Well, the bidding season is over for another two or three years; and I can't say I'm sorry about that. I have to say, though, that I'll kind of miss the unknown and all of the adrenaline rushes that go with it. My husband was able to lobby his way into our number one choice: Albania! We'll be there for two years with a one-year stopover in D.C. for language training. I can't believe that he was actually able to do it. Lobbying is tricky; there's no doubt about that, and he pulled it off spectacularly.
Now, I have to say that the first question we're usually asked--including by my own family--is, "Why Albania?" Well, for those relatively new to government service--especially those with small children and a trailing spouse without his or her own career--just don't make much money. For those who fall into that category, while London and Paris are the ideal, they are by no means practical. For instance, I can pay a housekeeper around $20+ an hour in Paris, or I can pay $4 an hour in Albania. Economics is/are economics. There's no way around that.
Anyone who has ever known me knows that my biggest and longest-held dream is to live in Paris, France one day. Well, why in the hell would I want to live in Paris now? I couldn't afford a babysitter; therefore, I wouldn't be able to really LIVE in Paris. So, hopefully, one day, I'll get to live that dream. Until then, my hubby found a job that will allow us to live in Europe but not on the Euro. We'll be a few miles from Greece by car and about 80 miles from Italy by ferry. I can't think of anything more exciting!
Lobbying is a big part of the bidding process once you're no longer entry level; and lobbying might get you to Paris. But I'd rather us go there when we can afford to enjoy it.
So--Albania!!! I've been researching it a lot; and while it looks like the language is going to be a beast to learn, I truly believe we're going to have so many opportunities there. Living in Canada has been amazing. It's completely first world all the way, which entry level government workers are lucky to get in the FS; but it's just so expensive to do anything with the kids. A round of mini golf for a family of four is $50; so we don't get to do that much. I'm looking forward to cheap travel (Ryanair anyone?) and new cultural experiences. I've loved living in Canada, but I am definitely at the FIGMO point or almost anyway. For non government people, FIGMO means: F#ck It, I Got My Orders! :) It's okay to laugh; we all do.
Language training means a whole year in DC, where my oldest will go to school in the U.S. for the very first time. It's kind of weird to say that this will be his fourth school, and he'll only be in Kindergarten! Then we have to think of daycare for the youngest, life sharing a small apartment, etc. It's just going to be a whole new world for our family! I'm planning, planning, planning; and, of course, I'm getting nowhere :).
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Bidding
Well, it's that time again: bidding season is here. Life in this type of lifestyle revolves around two things: spending a year to a year and a half getting acclimated to a new culture, country, time zone, language, food, custom, weather, etc. and spending the other year to year and a half researching and planning for your next life with a new culture, country, time zone, language, food, custom, weather, etc. The time spent in between the two is kind of like what I imagine Purgatory to be like: a darkish, fast-paced existence where you're praying not to get sent to hell! This "purgatory" appears to be our home base for the next couple of months, meaning nothing will be finalized until then.
When not busy at work, my hubby and I spend our days researching various places that are on the list of "possibilities." Some of these places are completely polar opposites from where we are now--by that I am also referring to the polar opposite of this side of the world. Right now, we're looking at mainly the South Pacific.
Two of the options are calling to us and both for completely different reasons. Both are third-world countries; however, one is more more developed than the other. I guess, compared to the lesser known of the two, choice number one would be more like "second" world: a place where there are skyscrapers and shopping malls and cheap travel to other exotic locations,etc. But the cost of living is still cheap enough to let us save a good bit of money if we don't, in fact, make very frequent use of that "cheap travel to exotic locations." The reasons we most want to go to choice number one are the fact that there is no doubt I'll be able to find a job and there will be TONS of inexpensive things to do with the kids.
Choice number two is almost like the great unknown. It's a newish, developing country that has seen hard times but is quickly (so it seems) overcoming them and in the process of developing a very new democracy. This place is not exactly the "Wild Wild West"; however, it is intriguing. We'd be on a small island in the Pacific. The expat community seems small but very close-knit from what we can tell. There are many small kids there, good schools, decent housing, etc. There's supposedly amazing deep sea diving and snorkeling, etc. Cost of living is NOTHING. From what I can find on the internet, hostels are like $5/night. I wouldn't stay in one, but that is a pretty decent point of reference. It's a consumables post, meaning I'd have to do two years worth of peanut butter, olive oil, and granola bar shopping before we'd ever leave the States. It's also language designated, which means we would have to spend the better part of a year back in Washington learning a very difficult language. Then there's the anti-malarial drugs we'd have to all be on, etc. I know you're probably thinking, "Why would you even consider going there then???" Yeah, I totally get that attitude; it would not be an easy tour for us. There's the possibility we'd be absolutely bored stupid for two to three years. And it's a fact that Ophelia and Tennyson, our cats, would have to be in quarantine for up to six months. And it's a fact that we would have to obtain a right-hand drive car with 4WD. I mean, the cons are quite numerous. BUT...the kicker is...if we go and stay for three years, we can come home and put a very significant down payment on a house. You see, there are SIGNIFICANT financial incentives for doing hardship tours. The harder the hardship, the more significant the incentives. I have to say it is tempting.
So, I guess to bring my initial thoughts full circle, I'll say this: in our case, going from "Purgatory" to hell won't be quite an unwelcome challenge. There is so much good that can be done there. So much. But, choice number one is the one we're fighting for; it's what our family would really and without a doubt thrive in. But I have to say that something about choice number two is just calling to both of us...
When not busy at work, my hubby and I spend our days researching various places that are on the list of "possibilities." Some of these places are completely polar opposites from where we are now--by that I am also referring to the polar opposite of this side of the world. Right now, we're looking at mainly the South Pacific.
Two of the options are calling to us and both for completely different reasons. Both are third-world countries; however, one is more more developed than the other. I guess, compared to the lesser known of the two, choice number one would be more like "second" world: a place where there are skyscrapers and shopping malls and cheap travel to other exotic locations,etc. But the cost of living is still cheap enough to let us save a good bit of money if we don't, in fact, make very frequent use of that "cheap travel to exotic locations." The reasons we most want to go to choice number one are the fact that there is no doubt I'll be able to find a job and there will be TONS of inexpensive things to do with the kids.
