Elizabeth II

There is a portrait of Queen Elizabeth above the bed and a trilingual New Testament on the left nightstand. I'm drinking Rooibos tea and savoring that shit-I-feel-so-clean-I-should-be-in-a-Johnson & Johnson-commercial feeling that follows only the most epic of showers. I'm flanked by four down pillows that smell like lavender, and my glasses are clean. For the first time in a long time, I'm all alone. And it's awesome.

The winter is crisp in the Western Cape. I don't understand a word of the English here, but the wine is delicious. Stellenbosch seems to be very much like Princeton, except that it's tucked in a valley of vineyards behind a family of mountains and that there is a black population. Magic Flavor is the local, cheap Chinese joint, and the two cellphone stores--Malik's and Abdallah's--also sell arguilehs. At the pizza place, there was a competitive conversation on drinking, vomiting, and passing out, and Capetown is an hour away.

Upon my return from Syria, I barely had time to breathe in Beirut. The city is ever yet under tight military control. There are a few more private security officers hanging out in front of the lobbies of ritzy buildings, and the army has planted what is essentially a small military base in Hamra (they call it a police station). Dozens of Mustaqbal flags have popped up around West Beirut, and Syria has "pulled" its students from public Lebanese universities.

In Beirut, I returned to Mama Hiam; reunited with my dear friend, V; partied at Club Social with L, A, and R; went to the theatre at AUB (I ought to have written about that, but I've been lazy and incompetent); and hosted friends for lunch just hours before I took off. From my palatial room in this Dutch guesthouse, I see that the days between Syria and South Africa were precious and deep, as time should always be.