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Margarita Wednesdays: Making a New Life by the Mexican Sea [Deborah Rodriguez] on yteripoxyx.ml *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. Title: Margarita.
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Personal Author:. Rodriguez, Deborah, author. Publisher Info:. Physical Description:. General Note:. Despite having no plan, no friends, and no Spanish, a determined Rodriguez soon finds herself swept up in a world where the music never stops and a new life can begin. Her adventures and misadventures among the expats and locals help lead the way to new love, new family, and a new sense of herself"--Amazon.

Personal Subject:. Rodriguez, Deborah. Subject Term:. Americans -- Mexico -- Biography. Women -- Mexico -- Social life and customs -- 21st century. Beauty operators -- United States -- Biography. Beauty shops -- Social aspects -- Mexico. Americans -- Afghanistan -- Biography. Divorced women -- United States -- Biography. Middle-aged women -- United States -- Biography. Authors, American -- 21st century -- Biography. The hairdresser and motivational speaker was a cofounder and director of the first modern beauty academy in Afghanistan, and also founded the nonprofit Oasis Rescue.

Tell us what you like, so we can send you books you'll love. Sign up and get a free eBook! Trade Paperback. Price may vary by retailer. Add to Cart Add to Cart. About The Book. A decoy SUV and a taxi followed close behind as camouflage. We raced past cars, fruit stands, vegetable shops, and pedestrians, leaving a thick trail of dust behind. In the front sat our Afghan driver and an Australian friend and customer, Jane, who worked for a private security agency. Calamity Jane, I thought, as I watched her chug the vodka she had neatly concealed in a water bottle, and as I saw her repeatedly checking the safety on her semiautomatic gun.

This girl was locked and loaded and all business. In the back with me was my twenty-six-year-old son, Noah. We had just returned to Kabul together, two days earlier.

Making a New Life by the Mexican Sea

My younger son, Zachary, was scheduled to fly in from Northern Cyprus, where he had been studying at Girne American University. Fleeing for our lives was not included in the itinerary. But shit happens.

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And in those past two days, a lot of shit happened. It was spring , and I had headed home to Afghanistan from the States on top of the world. A whirlwind tour promoting my book about the Kabul Beauty School had left me giddy with pride, and I was looking forward to getting back to work with my girls at the school.

Even before I left Kabul, rumors had started bubbling up that the beauty school was a brothel, and that the Afghan government was planning on launching an investigation. My mention that I had first come to Afghanistan in with a Christian humanitarian organization could very well put me, and those around me, in jeopardy. Over there, you can be arrested and threatened with death if someone reports you for converting to Christianity.

Of course, there was nothing religious about the school, nor was there anything illicit. After all, with all that was going on in Afghanistan at the time, how important could a redheaded hairdresser be? And on top of it all, I had, to say the least, a challenging domestic situation to deal with. The fact that Sam already had a wife and seven daughters living in Saudi Arabia turned out to be the least of his undesirable qualities. It had all started off fine. For once in my life I felt like I was making a rather practical decision when it came to a man.

My association with Sam would work wonders for my reputation among the Afghan people, a reputation that was already in the toilet simply due to the fact that I was an American. Besides, I liked having a man in my life, and Sam was kind and respectful, and never imposed his religious or cultural values on me. We were introduced by friends, and after we had been furtively sneaking around for a while in a country where, for Afghans, dating a foreigner was strictly forbidden, marriage seemed like a logical option.

There were warlords in my living room!

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Margarita Wednesdays

I quickly learned to phone before entering if I saw an SUV with blacked-out windows and a running motor parked outside the house. The headiness that came from being that close to power had a bizarre effect on Sam. He began calling himself a general or actually became one, it was never clear to me which , and was soon strutting around Kabul in full regalia like a bantam rooster cruising the henhouse. And he was drinking way too much vodka, not a good thing for a man who had been living in bone-dry Mecca, whose alcohol tolerance level was close to zero, and whose reaction to the slightest provocation was to reach for the nearest gun.

Usually my defense became a game of possum—it was easier to pretend not to notice him or to feign sleep than to stir his macho blood. I was just a war trophy, an American woman who came with connections, and better yet, cash, or so he mistakenly thought. I began to distance myself from him, learning Dari and throwing myself into the challenges of the beauty school and the coffeehouse I had also opened.

But the more I worked and the more successful I became, the more he seemed to resent me. He took my independence as a threat to his manhood, no doubt humiliated by the taunts from his warlord buddies about his inability to control his foreign wife. Was Sam one of the good guys or one of the bad guys? And, I was beginning to wonder, was he really on my side? Sleeping with the enemy would be bad enough, but sleeping with my enemy?

I realized I had made a huge mistake, and wanted nothing more than to leave Sam. But I had heard way too many stories about women in my situation, and none of them had a happy ending. Bringing shame to an Afghan man can have dire consequences, with women often having acid thrown in their faces, disappearing, or being murdered in retaliation. Leaving Sam would have meant leaving Afghanistan, and all I had built there, forever, and that was something I could not bear to do.

I was changing lives! Me, a hairdresser from Michigan, making a difference in a place few dared to go, at least not by choice. I had fought tooth and nail for the school and was unbelievably proud of our success. My only option was to come up with an exit plan that might allow me to continue my work and live my life on my own terms. There were still a lot of pieces of that puzzle missing by the time I was headed back from my American book tour.

During a layover in Dubai, Sam called to warn me that my security situation had gotten even worse. He said that two bombers had been intercepted near the beauty school.

Margarita Wednesdays by Deborah Rodriguez

One claimed that he had been paid five thousand dollars to blow it up. It became hard to know who to trust. Then Sam turned the tables to say my sources were involved in a cover-up. Next he told me that I might be thrown in prison if I returned to Kabul, only to change his tune an hour later in another call.

What, I wondered, could have changed in one little hour? Though I wanted to believe him, I was beginning to suspect a setup. Of course, I was nervous. But I was Deb the Hairdresser, and I could deal with anything.

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Then came the last straw. Jane, in the course of her workday, had picked up some chatter that made it clear my situation had become a dire emergency. Within forty-eight hours of landing in Kabul I was frantically dialing the embassy. I held the phone to my ear and heard the ring on the other end.

It was five minutes after five on a Thursday, the start of the Afghan weekend.

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I bit my lip nervously. This is Mary, how can I help you?


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The embassy would help me. How could they not? My girls from the salon and I would go there all the time to provide haircuts, manicures, pedicures, and other treatments for embassy staff. I tried to speak slowly and calmly enough for Mary to understand, but my emotions were running high. I need help.

I need a safe place. Thank you for calling. I could be dead by tomorrow morning! Jane quickly sprang into action. Be ready. In went my jewelry, still in its travel case. I instinctively tossed in two beautiful pairs of boots I had bought in Turkey. Shoes went flying through the air one by one without the thought of making a match.

My suitcases thumped down the stairs behind me, keeping time with my pounding heart. But it was too risky. Any explanation would have to wait until my return, after things blew over. After one last quick glance around my living room, I ran out the gate with a confused Noah trailing behind, the two of us dragging our suitcases through the mud as I frantically led him to Deutscher Hof Kabul.