Sticking out like a sore thumb (Alternate title: Is there a sign on my back?)

It was one of those days. I woke up late, the bus was crowded, I smashed one lady in the head with my computer bag on that crowded bus, and then on that same bus proceeded to be mashed into two other grumpy people including a nursing mother and fat business man. All of which who were Russian speaking and who frowned at me with their heavy, tired, eyebrows when I begged forgiveness in Kazakh. Finally I arrived at the haven of work where it’s okay to be an American and where a completely overwhelming art project awaiting my hours and hours of unrelenting attention. *sigh*

Then there was this one beautiful moment when I walked out of the office for a cup of tea and had the sudden realization that “I live here. I live in Kazakhstan. Me. Kazakhstan. I don’t have to leave. This is my home.” And I was happy.

Then the police came for me. Yup. Police. For yours truly. They asked for my passport and visa which was locked away in a safe I don’t have the key to. They departed after checking the office photocopy and asking me what I am doing here, to which I responded, “I work with children.” Not sure what the trigger was, but there she blows.