Choice number two is almost like the great unknown. It's a newish, developing country that has seen hard times but is quickly (so it seems) overcoming them and in the process of developing a very new democracy. This place is not exactly the "Wild Wild West"; however, it is intriguing. We'd be on a small island in the Pacific. The expat community seems small but very close-knit from what we can tell. There are many small kids there, good schools, decent housing, etc. There's supposedly amazing deep sea diving and snorkeling, etc. Cost of living is NOTHING. From what I can find on the internet, hostels are like $5/night. I wouldn't stay in one, but that is a pretty decent point of reference. It's a consumables post, meaning I'd have to do two years worth of peanut butter, olive oil, and granola bar shopping before we'd ever leave the States. It's also language designated, which means we would have to spend the better part of a year back in Washington learning a very difficult language. Then there's the anti-malarial drugs we'd have to all be on, etc. I know you're probably thinking, "Why would you even consider going there then???" Yeah, I totally get that attitude; it would not be an easy tour for us. There's the possibility we'd be absolutely bored stupid for two to three years. And it's a fact that Ophelia and Tennyson, our cats, would have to be in quarantine for up to six months. And it's a fact that we would have to obtain a right-hand drive car with 4WD. I mean, the cons are quite numerous. BUT...the kicker is...if we go and stay for three years, we can come home and put a very significant down payment on a house. You see, there are SIGNIFICANT financial incentives for doing hardship tours. The harder the hardship, the more significant the incentives. I have to say it is tempting.
So, I guess to bring my initial thoughts full circle, I'll say this: in our case, going from "Purgatory" to hell won't be quite an unwelcome challenge. There is so much good that can be done there. So much. But, choice number one is the one we're fighting for; it's what our family would really and without a doubt thrive in. But I have to say that something about choice number two is just calling to both of us...
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
The Unknown
Trying to find your own way in life when you are a trailing spouse can be difficult and unsure much of the time. I never know where we'll be going from one year to the next (like now), and planning for any type of job security can be impossible. My life right now is completely uncertain: where I'll be this time next year, what language I'll be speaking, where my kids will be going to school, how my kids will handle losing their Nana when we leave Canada, what our new house/apartment will be like, what kind of car we'll have or need (some places only allow right-hand drives), what kind of weather to expect, if there will be a job for me at the next place, if the kids will be able to adjust to a completely new life in a new place/culture, etc. The list just goes on and on. These "unknowns" are equal parts adrenaline and panic for me. I've said before that I always feel the need to plan for the future or at least have an idea what to expect. The next few months are completely out of my hands right now. And add to that the fact that I am trying to get hired in my own right, which throws a wrench—a permanent wrench—into the whole equation. It's a logistical nightmare, and it's the life I have chosen. The hardest part right now is NOT being an officer/employee in my own right because I have absolutely no say-so in where we go or how to mold the process the way I want. I have to leave everything up to my husband, which is hard for me.
However, I feel my heart race when I think about all of the possibilities, scary though they are. Will it be Africa or Europe or even the south Pacific? Only time will tell…but I wish it would hurry up.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Never Judge a Man Until You've Walked A Mile in His Shoes
Everybody judges everyone else; it's human nature. We judge women's outfits and cleavage (or lack of it) and hair-dos. We judge men on the kind of car they drive, the way they treat their women, and on what kind of job they have. Hey, we're all guilty of it. But, just maybe, sometimes we need to look at the whole picture. Not every book can be judged by its cover; and not every man, woman, or child SHOULD be judged for the basic surface elements.
Someone very close to me grew up under conditions that would make any "normal" person cringe to hear about: a childhood filled with drug addicts, beatings, neglect, and abuse. When someone grows up that way, you not only expect them to grow up lawless, drug-addicted, and worthless (and with every right to do so considering how they were raised), but you're positive that's how they'll be. Sometimes, though, those people find a way to become productive members of society: a good job, loving spouse, kids, etc. But, I've recently learned, sometimes all of those things are just a sham. In fact, sometimes, while they seem like they're the exact opposite of taking copious amounts of drugs and alcohol to numb/hide the pain of an unimaginable childhood; they're actually the way of hiding the pain--until the pain gets too deep.
This person I am speaking of grew up in a living hell but learned a trade, started a family, and did well for years. Now, (s)he is just out of the hospital after a second suicide attempt, and I am watching as they fall into the abyss of what they know, rather than what they've created. And it's easy for me to judge; it's so easy. But I didn't grow up that way; in fact, I had the exact opposite: parents that loved me and protected me, food every day, a safe home full of laughter. And I keep telling myself that you can never judge a (wo)man until you've walked a mile in his/her shoes.
But I am so angry that this person, whom I love so much, is fighting the hard fight to eventually become a statistic. If (s)he'd never done anything, never made it to start with, I wouldn't feel so angry and disappointed. But, then again, who am I to judge? Because I have never (and, hopefully, will never) walk a mile in those shoes.
And neither, hopefully, will you.
Someone very close to me grew up under conditions that would make any "normal" person cringe to hear about: a childhood filled with drug addicts, beatings, neglect, and abuse. When someone grows up that way, you not only expect them to grow up lawless, drug-addicted, and worthless (and with every right to do so considering how they were raised), but you're positive that's how they'll be. Sometimes, though, those people find a way to become productive members of society: a good job, loving spouse, kids, etc. But, I've recently learned, sometimes all of those things are just a sham. In fact, sometimes, while they seem like they're the exact opposite of taking copious amounts of drugs and alcohol to numb/hide the pain of an unimaginable childhood; they're actually the way of hiding the pain--until the pain gets too deep.
This person I am speaking of grew up in a living hell but learned a trade, started a family, and did well for years. Now, (s)he is just out of the hospital after a second suicide attempt, and I am watching as they fall into the abyss of what they know, rather than what they've created. And it's easy for me to judge; it's so easy. But I didn't grow up that way; in fact, I had the exact opposite: parents that loved me and protected me, food every day, a safe home full of laughter. And I keep telling myself that you can never judge a (wo)man until you've walked a mile in his/her shoes.
But I am so angry that this person, whom I love so much, is fighting the hard fight to eventually become a statistic. If (s)he'd never done anything, never made it to start with, I wouldn't feel so angry and disappointed. But, then again, who am I to judge? Because I have never (and, hopefully, will never) walk a mile in those shoes.
And neither, hopefully, will you.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Family, Friends, & Good Southern Food
One of the things that I miss about the South is the emphasis on family. Almost everyone that I knew when I was growing up still gets together with their family once a week or so. These "get-togethers" inevitably revolve around good food and often around some type of seafood boil or fry. Every holiday or birthday party that my family shared together when I was growing up took place around a newspaper-covered picnic table outside of someone's house. Actually, they still do; only I'm not around anymore to take part.
