesday morning.  I did not have access to news when i was in transit so I was not aware that the first protesters had been killed- at Tehran University and at Azari Square.   The other story was that I did not even have a visa to enter into Iran- i was hoping for a visa on arrival (VOA) which is sometimes given to people of certian countries- ie: Ireland, but this was even just a rumor.  The Persian man I sat next to on the plane thought that i was crazy to risk coming without a visa.   Sleep deprived and dehydrated, this man’s words caused me to re-think what I had just done with regret.  Uniformed revolutionary guards flanked the gates as we disembarked from the plane.  I wondered to myself if they would end up re-escorting me back on the plane once immigration saw I did not have a visa.

To my relief there was a visa on arrival desk, where several foreigners were lined up at.  Most foreigners wore business suits and carried folders contacting documents.   “Your letter of invitation please” the officer asked.  I made a face that said: “Oops…Whaaaa?”  The man smiled, handed me a brief form to fill out, and told me pay the bank a 50 euro fee.  He kept my passport and said he would call my name when the visa was ready.  Perhaps because I was the only female in the group, the immigration officer called my name quickly.  I showed him the receipt from the bank, and he handed me my passport back with a 15 day visa on arrival in it : )  Another immigration officer quickly thumbed through my passport, examining all three Iranian visas in my passport, smiling.  He stamped my passport, and then I gathered my luggage.  Friends awaited me.  “Were you surprised they let me in?” I asked.  “No” they explained, “there is nothing to worry about.”   Phewww… We stopped for a tea and cake.  Everything seemed normal- - like my two prior visits to Iran.  It felt great to be back- and at that moment I was happy that I made the decision to go there.  The man on the plane was overreacting I thought.

My friends spoke of the rallies leading up to the election and the resulting protests after the results were announced.   “You are witnessing history” one zealous acquaintance said.   To see a country I loved so much be so mobilized, was the main reason why I dropped everything to come to Iran this week.  Later that evening, at my first protest I realized that the hope was genuine but any real governmental change was not likely.  Predictably, what I saw and heard on the ground in Tehran was far different from the chatter online back in California.  During the protest it was made clear to me that I was not to take photos and that if I did participate I could be considered a “terrorist” which would have unknown consequences.  Although I was not able to document the protest, I was an observer- not a participant..  People of all walks of life clad in green and black marched silently and peacefully, in respect for the seven protesters killed the night before.   Their bravery to go out despite the prior night’s killings was striking.  They beckoned me to join them.  The friend i was with who was also not allowed to protest, encouraged me to join then.  There was literally a sea of people- in black, in green- silent- no matter which street you went down.  It felt like we walked forever trying to get ot of the demonstration.  I knew that people were unhappy with their government, but I never thought I would see them stand up to the regime as they now were.  On the edges of the protest grumpy looking Basij observed, clearly outnumbered.  They snapped photos and video of people, presumably to find out the identity with intents to intimidate protesters.  My friend taught me how to spot a Basiji.  I found them to be ugly.  

I hailed a taxi back to where I was staying.  My taxi driver had someone translate his apologies- he said that Iranians are, in reality, very good, hospitable people, but the government is “very bad.”  Little did he know he was preaching to the choir.  He told of how his son was badly beaten by the Basij the night before.  He was a very kind person- he removed a green velvet pouch carrying a prayer stone that was hanging from his air conditioning controls and gave it to me as a gift.   (I had that pouch with me when the Basij took me- they scolded me about it and wanted to know exactly who gave it to me.  I was not telling!)   That night the friend I had planned to stay with told me that he felt it was not okay for me to stay with him since it is technically against the law for unmarried, unrelated men & women to be alone- moreless stay in the same apartment. 

