It's snowing in the Seattle night right now. The snow is visible on the ground, the walkways, on top of cars and roofs but the snowflake size is only visible in the streetlight. It's early yet, maybe an inch or thereabouts on the small roundabout at the corner with several inches expected overnight. In the morning, the Second Impeachment of Donald Trump will either continue or wrap up, depending on whether witnesses will be called in light on the newest revelation. I will enjoy my morning coffee looking out the window at the snow and listening to the lawyers in the Capitol.
Just letting my mind wander while looking at the light bounce off the falling snow, I thought of the roundabout in front of what the family called the Guest Palace and New Palace, just up the road a little bit from the house where we lived, the one Delong Hersent rented from Mr. Bastaki, the businessman and hotelier. I'm sure that you remember that house since you were in it many times. After all, I lived there. (You can certainly remember the garage where your car had to be parked from prying eyes since the license plate identified it.)
Thinking about that roundabout in Bahrain reminded me that when I was learning to drive while we were living on the island, Mother was out of an afternoon with one of her friends. She'd left the keys to her brown Mercedes on the key rack and I sensed an opportunity for a little driving practice. I took the car out of the garage and drove down to the roundabout, went round and round it several times and then ...
whaddyaknow. Your good friend Farouk Algosaibi drove by and saw me driving round and round and motioned me to get back home. He was, shall we say, a bit cross that I was out driving by myself, without permission, and specifically because he was acting as driving instructor and I was not licensed to drive by myself. I promised never to do it again after my painful comeuppance and we resumed lessons shortly thereafter, in a day or two, and without my mother being informed of my activity.
Farouk was driving his dark green Austin-Healey convertible with the top down and drove us out to what he called "the villages" so he could teach me how to use the stick shift and clutch away from the main streets. I was very bad at the clutch release for awhile and thinking back, I remember scattering chickens on the dirt sand road, more of a path really, and seeing children and families and critters in what I now know as Shia' Bahrainis living in poverty on the same small island where you lived in one palace and played in another. I asked Farouk about their houses, those things made out of sticks and straw that I could see. He told me they were called barastis and changed the subject to "pay attention to your driving."
(Good thing it didn't snow in Bahrain.)
I remember asking you about the barastis many years later when I learned what they actually were. Remember what you said? I do.