There are crawfish boils, crab boils, shrimp boils--you name it! I remember the men in my family carrying large, steaming baskets of these delicious delicacies to the picnic tables with various boat oars and dumping them out in gigantic piles. I can still taste the potatoes and corn on the cob boiled right there with the seafood, burning your lips with cayenne pepper and crab boil. Often, we'd have some kind of freshly-caught fish frying in a giant fryer outside; and they'd be dumped out into large, paper towel-covered Pyrex dishes and passed around. I can still hear my Dad or my brother or even my Grandpa telling us that another batch was about to come out of the water. We all knew what that meant: dump the heads and shells in a trash can and put down some extra newspaper so we could start all over again.
After everyone got their full of whatever they'd been peeling and eating, the kids would go off to play some type of game, ride the 4-wheeler, or hunt for eggs while the moms and grandmothers sat down to finish peeling the rest. You see, none of that food ever goes to waste; it's peeled and packaged in individual ziplock bags so that they can be distributed to those who want to cook a fettuccine or gumbo or what have you. Then, everybody'd come back and wrap up all the newspaper and break out the desserts.
Most cultures show their love for their families and each other through good food; so I am not writing about any kind of out-of-the-ordinary custom. I just feel that South Louisiana is a bit different. People there are so close to each other; they understand each other. They/We also share a beautiful, centuries old custom that will last for centuries more.
There are crawfish boils, crab boils, shrimp boils--you name it! I remember the men in my family carrying large, steaming baskets of these delicious delicacies to the picnic tables with various boat oars and dumping them out in gigantic piles. I can still taste the potatoes and corn on the cob boiled right there with the seafood, burning your lips with cayenne pepper and crab boil. Often, we'd have some kind of freshly-caught fish frying in a giant fryer outside; and they'd be dumped out into large, paper towel-covered Pyrex dishes and passed around. I can still hear my Dad or my brother or even my Grandpa telling us that another batch was about to come out of the water. We all knew what that meant: dump the heads and shells in a trash can and put down some extra newspaper so we could start all over again.
After everyone got their full of whatever they'd been peeling and eating, the kids would go off to play some type of game, ride the 4-wheeler, or hunt for eggs while the moms and grandmothers sat down to finish peeling the rest. You see, none of that food ever goes to waste; it's peeled and packaged in individual ziplock bags so that they can be distributed to those who want to cook a fettuccine or gumbo or what have you. Then, everybody'd come back and wrap up all the newspaper and break out the desserts.
Most cultures show their love for their families and each other through good food; so I am not writing about any kind of out-of-the-ordinary custom. I just feel that South Louisiana is a bit different. People there are so close to each other; they understand each other. They/We also share a beautiful, centuries old custom that will last for centuries more.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
When Souls Collide
I do realize how silly and naive this is going to sound, but I truly believe that when people fall in love--real love--that their souls collide. I suppose that's where the term, "soul mates" comes from. I was thinking about my husband this morning and about how we started out. I felt like we'd known each other forever or even before. I can't believe how comfortable I felt around him from the first. I just KNEW him.
Now, I was raised up in a Christian faith, and I am not going to try to deny those teachings when I say this; but I do believe that some (if not all) people have past lives. I believe I'm one of those people. I don't know why I have always been completely obsessed with Paris, France, but I have. I've always wanted to live there and be there and be "of" Paris if that even makes sense. The first time that I went there, I was 17 years old. I've said in other blog entries that my life was never the same; something changed in me--in my soul. I was on a school trip and without my parents; but from the moment I arrived, I felt home. I knew where I was. I knew how to get around. Everything was familiar to me: the food, the smells, the sights, everything. Why is that? I believe that at some point, my soul was there; and it remembered.
That's exactly the way I felt when I met my husband: I'd been there before. Call me crazy if you want or laugh; it's perfectly fine with me. But I know that when my soul collided with his, it finally felt at peace. Now, maybe some day, I'll get to have my husband and Paris together. What a collision that would be!
Now, I was raised up in a Christian faith, and I am not going to try to deny those teachings when I say this; but I do believe that some (if not all) people have past lives. I believe I'm one of those people. I don't know why I have always been completely obsessed with Paris, France, but I have. I've always wanted to live there and be there and be "of" Paris if that even makes sense. The first time that I went there, I was 17 years old. I've said in other blog entries that my life was never the same; something changed in me--in my soul. I was on a school trip and without my parents; but from the moment I arrived, I felt home. I knew where I was. I knew how to get around. Everything was familiar to me: the food, the smells, the sights, everything. Why is that? I believe that at some point, my soul was there; and it remembered.
That's exactly the way I felt when I met my husband: I'd been there before. Call me crazy if you want or laugh; it's perfectly fine with me. But I know that when my soul collided with his, it finally felt at peace. Now, maybe some day, I'll get to have my husband and Paris together. What a collision that would be!
Monday, July 18, 2011
Scents of Time
It is amazing--absolutely baffling, actually--to me how a smell can bring me to a different place. This morning, I was at work and shredding some papers when I caught a scent that brought me back to my childhood. I don't know if it was the machine or the ink or the lubricating oil that goes in the machine, but it smelled like newspaper wax. Some people don't know that my grandfather, "Pop," was a newspaper publisher; and I spent every summer of my life a newspaper office when I was growing up. I'm positive that newspapers aren't composed the same way anymore; but back in my day (wow, I'm old), the ads and articles would be composed on the computer, printed off and cut out, and then run through this wax machine that would put a post-it note type of wax on the bottom side--that way you could peel the paper off and put it somewhere else without it ripping. I must have stuck my fingers in that hot wax a million times, watching it dry and then dipping them again to make these thick wax finger puppet-type things. It was so addictive. Then, once they got thick enough, I'd peel them off and drop the wax back into the machine to watch it melt.
But today, I smelled that wax; and it was like going home. I honestly went back in time and could see the old composing room just as it was in the early '90s. I could smell the newspaper ink from the press room too.
My sense of smell is incredible; it literally transports me sometimes. There are certain colognes and perfumes, for example, that do that to me. Shortly after we put my Pop in the nursing home (we lost him to Alzheimer's in September), I was riding the Metro in D.C.; and a man passed me who was wearing Bay Rum. As you've probably guessed, that was my Pop's scent. I felt so many emotions: familiarity, anger, despair, and--again--home that I just broke down and cried right there.
But today, at least, my sense of smell didn't fail me. It didn't lead me into sadness; it did the opposite. I got a little piece of my childhood back, even if only for the time it took to shred a few papers. I wonder where it will lead me tomorrow...