I went to a hotel instead- my 1st time in Iran since my very 1st visit in 2007.   Several members of the foreign press also stayed at the hotel I went to.  I had heard that all foreign press licenses were revoked earlier that day, so it was likely the government was keeping watch on internet and phone activity at the hotel.  The phones were definitely tapped.  Not reassuring to me.   My friends and I began to speak in code, as a genuine paranoia began to seep in.  The internet at the hotel was unusually slow.  As I waited 30 minutes for my email to unsuccessfully load a gentleman approached me asking if I was a journalist.  The immunity I normally received as a foreigner in Iran in the past seemed to not apply this visit.  Once back in my room I was kept company by a chorus of “Allahu Akbar” – God is Great, and Death to the Dictator, which were screamed by children, men and women from their rooftops.   My friends had told me earlier that the shouting on rooftops was the safest form of protest- but even then Basij did storm some homes and kill people on their rooftops.  Honestly, when i first heard the chorus of Allahu Akbars it was a bit spooky… it felt like i was eavesdropping on someone else’s personal matters.  It felt highly intimate and desperate- like seeing someone cry but unable to console them or really do anything for them. 

The next day I checked out of the hotel.   A friend of a friend came to take me to a spare apartment he had for me to stay in.  Surprisingly my friend had a wireless connection much faster than I had experienced so far.  I spent the day with another traveler who had been in hiding there- we read western news from 7000 miles away to catch up with what was happening on the ground just blocks from us.  Grainy images of the Basij using iron rods to pry the gates open at Tehran University only to murder people deeply disturbed me, and sent my heart pounding.   

After several hours I decided to venture out for food.  I was uneasy, but as soon as I hit the street the unsolicited smile of a mullah, a juice maker’s quirky enthusiasm for carrot juice, and a smiling mom and daughter holding my hand as I crossed a busy intersection momentarily reassured me that everything was going to be okay.  I was again in the Iran I had experienced before, not the strange place I had read about the past 24 hours.  Maybe, I thought, the slowing of the internet is a good thing, for sanity’s sake?  Still, the abundance of injured people walking around, the fact that mobile phones were cut after four o’clock, and my inability to phone internationally reminded me of the increasing strangle hold. 

Thursday at lunch in Valiasr square well dressed families, and stylish couples ate copious amounts of kebabs and rice at tables with crisp white tablecloths.  Things appeared deceptively normal.  Afterwards, in my taxi it seemed as if every passenger in every car heading towards Imam Khomeini square wore green ribbons around their wrist, with raised victory/peace signs out the window.  It was incredibly positive and hopeful- it felt safe because of the sheer number of people.  I again went to protest that night, & marched.  Moussavi made an appearance with his wife.  People of all age ranges and social classes marched in silence towards Engelab “revolution” square.  It was a movement unlike any i have ever experienced in my life.  I was struck that people were actually defying potential death in order to be there.  There was no way not to be moved by this.  It was the biggest demonstration since Monday’s protest at Azari.  People shouted the location for Saturday’s protest- the movement felt unstoppable.  Once I made it home that night, the otherwise fast internet was cut completely.  I felt isolated- different than at the demonstration.

Friday is a day of rest in the Muslim world.  No protests were planned that day- the 1st time in a week- and the city appeared finally able to relax a bit- at least for the morning.  The Ayatollah Khomeini was giving the Friday prayer at Tehran University, which attracted plenty of Ahmadinejad fans who were paid & bussed in from other locations.  I tried to get away from what was going on by heading to one of the more peaceful spots I know of in Tehran-the Shah’s former Palace.   on my way there I had never seen the streets of Tehran so empty before.  My taxi driver was silent as the Supreme Leader’s voice spoke out of the radio.   There was a heavy military presence of riot police, regular police, and Basij on the streets.   Speakers were set up around the palace airing the Supreme Leader’s speech.  Someone translated parts of it for me “he’s saying that the protests must stop- the vandalism must stop.  If people continue to protest then they have no protection.” 

