Well, finally I am able to get into the site. It has taken three days and countless long distance phone calls and emails, but I think we are there. Here’s hoping.
It’s 10.10am my time, 6pm your time.
I’m forever counting eight fingers to find out what time it is back home.
I am nearly over my jet lag. My homoeopath gave me a remedy which I keep popping. I wake at 1.15am (9am in blighty) – then at 3.15 then 7.15. This morning I got up at 6.30 and called Jim. He told me to stop ringing him. I called B who told me stop ringing her. I called my mother who said ‘Hello, goodbye!’ And then I hung up. My hosts have a deal with a telephone company so the bill is tiny.
The journey out on Thursday morning could not have been simpler. Jim kicked me out of bed at 6.30. I was all packed, if a little nervous. Oh, come on… it’s a trip to a retreat thousands of miles away with nobody to talk to and no bread to comfort me. Jim waved me off. I felt like I was going off to a new school, which I suppose I am.
The driver was a fascinating Algerian geezer who spoke French, English, Algerian and a lot of sense. As we sat in a traffic jam on the way to Heathrow, we talked about exile, cooking and the Sahara desert. He told me about the Bedouins, their hand-crafted shoes to keep their feet cool in the sand, and the exodus of the young into the cities.