But today, I smelled that wax; and it was like going home. I honestly went back in time and could see the old composing room just as it was in the early '90s. I could smell the newspaper ink from the press room too.
My sense of smell is incredible; it literally transports me sometimes. There are certain colognes and perfumes, for example, that do that to me. Shortly after we put my Pop in the nursing home (we lost him to Alzheimer's in September), I was riding the Metro in D.C.; and a man passed me who was wearing Bay Rum. As you've probably guessed, that was my Pop's scent. I felt so many emotions: familiarity, anger, despair, and--again--home that I just broke down and cried right there.
But today, at least, my sense of smell didn't fail me. It didn't lead me into sadness; it did the opposite. I got a little piece of my childhood back, even if only for the time it took to shred a few papers. I wonder where it will lead me tomorrow...
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Back to Reality
My husband and I just got back from a mini-vacation, a night alone and out of town, without our children. We finally just took the initiative and the subsequent and necessary "belt tightening" and decided to spend the night away. We spent last night just remembering why we fell in love with each other and marveling at the changes we've been through since we met five years ago. We came home feeling like different people and so thankful for the time we got to share together.
It's often easy to romanticize the life my family leads: moving from country to country and culture to culture every couple of years. I've touched on bidding and things already, but it's easy for me to forget how hard it can be too, especially for the ones who have no choice in the matter.
My oldest son is only four now; and so far, moving has pretty much been easy for him to handle. But today, I realized that we're coming to the point where he's going to miss people and friends and continuity; in fact, I think it's here. This past year, he's been in a Montessori school where he made a friend whose mother happens to work with us. We've done lots of playdates and outings together, and the boys have just bonded so much. Well, the time has come for their little family to move on to another post. I explained to my son that tomorrow is their going away party, and he just fell apart. While I've been stressing about our upcoming bid list and wondering about where we're going next, I've neglected to realize what a change it is going to be for my little guys. I mean, my husband and I have come to terms with moving from place to place and the fact that the few friendships we are lucky (are rare) enough to forge at each post are--by all intents and purposes--temporary for the most part. I mean, of course there is Facebook and/or Skype; but we never know if, when we leave people behind, we'll ever see those people again. But try explaining that to a four-year-old. All he knows is that his best friend is leaving and going "to live in another country."
It's times like these when I wonder if what we're doing is the right thing. Don't get me wrong; I love this life. And my husband loves this life. But will our children? Will we ever be able to teach them how to let go of people as easily as we have (and can)? Is it the RIGHT thing to be teaching them? In fact, is it the right way to live...in the end?
I mean, my life right now is consumed with research of possible posts and whether or not I'll be hired to do this in my own right. I've completed step two of a three-step process, and nothing is certain. Sure, I'll probably be able to find a job wherever we go, and I am thankful for that. And the fact is that even if we were tired of this life and this work (which we aren't even close to, thank God), that so many people our age are out of work right now or working in menial jobs just to pay the bills.
I keep hoping that I will get hired on in my own right because, if I do and we go to a "hardship" post, we'll be able to save enough money to buy a house in a few years. As it is now, that's not in the cards. But then I think about the different "hardship" posts and wonder how "hard" they really are. Some are unsafe. Crime isn't a deterrent thus far; but who knows. I mean, there are places where you have to have armed guards around your house. There are places where you can't just go to the store and find something trivial like peanut butter; rather, you have to order it online, pay for shipping, etc. So that $3 jar of peanut butter ends up costing more like $8-$10. So are you really saving any money by undergoing that type of hardship? Is it worth it to even order it or better to just do without?
Some posts won't let you import a left-hand drive car. Well, we just bought a new car--a bigger car--to be able to fit both kids and our nanny. Well, we won't have her when we leave here; so what then? I mean, the logistics involved in these moves are insane! And it never ends. But what's more insane than the moves is how much we look forward to them. I mean, I've said before that I am neurotic in my planning. I like to be prepared and to know what to expect, but the not knowing is kind of like a drug to me. I've been researching possible jobs for my husband and the countries that might be on the list: the housing, the cost of living, the things to do, security issues (if there are any), the culture, the languages, the climate, the things that can or cannot be found there, etc. It's never ending. And another thing I've been thinking about is how often we like to move. We spent two years in Ecuador, and we'll be here two years. But the thought of having to stay in the same place for three years, the normal procedure for one's third and subsequent tours, is really scary. Some tours, according to their level of hardship/difficulty, are two-year tours. That interests us the most. Not only could we save money, but we could travel more frequently too!
But that brings me back to my boys. What is the right thing? I keep telling myself that there are some amazing children in this life who become amazing adults and who love it. But we've heard stories of some kids who aren't or weren't able to adjust as well. It cannot be easy for a young child to move to a new school every single two or three years, much less in a different country with a different culture--many with an entirely different language. But I keep thinking of the opportunities to see the world too. And I still truly believe that we're providing an amazing life experience for our kids. I just hope I/we continue to feel that way as time goes on. But, ultimately, only time will tell.
It's often easy to romanticize the life my family leads: moving from country to country and culture to culture every couple of years. I've touched on bidding and things already, but it's easy for me to forget how hard it can be too, especially for the ones who have no choice in the matter.
My oldest son is only four now; and so far, moving has pretty much been easy for him to handle. But today, I realized that we're coming to the point where he's going to miss people and friends and continuity; in fact, I think it's here. This past year, he's been in a Montessori school where he made a friend whose mother happens to work with us. We've done lots of playdates and outings together, and the boys have just bonded so much. Well, the time has come for their little family to move on to another post. I explained to my son that tomorrow is their going away party, and he just fell apart. While I've been stressing about our upcoming bid list and wondering about where we're going next, I've neglected to realize what a change it is going to be for my little guys. I mean, my husband and I have come to terms with moving from place to place and the fact that the few friendships we are lucky (are rare) enough to forge at each post are--by all intents and purposes--temporary for the most part. I mean, of course there is Facebook and/or Skype; but we never know if, when we leave people behind, we'll ever see those people again. But try explaining that to a four-year-old. All he knows is that his best friend is leaving and going "to live in another country."
It's times like these when I wonder if what we're doing is the right thing. Don't get me wrong; I love this life. And my husband loves this life. But will our children? Will we ever be able to teach them how to let go of people as easily as we have (and can)? Is it the RIGHT thing to be teaching them? In fact, is it the right way to live...in the end?