I walked towards Ferdosi square afterwards where hundreds of Ahmadinejad fans poured out of Taleghani street.  They carried giant Iranian flags, and some had posters of Ahmadinejad’s face that took up the entire back side of their cars.  Riot police lined up around the British Embassy.  I met another tourist who was of Iranian descent.  She spoke of her activism and showed me her eyelashes which had burned off from tear gas at protests.   We made our way to the former US Embassy, now called the “US Den of Espionage” home of the Sepha (IRGC), a branch of the military.  We viewed government propaganda signs outside their headquarters, with quotes such as  “The United States is the most hated nation on the World” painted in colorful Farsi and English.  It was in the same vein as Ahmadinejad’s statement a week earlier that Iran was the “most stable country in the world.”  The tourist and I took a taxi up to Vanak square where we crawled up to the top of a white marble maze that is in the center of the square.   I remembered how many people sat atop this structure Tuesday night.  From that vantage point it again felt that things could again change.  After several minutes uniformed police approached us, “are you starting a revolution?”  My new friend explained that we were not.  ”The place where you are sitting is the revolution spot.”  My friend let him know that I was an American tourist.  The officers then changed their tone advising her to take me to a park down the street for one of the best views of Tehran.  We spoke of hope as we walked away- oblivious to the change of tone the next day…..

more soon…

.

I met Mona in Beirut.  In her company I felt like an uptight prude.  Probably because I was being one at the time (post-Iran), but also b/c Mona is so light and free.  When I told Mona of what happened to me in Iran she immediately roared with laughter as if I just told her a hysterical joke.  At first I did not know how to react to that but eventually I started cracking a smile- later even a snicker just to not rain on her parade.  She loved telling everyone we met my story- sometimes in very incorrect wild interpretations.  This usually sparked further laughter.  After their roars of laughter died down people often left us with one-liners such as “that is horrible” and “I would be so scared.”  

Something else fascinating about Mona is that she is just one representative of half the nation of Lebanon which supports Hezbollah.  Sure, you may think of Hezbollah just as a terrorist group- but they are actually a recognized political party who perform major duties that the regular government is sometimes ill equipped for, such as providing schools, hospitals, social services, and defending from attacks- all of these things which easily win them fans.  Sometimes some radicals in the group also do really stupid things like out of the blue sending rockets into Northern Israel- Not good, at all.  I think most Americans would think that a female Hezbollah supporter would be covered, and submissive- bogged down with the mundanities of cooking, cleaning & raising several children.  Mona however does not cover, shows off her figure, has a very cool job, travels the planet, is an expert tango dancer, a single mom, practices energy work, and captivates many a man.  I love when people defy stereotypes with such unabashed style as Mona does.  But part of this is that Hezbollah supporters truly are much more “mainstream” than we see in our news back home. 

Despite what people warned me about terrorism and pollution, Mona made me go into the Mediterranean Sea south of Beirut to soak and ride waves for hours as we cracked open unshelled almonds with our teeth.  We wore bikinis as other women went in fully covered.  There seemed to be no strangeness about this.  We also debated global politics, and went wine tasting in vineyards that rival California’s…. Staying at her apartment, Mona taught me how to “make” Lebanese cheese (soaking it in water), and thought it was funny that I took notice that her place is above a sometimes heavily sedated- sometimes not- roaring caged lion in a small zoo.  She said she is so used to it she never hears it anymore- I am sure that’s a skill she had to develop while pressing on with life as usual during a decade of gunfire & bombings during Beirut’s civil war.  On the other hand, I, the spoiled American, had to wear earplugs to drown out the roaring lion just so I could sleep at night- even after the long bath in the Mediterranean.

.

July 19, 2009

At dusk Hilton & I drove to the Saudi Arabian Border, about 10 kilometers south of Aqaba, where he lives in Jordan.   There is something invigorating about borders to me- they represent possibility of something new, and also very clear limitations and rules.  Both things that we as humans can be simultaneously intrigued and comforted by.  Still, if Saudi Arabia was not so bloody difficult to get into then I could go there.  Fact is unless I am accompanied by my brother, husband or father- it is simply a no-go zone for me.  That is probably why I want to go so badly. 

