December 7, 2001


Had another breakfast with bin Laden this morning, courtesy of Newsweek.  I’m so glad that I know what he looked like when he was younger in his padded Saudi Arabia days, then middle aged (“wolfish look of a revolutionary,” according to Newsweek), and now he’s finally in his prime, with his graying beard and battle fatigues.  It’s enough to bring a proud smile to any mother’s face.  Actually, I skip by these numbingly redundant articles and search for more mundane articles, like nuclear disarmament and the new Harry Potter movie.  I can only imagine the coverage of bin Laden in the States. 


Life in Silistra is, well, cold.  It’s the season of cold fingers and toes, at least for me.  It’s windy up here and the before the day seems to really get going, the sun is on its way down.  In fact, I can’t remember seeing the sun for the past month or so.  It’s just some anonymous source of light that barely arches across the sky.  I go outside, bundled up, and my skin wants so much to soak up some rays – to get some needed vitamins – but the scant inches of skin on my face that are already in the first stages of frostbite keep me moving.  I’m going to have to wait another three or four months for a nice, sunny day. 


We’re coming up on eighteen months here in Bulgaria.  It’s really hard to believe that we’ve been here that long.  It doesn’t feel that long and it does feel that long.  Kate asked her secretary what people should be doing on such days as these – when the weather’s too cold and cafes are too smoky.  “Sleep,” she said.  Umm, okay. 





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