I mean, my life right now is consumed with research of possible posts and whether or not I'll be hired to do this in my own right. I've completed step two of a three-step process, and nothing is certain. Sure, I'll probably be able to find a job wherever we go, and I am thankful for that. And the fact is that even if we were tired of this life and this work (which we aren't even close to, thank God), that so many people our age are out of work right now or working in menial jobs just to pay the bills.
I keep hoping that I will get hired on in my own right because, if I do and we go to a "hardship" post, we'll be able to save enough money to buy a house in a few years. As it is now, that's not in the cards. But then I think about the different "hardship" posts and wonder how "hard" they really are. Some are unsafe. Crime isn't a deterrent thus far; but who knows. I mean, there are places where you have to have armed guards around your house. There are places where you can't just go to the store and find something trivial like peanut butter; rather, you have to order it online, pay for shipping, etc. So that $3 jar of peanut butter ends up costing more like $8-$10. So are you really saving any money by undergoing that type of hardship? Is it worth it to even order it or better to just do without?
Some posts won't let you import a left-hand drive car. Well, we just bought a new car--a bigger car--to be able to fit both kids and our nanny. Well, we won't have her when we leave here; so what then? I mean, the logistics involved in these moves are insane! And it never ends. But what's more insane than the moves is how much we look forward to them. I mean, I've said before that I am neurotic in my planning. I like to be prepared and to know what to expect, but the not knowing is kind of like a drug to me. I've been researching possible jobs for my husband and the countries that might be on the list: the housing, the cost of living, the things to do, security issues (if there are any), the culture, the languages, the climate, the things that can or cannot be found there, etc. It's never ending. And another thing I've been thinking about is how often we like to move. We spent two years in Ecuador, and we'll be here two years. But the thought of having to stay in the same place for three years, the normal procedure for one's third and subsequent tours, is really scary. Some tours, according to their level of hardship/difficulty, are two-year tours. That interests us the most. Not only could we save money, but we could travel more frequently too!
But that brings me back to my boys. What is the right thing? I keep telling myself that there are some amazing children in this life who become amazing adults and who love it. But we've heard stories of some kids who aren't or weren't able to adjust as well. It cannot be easy for a young child to move to a new school every single two or three years, much less in a different country with a different culture--many with an entirely different language. But I keep thinking of the opportunities to see the world too. And I still truly believe that we're providing an amazing life experience for our kids. I just hope I/we continue to feel that way as time goes on. But, ultimately, only time will tell.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Five Years Later
I should be saving this blog entry for next Monday, but I am feeling inspired today for some reason. Our youngest is making the transition from his crib to a big boy bed and is waking up in the night again; only now, he's no longer "confined" in his crib and has taken to walking around in the middle of the night. Last night it was my hubby's turn to get up for any "incidents," and there was one that lasted around two hours. Now, I am usually--and by usually, I mean 99.99999% of the time--a serious #@$%^ if you wake me up at 2:30 in the morning. But last night was different. I remember the initial haze of hearing the baby waking up and then being cognizant enough to cheer silently to myself that it wasn't my night. Then I remember feeling the emptiness of my bed and missing my husband. When he came to bed later, I remember holding him and breathing in the scent of his skin. And I realized that I've had him for almost five years now in my life. And what an amazing five years it's been--a whirlwind of every kind of emotional, physical, economical, and mental situation you can imagine.
This coming Monday will be five years since my life got turned upside down. Most of my friends know this story, but I'll tell it again for those who don't (care) lol. A friend of mine at the time was asked to go on a date with a guy she didn't like at all, but she felt like she should since he was so "nice." She was dreading the night, and I told her that I'd drive in after work in Metairie and meet them at Y Bar so she'd have an "out" if she needed it. All she needed to do was tell me the word, and I was going to fake an emotional crisis and make her leave with me. When I got to Y Bar, she and the guy were doing fine; so I sat down at the bar and talked to Ricki. I noticed a guy sitting at the bar, thought he was cute, and just "happened" to sit down next to him. He started talking on his cell to his brother (screaming would describe it better, and he still does it). After the conversation was over (I was by then on my second Crown and Coke), he leaned over and said, "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be 'that' guy in the bar who's always on his cell phone."
We might have talked for minutes or hours; I couldn't tell you which. I knew he was perfect on paper and that I really liked him. I also knew I was starting to catch a good buzz and was in danger of embarrassing myself. He had to run to the bathroom; so I made a move that was either going to be genius or poison: I wrote my name and phone number on a bar napkin and a "Better call me, Cutie" on it for good measure. I gave the napkin to the bartender with strict instructions to make sure "the Cutie" got it and hightailed it out of there as fast as I could. I didn't know at the time what the outcome was going to be, but I just had a feeling.
My phone rang about 30 seconds later. I wasn't even to my car yet. Having just read "The Rules"--like every good Southern girl looking for the right man does--I didn't answer his call. I let him go to voicemail and then listened to the message a minimum of 10 times, analyzing everything he said and how he said it. I would give anything to get that message back. Anything.
The next morning, I texted him before I left for school and apologized for "missing" his call. He fell for it. And I fell for it when he told me that I'd saved his job by waking him with my text, as he'd stayed out late and overslept. That led to our first date two days later. We met at a sushi restaurant and couldn't stop talking long enough to order. We ordered about 10 rolls and ate one of them. The first date was amazing. I introduced him to my parents on our second date (the following night). That's all she wrote. When we left the restaurant and went to the Hollywood Club in the middle of a cane field, and he just took it in stride, I knew he was cool. But when we talked until we fell asleep (fully dressed and above the covers I'd like to add) and woke up holding hands, I knew that was it.
Now most, if not all, of those reading this are probably yawning or feeling like they were dropped in the middle of some kind of chick flick; but the speed at which our relationship started is only the beginning.
In almost five years to the day since we met, we've:
fallen in love
got married five months later
had a baby
moved to D.C.
learned Spanish
moved to Ecuador
both got new jobs
had another baby
moved to Canada
both got new jobs
I took the test
I passed the test
We're about to bid on the next post
So, sorry to go on and one but: five years, two kids, three moves (not including me moving in with him), two jobs, three countries, and a possible career for me later, I still miss when my husband is not in the bed with me. And I still get weak at the smell of his skin. And I still light up when I see his face or hear his voice. And I still cry just a little bit whenever we're going to be apart for more than like 12 hours. And it all started with him telling me, "I'm sorry..." My goodness, life flies by so fast when you've found the right one. My hubby says I only get 50 years of monogamy, and then he's going to trade me in for a younger model lol; so 45 more years just doesn't seem like enough.