As Hilton and I watched the sun set over the border crossing the desert mountains turned a pinkish orange behind the border fences.  The lights on at the Saudi side of the border crossing gradually flickered on.  “Those are Saudi waters, Michelle!” Hilton said, looking away from the lights and pointing to the portion of the Gulf of Aqaba just south of a beach clubs where we are allowed to frolic-and wear what we want- co-ed.  I wondered further: what it would be like to actually swim to Saudi?

Hilton and I took a long pause and exchanged a few stories of border crossings.  Me, I told him of a time back in 2003 that I convinced myself I would be content with a 2 week holiday in Spain and Portugal at Christmastime.  Naturally, I found myself painfully bored with Western Europe, so I came up with a last minute plan to take a ferry boat from Southern Spain to Morocco.  As I waited for the ferry to Morocco in Algeciras, Spain I saw a very handsome Frenchman in the terminal wearing a black peacoat, carrying a guitar case.  I stole glances at him, wondering what sort of artist/musician he must be, as we went through customs.  I sat on the boat for 40 minutes watching out of the corner of my eye as he spoke to a French couple.  He glanced over at me- I feigned nonchalance and disinterest, never looking back at him.  I assumed he was traveling with the couple.  As we were getting off the boat to enter Morocco he left his place in line with the couple and came to the back of the line where I was.   “Are you traveling alone?”  he asked.  Surprised, I nodded.  “So am I” he smiled.  “Pierre” he put his hand out to shake mine. “Michelle” I must have been blushing.  We made small talk as we both entered into our 1^st point of entry onto the African continent- Tangier. 

Men in long brown long robes with pointy hoods dotted the streets.  There was a lack of female presence.  It was winter so I bundled my coat and put all of my hair up into a hat.  Pierre and I walked through a mud street near the dock, and found a large rusty tea hall, full of men.  We ordered hot tea which came in tall glasses full of dark tea, mint leaves, and at least an inch of sugar on the bottom of the glass.  Pierre told me about the band he is in Toulouse & how he came to Morocco to see a Moroccan friend who lived on the outskirts of Fes.  Pierre was tall and lean; his dark hair was in contrast to his perfect white French skin.  He had a boyish smile, and had an air of French chic that was hard to find back home in granola-y, weather-functional Berlin, where I was living at the time. 

We eventually boarded a bus for Fes.  I was tired, having hardly slept the night before- he explained that he was also exhausted- since he took and an overnight train from Toulouse to Madrid & then onto Algeciras.  The bus was not crowded but men and women were seated separately.  I sat in 2 vacant seats across the aisle from Pierre, where he sat with his own two vacant seats.  I told him I was going to lie down and take a nap.  “Okay, or you can lay down in my lap to sleep if you like.”  That was pretty bold.  I was not about to refuse that offer, since it felt almost like a dare.  I scooted over to where he was.  We only knew eachother about 2 hours at that point so it was a bit awkward to go ahead and put my head in his lap, like I have my mother or long-term boyfriends when i want nurturing.  As soon as I did he began playing with my hair.  My neck.  My back.  My upper legs.  His touch was delicate, but arousing; it conveyed more care than I thought could be allotted considering we did not know eachother at all.  The tension built.  I sat up.  We began making out.  I took a scarf and put it over our heads to try to hide what we were doing.  Afterwards he put his head in my lap.  He played with my knees.  He pulled up my pant legs and stroked my calves.   It was too bad  we were on a public bus- in an Islamic country.

When we arrived in Fes his friend was waiting for him.  His friend gave me his home phone number in the village he was taking Pierre to.   Pierre kissed me goodbye, and said see you again- soon “call me.”  I skipped away, excited by what had happened, even more thrilled about what was to come and in awe of how life can change and be so interesting in a matter of minutes.  I kept thinking back to the sound of his voice and accent as I walked about a mile to find a hotel to stay in.  The next morning- after fantacizing about him all night-  I tried to call his friend’s home.  The phone number was a defunct number- there was a number missing.  My heart sank.  I thought about sending him an email but we never even exchanged email addresses.  I did not even know his last name.  I contacted the border police to see if they could tell me the last name of a Frenchman by the name of Pierre who had arrived by ferry the day before at about 1PM.  No luck.  I felt lonelier than before I met Pierre- because now there was this unexpressed emotion.  This stirred up sensuality.  What was worse was wondering that perhaps Pierre even asked his friend to give me the wrong phone number.  Maybe he did not like the way that I smelled or kissed?  My insecurities deafened the chaos of the souks, and washed out the pungent colors of the mosques. 

