Week 15, 2026: Dance belts in the desert
With the springtime comes a newfound love of baths and radish sandwiches. The beverages I’ve taken into my baths are as varied as the sandwich spreads. Butter and guacamole are outstanding spread contenders but they don’t come close to feta. With such fat-laden breakfasts, I shouldn’t have been surprised when my dermatologist called to let me know that my blood results came back and my LDL cholesterol levels weren’t looking too hot.
What started off as interviewing my family about our medical history quickly turned into broader curiosity about our lineage. I’m working on a family tree now. It’s affirming to learn that migration has always been in my blood but it breaks my heart too. I was watching an update about a kid who went viral at a county fair a decade ago. His grandfather was explaining why he took him to the fair in the first place and said "I brought him here because I came here as a kid".
It’s so foreign to me, the idea of having a shared childhood with a grandparent. It sounds beautiful and precious and heartbreaking. My grandmother shared a story about the time her father walked from Gaza City to Yafa because he couldn’t afford a taxi. She was waiting for me to laugh and I was trying to find it but couldn’t. It would be funny if it didn't sound like utter fiction. I can’t look up what that distance looks like by car on my phone, not even theoretically, because of the borders.
It’s always a treat hanging out with tata. She's a real hoot. When I go to sit with her, she takes out a serving bowl filled with little wrapped sweets and asks me to help myself to one before we start chatting. I often go for the Ferrero Rocher. The other options are a mysterious sucking candy in a red wrapper and a Werther's caramel.
The highlight of my week was the day I learned that a black top and leggings make for a perfectly reasonable outfit for both a dental appointment and a belly-dancing class. A great day, start to finish. Ten out of ten. When I went to get on the bus that morning, the bus driver shook his head and said I wasn’t allowed on and, because my humour threshold is very low when it comes to public transport, I was so grumpy that he had to clarify that he was joking.
The dental appointment was fine. He removed the stitches and sent me on my way. I stopped by a nearby mall to have lunch and read. It was a small mall that I had never seen before, with the smell of bakhoor emanating from every corner. I sat in a booth at a chain restaurant and ordered chicken and diet cola.
On my way back to the bus station, I was crossing over a large plot of sand while inspecting a helicopter flying over my head when I found myself sinking into a pile of mud. I dug through my backpack for anything that could help undo the damage on my sneakers and the only promising item was a pad. It did nothing. Where is that absorbency they love to speak of? My sneakers were so dirty that I was worried I wouldn’t be allowed on the bus for real but walking laps in the hot afternoon sun hardened the mud and I was able to scrape the rest of it off with my mailbox key.
I finally took the bus to one of the few neighbourhoods in the world where, when asked for my name, I can say Zeina like this area. That’s what I said to the Nigerian waiter who put a fly fan on my table so I could have my chocolate pastry in peace. After asking me where I was from, he told me that I wasn't dark enough to be from anywhere south of Italy, which I can only assume was an attempt at a compliment. Later that evening, a Russian woman told me I was so olive-skinned she wanted to take a bite out of me. Oh, the life of a cosmopolitan!
The belly-dancing class was a blast. When the instructor asked if we had any experience, I was tempted to ask if tween birthday parties counted. Back in my day, we had a dance belt and a dream. Belly-dancing seemed to be an entirely new world for most of the people there. We learned about figure-eights and body spins. I recommend belly-dancing if you’re a fan of choreography. There’s something really cathartic about having a Slavic woman aggressively tell you to contract your pelvis in order to reclaim your femininity.
I’ve picked up a couple of fiscal tricks this week. If you’re trying to sell a typewriter right around the time the word missiles becomes a part of your lexicon, you’re best off reducing the price by two-thirds. On another note, if you hit up the British imports supermarket the day after Easter, you can get a very big chocolate bunny for very little money.
I’m still reading and writing as often as I can help it. I finished the copywriting book and am now onto my first Naguib Mahfouz novel. I’m warding off the temptation to walk around with it but how else will people know I’m a deeply introspective old soul?