This coming Monday will be five years since my life got turned upside down. Most of my friends know this story, but I'll tell it again for those who don't (care) lol. A friend of mine at the time was asked to go on a date with a guy she didn't like at all, but she felt like she should since he was so "nice." She was dreading the night, and I told her that I'd drive in after work in Metairie and meet them at Y Bar so she'd have an "out" if she needed it. All she needed to do was tell me the word, and I was going to fake an emotional crisis and make her leave with me. When I got to Y Bar, she and the guy were doing fine; so I sat down at the bar and talked to Ricki. I noticed a guy sitting at the bar, thought he was cute, and just "happened" to sit down next to him. He started talking on his cell to his brother (screaming would describe it better, and he still does it). After the conversation was over (I was by then on my second Crown and Coke), he leaned over and said, "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be 'that' guy in the bar who's always on his cell phone."
We might have talked for minutes or hours; I couldn't tell you which. I knew he was perfect on paper and that I really liked him. I also knew I was starting to catch a good buzz and was in danger of embarrassing myself. He had to run to the bathroom; so I made a move that was either going to be genius or poison: I wrote my name and phone number on a bar napkin and a "Better call me, Cutie" on it for good measure. I gave the napkin to the bartender with strict instructions to make sure "the Cutie" got it and hightailed it out of there as fast as I could. I didn't know at the time what the outcome was going to be, but I just had a feeling.
My phone rang about 30 seconds later. I wasn't even to my car yet. Having just read "The Rules"--like every good Southern girl looking for the right man does--I didn't answer his call. I let him go to voicemail and then listened to the message a minimum of 10 times, analyzing everything he said and how he said it. I would give anything to get that message back. Anything.
The next morning, I texted him before I left for school and apologized for "missing" his call. He fell for it. And I fell for it when he told me that I'd saved his job by waking him with my text, as he'd stayed out late and overslept. That led to our first date two days later. We met at a sushi restaurant and couldn't stop talking long enough to order. We ordered about 10 rolls and ate one of them. The first date was amazing. I introduced him to my parents on our second date (the following night). That's all she wrote. When we left the restaurant and went to the Hollywood Club in the middle of a cane field, and he just took it in stride, I knew he was cool. But when we talked until we fell asleep (fully dressed and above the covers I'd like to add) and woke up holding hands, I knew that was it.
Now most, if not all, of those reading this are probably yawning or feeling like they were dropped in the middle of some kind of chick flick; but the speed at which our relationship started is only the beginning.
In almost five years to the day since we met, we've:
fallen in love
got married five months later
had a baby
moved to D.C.
learned Spanish
moved to Ecuador
both got new jobs
had another baby
moved to Canada
both got new jobs
I took the test
I passed the test
We're about to bid on the next post
So, sorry to go on and one but: five years, two kids, three moves (not including me moving in with him), two jobs, three countries, and a possible career for me later, I still miss when my husband is not in the bed with me. And I still get weak at the smell of his skin. And I still light up when I see his face or hear his voice. And I still cry just a little bit whenever we're going to be apart for more than like 12 hours. And it all started with him telling me, "I'm sorry..." My goodness, life flies by so fast when you've found the right one. My hubby says I only get 50 years of monogamy, and then he's going to trade me in for a younger model lol; so 45 more years just doesn't seem like enough.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Subtle Differences
When I found out we were moving to Canada, I was excited for many reasons and a little nervous. I was scared it wouldn't be foreign enough for us; we'd gotten spoiled by Ecuador, I figured. The truth is, I figured Canada would be "America light," like it always seemed in the movies when I was younger. I knew before arriving that Canadians say "Eh," a lot; and, to be honest, that stereotype is well-deserved. But Canada is so much more cosmopolitan than I ever could have ever imagined. The funny thing about that is that it's not something I realize every single day. However, the idea of Ottawa being a cosmopolitan city was never more apparent than on my trip home today.
While walking from work to our car, we passed a man selling fruit. As another man, a customer, was walking up to inspect his wares, the vendor smiled and said, "Bonjour." Without missing a beat, the prospective customer continued toward the vendor and answered in exactly the same tone with, "Hello." It's the same when we go back and forth across the border. Whenever we are crossing back into Canada, the immigration officer always says, "Bonjour/Hello!" But "Bonjour" is always first. It might be because we always seem to have the same border agent when we enter ha ha and that his first language happens to be French rather than English. Or maybe that's just the way they're trained. Who knows, and it's not important. What amazes me is that the dual national language system in Canada seems to work. At least, as a non-native, it works for me. This topic, between Canadians, can be quite tense; and it is one that I would never try to insinuate myself into here.
I can understand a pretty fair bit of French now--more than I ever could when I was dating a native French speaker and nearly minoring in the language. I can thank two years in Ecuador for that, I am quite sure. And I can read French without even thinking about it, which is pretty awesome too. But I did not grow up with two languages. I mean, sure, there is a lot of Cajun French in South Louisiana; but it is not widespread by a stretch. I never grew up hearing it at all, although I am positive some of my friends did. My uncle/godfather was actually whipped in elementary school because he couldn't speak English. I know that South Louisiana has moved far, far away from its (self) hatred of Cajun French and that some schools are actually teaching the language now. I think this is an amazing step toward the right direction, not to mention a great way to give many Louisianians back some of their heritage. The movement toward reviving Cajun French in the schools in South Louisiana is quite similar (although on a minute scale) to the Quebecois and the Silent Revolution here in Canada, where the native French speakers fought long and hard to have their language and their heritage recognized by the Anglophones.
Now, let me say right now that I am neither advocating nor opposing the Quebecois or the Silent Revolution; but it is just uncanny how much of my culture and my fellow South Louisianians' culture can be found here in Canada. When I first moved here, I was talking to someone at work. I swear I thought he was from "down the bayou" as we'd say back home; but he's just from Quebec and is a native French speaker. It is absolutely astonishing to me that after centuries and thousands of miles, and several generations, etc., the Quebecois English accent is the same as the Cajun/Acadian English accent of today. It makes me so homesick, honestly.
While walking from work to our car, we passed a man selling fruit. As another man, a customer, was walking up to inspect his wares, the vendor smiled and said, "Bonjour." Without missing a beat, the prospective customer continued toward the vendor and answered in exactly the same tone with, "Hello." It's the same when we go back and forth across the border. Whenever we are crossing back into Canada, the immigration officer always says, "Bonjour/Hello!" But "Bonjour" is always first. It might be because we always seem to have the same border agent when we enter ha ha and that his first language happens to be French rather than English. Or maybe that's just the way they're trained. Who knows, and it's not important. What amazes me is that the dual national language system in Canada seems to work. At least, as a non-native, it works for me. This topic, between Canadians, can be quite tense; and it is one that I would never try to insinuate myself into here.