Two days later in a museum in Marakesh I heard a woman with French accent say my name “Michelle- hello! Michelle!”  it was the female half of the couple Pierre was talking to on the ferry- I had met them briefly through Pierre as we were disembarking.  “How are you and Pierre doing?” she asked me with a smile suggesting a bit of oo-la-la.  “I don’t know- the last time I saw him was when we arrived at the Fes bus station.”  Auriele went on to explain that she knew Pierre from high school- and that on the ferry from Spain was the first time that they had seen one another in about 10 years- by chance.  It hit me that this woman could help me find him “What is his last name?!”  “You can remember this easily- because his last name is a French word meaning fear- Effroy.”  “Effroy– Effroy” I repeated her while jotting it down in large letters in my Morocco guide book.  Back in Berlin, I had a French friend call French Yellow Pages inquiring into Pierre’s whereabouts.  “I am very sorry Michelle- there are no Pierre Effroys listed”  my romance-inspired French friend broke the news, as crushed as I was.   I had to give it up.  And I did.   

Fast forward to Jordan nearly 6 years later:  the story inspired Hilton so much that he went home & google searched Pierre.  I guess a lot has changed, technology-wise, in the past 6 years… We found him on youtube- we listened to him sing, read reviews of his band, and saw his myspace page.  “Write him right now!” Hilton excitedly demanded.  I jotted down Pierre’s email from his myspace page.  On grainy footage, I watched his lean body fold over his guitar- his cheekbones lit up by the stage light.  I have not written Pierre yet and may not.  I still love borders and romance. Combine the two and I can barely contain myself.  But Pierre was not my first border romance & he was not the last.  Still, I do not know why I brought that particular story up to Hilton- as we sat at the Saudi border in Jordan after the sun went down- but it was great to see someone else as excited about Pierre as I once was.       

Tags: border crossing, hot Frenchmen.

Is it just me or are you not a bit suspicious about the motives around all the current news coverage of Iran in America?  Of course, it was personal mission for the past three years to have more coverage of the “real people” of Iran, rather than all the stale sterotypes that were left in our subconscious since 1979.  In June i felt elated to see the entire world seeing images of modern Iranians- the Iranians who i also met traveling there who dislike some of their leaders, and want moderate reform.  It was inpsiring to see people in my country actually care & give a damn about a nation and people who i hold so dear.  However, now if you look at a news site such as CNN and go to their middle east section 90% of what you see is about Iran- horrible things that stand out in headlines.  But there are also other countries in the world who do just as atrocious, if not more atrocious things- why are those stores not told?  Is it because we do business with them &/or even SPONSOR it?

As the summer wore on I was forced to get out of my Iran bubble- I traveled to other countries of the Middle East & saw that as expected, they too have been unfairly misrepresented.  My summer ended by seeing a family i care very much for be illegally evicted from their home in an act which the international community - including the United States- deplored.  Why then was there virtually no coverage of this in US media?  I am left to believe that it is in some lobby group’s interests to further this vilification of Iran (with all due respect to those in Iran) while irresponsibly ignoring what goes on on other countries. 

Why are some stories covered by the media & then others not? 

I have nothing but love & support or the regular everyday people of Iran, but  I am a bit worried about the repercusions of all the media coverage.  Some people in this world want to launch war on Iran - that will do nothing to truly help Iranian’s cause- just as we have seen in other nations.  I will be blunt in saying that i think the continued choice coverage of Iran is just the beating the drums of war.  If this coverage was truly only out of concern for fellow mankind & justice we would be hearing these same stories about other nations where the injustice is even more severe- and at times in places where we actually have and currently do fund such acts.  I am not saying we should not be following what happens in Iran- i am saying that we should also fairly present what happens in other places.

Let me end by saying:  I have grown tired of the double standard in our mainstream media- I am tired of certain stories of some races being ignored.  I am tired of people who are so close-minded that they do not look at people as human beings and instead only look at their race or religion- with an inherit unstated assumption that some people’s lives are more valuable than others.  This in fact has nothing to do with religion- it is just politics, greed & overt racism.  Don’t be fooled by both the formal media & the entertainment you have been exposed to your whole life.  Try to keep an open mind.  Try to get out & see these things/places/people for yourself & then give me your opinon… 

Tags: Iran, media bias, protests.

As the dust has settled i am seeing things more clearly- things that i did not trust myself to make any judgements on a few months ago.  Just like anything in life, people’s reactions & criticisms of often say more about them & their hang ups, than anything valid about you.  Friends who have divorced have told me this, and i never quite had anything very contraversial to apply that to, until this past summer in Iran.  Yes, being forcibly stopped, surrounded & abducted by 10 Basiji men is intimidating but it is *certainly* not the worst thing on earth.. But i was a bit surprised when a few close male friends (seperately) told me that i was making a big deal of nothing.  I definitely do not think it was a big deal compared to what others were going through but that does not mean that it still was not scary and did not deeply affect me- as it would others who are not used to living under those circumstances.  In talking to more friends about it now (I was pretty isolated after it happened) I see that it was normal to be scared.. & even a tiny bit traumatized.  Again- *certainly not* the worst thing that could happen but when you are alone in a foreign land, no one knows where you are, and you are a female with all men, it can be scary- especially given how unpredictable things were at the time & the fact that the Basiji certainly were to be feared.  

Five days after the abduction one of my male friends- whose opinion i highly valued- sat me down & gave me a talking to after i had trouble eating, sleeping & producing work in reaction to what happened.  In an annoyed manner, he told me that he also had a traumatic experience in Iran once: his car was broken into & his passport was stolen.  And that he had to get over it & move on & that i needed to stop sulking, and get over it too.  Maybe he just wanted to cheer me up- but the demeanor which he did this in suggested annoyance more than empathy.  He said that what happend to me & what happend to him were “the same thing” … hmmmm.. I get the moving on part, but a car break in- losing your things vs. being scared for your life/safety are not the same thing.  I could not believe what i was hearing.  I really was not trusting myself when he said that to me, so i just kept quiet…   

I met up with another male acquaintance from home, about a month after that.  Granted i do not really trust this person’s opinion much - he often seems to get great joy from pointing out people’s fauts.  Do not quote me on this- but within 15 minutes of seeing him, he went on to say “How on earth could you be so stupid to get your self in that situation?” and “On the one TV interview you had this grin, like ‘yeah i know i’m a bad ass.’”   actually this is sort of a noncomment/nonsurprise given the source, rite?!  Still, I pressed him about this & after a few beers (& possibly some superego getting him in check) he said that naysyers may just be jealous b/c they secretly wish they were out doing that sort of thing….

Just this weekend a close male friend questioned me- asking me why the thought that the Basij may kill me crossed my mind while that had me captive (uh, b/c they just abducted me- and they had killed others… and i was under allot of stress… errr—)- he went on to say that was foolish & that many people would simply brush the experience off (yes, i know–) and that i am “not a very hearty person” because it scared me so much.  I know that too- but….. but… but….  That said, he spent all summer in Ibiza on a news fast….

What is my point?  i guess to get some of this off my chest.  Most of my friends have been supportive & I am sure that this is these people’s way of showing support.. but i just wonder why a few *male* friends interpret what happened in this way.  No females have.  I am left thinking perhaps it is a macho thing- is it because i did not spend the summer at the mall putting on makeup?  Is it b/c they spent all summer get man-cials while drinking soy lattes when really they wished they were crossing the sahara atop a cargo truck?  i don’t know… but no matter, i hope there is some therapeutic benefit of airing my dirty laundry here in cyberspace. 

Tags: abduction, Iran protests.