I can understand a pretty fair bit of French now--more than I ever could when I was dating a native French speaker and nearly minoring in the language. I can thank two years in Ecuador for that, I am quite sure. And I can read French without even thinking about it, which is pretty awesome too. But I did not grow up with two languages. I mean, sure, there is a lot of Cajun French in South Louisiana; but it is not widespread by a stretch. I never grew up hearing it at all, although I am positive some of my friends did. My uncle/godfather was actually whipped in elementary school because he couldn't speak English. I know that South Louisiana has moved far, far away from its (self) hatred of Cajun French and that some schools are actually teaching the language now. I think this is an amazing step toward the right direction, not to mention a great way to give many Louisianians back some of their heritage. The movement toward reviving Cajun French in the schools in South Louisiana is quite similar (although on a minute scale) to the Quebecois and the Silent Revolution here in Canada, where the native French speakers fought long and hard to have their language and their heritage recognized by the Anglophones.
Now, let me say right now that I am neither advocating nor opposing the Quebecois or the Silent Revolution; but it is just uncanny how much of my culture and my fellow South Louisianians' culture can be found here in Canada. When I first moved here, I was talking to someone at work. I swear I thought he was from "down the bayou" as we'd say back home; but he's just from Quebec and is a native French speaker. It is absolutely astonishing to me that after centuries and thousands of miles, and several generations, etc., the Quebecois English accent is the same as the Cajun/Acadian English accent of today. It makes me so homesick, honestly.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
My Children
My little boys couldn't be more different. My oldest is tall and slim with curls just like mine that stick out all over the place. I could take his picture and superimpose it on mine at the same age. It's scary actually, that my husband and I have created a little me all over again. I never thought that a child could be made up almost entirely of just one parent: hair, eyes, height, mouth, and--though I hate to admit it--temperament; but that's just what we got in our oldest. Our youngest is my husband made anew. It's as if our chromosomes got confused during the fertilization process or something because our little guy has blonde, straight hair, stockier build, kind and gentle temperament, etc., just like my husband. He's kind and beautiful and sweet. He tells me all day every day, "I love you Mommy."
Kids are such a blessing too. They are really a chance for you (meaning me) to kind of go back and correct some of the mistakes you made or that were made for you. I see my children and I see the opportunity to mold them into people and future adults unlike me. I have always been a bit of a nervous individual with various neuroses and fears--like most other people. It isn't very obvious by the life path I've chosen, but it's not always easy for me to try new things and new places. It's taken me until the last few years to be able to just jump into new things, new lives, and new experiences; and I still struggle with it. But through much soul searching and conversation with my husband and best friend, I've come to realize exactly what kind of mother I want and need to be. It comes from a poem my friend sent me. This is what I want:
Kids are such a blessing too. They are really a chance for you (meaning me) to kind of go back and correct some of the mistakes you made or that were made for you. I see my children and I see the opportunity to mold them into people and future adults unlike me. I have always been a bit of a nervous individual with various neuroses and fears--like most other people. It isn't very obvious by the life path I've chosen, but it's not always easy for me to try new things and new places. It's taken me until the last few years to be able to just jump into new things, new lives, and new experiences; and I still struggle with it. But through much soul searching and conversation with my husband and best friend, I've come to realize exactly what kind of mother I want and need to be. It comes from a poem my friend sent me. This is what I want:
"Children Learn What They Live"
If children live with criticism, they learn to condemn.
If children live with hostility, they learn to fight.
If children live with fear, they learn to be apprehensive.
If children live with pity, they learn to feel sorry for themselves.
If children live with ridicule, they learn to feel shy.
If children live with jealousy, they learn to feel envy.
If children live with shame, they learn to feel guilty.
If children live with encouragement, they learn confidence.
If children live with tolerance, they learn patience.
If children live with praise, they learn appreciation.
If children live with acceptance, they learn to love.
If children live with approval, they learn to like themselves.
If children live with recognition, they learn it is good to have a goal.
If children live with sharing, they learn generosity.
If children live with honesty, they learn truthfulness.
If children live with fairness, they learn justice.
If children live with kindness and consideration, they learn respect.
If children live with security, they learn to have faith in themselves and in those about them.
If children live with friendliness, they learn the world is a nice place in which to live.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Sixth Sense
I'm not unlike many people in that I've always been curious about the "sixth sense" or people who claim to be psychic. But, unlike most people, I know psychics exist. The story of how I came to be sure about that happened about five years ago.
I was at my favorite bar, the Y Bar. An incredibly old man was always there and always drunk as a skunk. The bartenders and regulars always called him "Pops." One night, he came to me and said he wanted to give me a "reading". Being an open-minded person, I told him to go ahead. He told me that in six months or so I was going to:
"MEET A MAN WHO'S FIVE FEET NINE OR FIVE FEET TEN WHO WILL BE IN TOWN ON BUSINESS. HE WILL EITHER BE FRENCH OR SPEAK FRENCH AND HAVE BROWN HAIR AND BLUE EYES."
He said I'd fall in love with that man. Well, six weeks later, I met my husband--all 5 foot 10 of him. He was in town on business, had brown hair and blue eyes and minored in French in college. I met him on July 18, 2006 and married him on December 16th of the same year.
I often wonder how that man just "knew," and the only answer I can come to is that he just KNEW. The night he gave me my reading I asked him about himself. He told me he'd been a psychic during the Vietnam War and that he was a "10th degree Buddhist monk" who could meditate so well/deeply that his heart would almost stop. Now, I did some research; and per Wikipedia it appears psychics were used by the Americans to help find the enemy during that war. Interesting. However, I have never met a Buddhist monk before; but something tells me they don't spend their time in the Y Bar. But, who cares. All I know is that he KNEW what was waiting for me. It still gives me goosebumps to this day. Published with Blogger-droid v1.7.1
I was at my favorite bar, the Y Bar. An incredibly old man was always there and always drunk as a skunk. The bartenders and regulars always called him "Pops." One night, he came to me and said he wanted to give me a "reading". Being an open-minded person, I told him to go ahead. He told me that in six months or so I was going to:
"MEET A MAN WHO'S FIVE FEET NINE OR FIVE FEET TEN WHO WILL BE IN TOWN ON BUSINESS. HE WILL EITHER BE FRENCH OR SPEAK FRENCH AND HAVE BROWN HAIR AND BLUE EYES."
He said I'd fall in love with that man. Well, six weeks later, I met my husband--all 5 foot 10 of him. He was in town on business, had brown hair and blue eyes and minored in French in college. I met him on July 18, 2006 and married him on December 16th of the same year.
I often wonder how that man just "knew," and the only answer I can come to is that he just KNEW. The night he gave me my reading I asked him about himself. He told me he'd been a psychic during the Vietnam War and that he was a "10th degree Buddhist monk" who could meditate so well/deeply that his heart would almost stop. Now, I did some research; and per Wikipedia it appears psychics were used by the Americans to help find the enemy during that war. Interesting. However, I have never met a Buddhist monk before; but something tells me they don't spend their time in the Y Bar. But, who cares. All I know is that he KNEW what was waiting for me. It still gives me goosebumps to this day. Published with Blogger-droid v1.7.1
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
I Loved My Job Today
This afternoon, I felt like I really helped someone. A man came in to the ACS (American Citizen Services) section with his little girl. I don't know where he was from or what he's doing here, but he had a problem. It seems that his little girl has been pretty sick for the last few days. He wanted to know where he could get her some medical care but was running into problems because his medical insurance is from the States. I went and printed out maps on the nearest American hospital and explained the Canadian walk-in clinic system to him.
You see, there are urgent care clinics all over the place here. If you're Canadian, you just wait your turn, receive your care, and walk out without having to pay for a thing. It is amazing actually. Say what you want about American healthcare or Canadian healthcare--it's a very sensitive subject on both sides of the border--but there is something to be said about being able to get the help you need (and without an appointment) and walking out without owing a single (Canadian) dollar.
Obviously, that wasn't going to work for this man. He told me he'd been to the children's hospital here in town and that he was going to have to pay something like $900 to get her seen and treated. I recommended a walk-in clinic. It's a flat fee of $66 to see a real doctor and get assessed. I recommended that over driving across the border because after the gas money it'd take to get there and then the wait, etc., I think he'd come out better just paying the $66 up front and getting it taken care of.
The clinics here even have a website; so I was able to give him the name and address and tell him he'd only have to wait for 20 minutes.
As silly as it sounds, I felt like I really helped a fellow American citizen today. He didn't know what to do or where to go and had a sick child in a foreign country (yes, even though this country isn't THAT foreign) and I was able to help--even if just a little bit. He was so appreciative. That is what we (the Embassy) are here for. That is the whole purpose of an Embassy: to take care of its citizens who are visiting or residing abroad. And I was that person who helped. It felt good. I hope that if I do pass the FS test that I can go into American Citizen Services. I like feeling like I have the knowledge and ability to help people--my people especially.
You see, there are urgent care clinics all over the place here. If you're Canadian, you just wait your turn, receive your care, and walk out without having to pay for a thing. It is amazing actually. Say what you want about American healthcare or Canadian healthcare--it's a very sensitive subject on both sides of the border--but there is something to be said about being able to get the help you need (and without an appointment) and walking out without owing a single (Canadian) dollar.
Obviously, that wasn't going to work for this man. He told me he'd been to the children's hospital here in town and that he was going to have to pay something like $900 to get her seen and treated. I recommended a walk-in clinic. It's a flat fee of $66 to see a real doctor and get assessed. I recommended that over driving across the border because after the gas money it'd take to get there and then the wait, etc., I think he'd come out better just paying the $66 up front and getting it taken care of.
The clinics here even have a website; so I was able to give him the name and address and tell him he'd only have to wait for 20 minutes.
As silly as it sounds, I felt like I really helped a fellow American citizen today. He didn't know what to do or where to go and had a sick child in a foreign country (yes, even though this country isn't THAT foreign) and I was able to help--even if just a little bit. He was so appreciative. That is what we (the Embassy) are here for. That is the whole purpose of an Embassy: to take care of its citizens who are visiting or residing abroad. And I was that person who helped. It felt good. I hope that if I do pass the FS test that I can go into American Citizen Services. I like feeling like I have the knowledge and ability to help people--my people especially.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Growing Up
I remember loving my childhood--absolutely loving my childhood--pretty much until puberty hit. My dad built roads for a living back then, and it was pretty obvious when you'd look in our back yard. We had the backyard that a kid dreams of: there were piles of every kind of rock, dirt, clay, mud, sand--you name it--at all times in our yard. I remember my brother burying me in the sand every single day after school and then going off and leaving me there lol. God, he was such an ass. I remember playing in wet cement if you can believe that. I remember rock hills that seemed like they were 20 feet tall and so long that the neighborhood kids would all make trails up, down, and along the piles. I honestly don't know how nobody broke a bone or a neck on those hills. This was back before your best friend or neighbor would sue you for negligence if THEY did something stupid on YOUR property and got hurt.
One spring/summer, Dad had had this tremendous rock pile in the back yard and, I guess, had dug it out little by little. What's strange is that I remember it was kind of horseshoe shaped; it had been dug out in the center but still had these gigantic hills all around it in the shape of a horseshoe. Well, I've already talked about Louisiana summer showers, and we had definitely had some then; because the middle of that horseshoe was at least six inches deep with water. We rode our bikes all through that thing--up and down, across, in and out--it's such a vivid memory and must have been 25 years ago.
All of memories of childhood are of being outdoors in the afternoons. I don't know why or how I became an "indoor" person when all of my childhood recollections are of being outside. My parents bought two old houses and fixed them up for years; I remember that too. I remember the builders pouring cement, Dad sawing cypress, all us kids painting walls, etc.
And our town felt so safe; it still is in a lot of ways. I guess part of it was my childhood blissful ignorance. I never knew fear or pain or anything. Nowadays, it seems like the whole world's out to get you lol. Or sue you for something.
One spring/summer, Dad had had this tremendous rock pile in the back yard and, I guess, had dug it out little by little. What's strange is that I remember it was kind of horseshoe shaped; it had been dug out in the center but still had these gigantic hills all around it in the shape of a horseshoe. Well, I've already talked about Louisiana summer showers, and we had definitely had some then; because the middle of that horseshoe was at least six inches deep with water. We rode our bikes all through that thing--up and down, across, in and out--it's such a vivid memory and must have been 25 years ago.
All of memories of childhood are of being outdoors in the afternoons. I don't know why or how I became an "indoor" person when all of my childhood recollections are of being outside. My parents bought two old houses and fixed them up for years; I remember that too. I remember the builders pouring cement, Dad sawing cypress, all us kids painting walls, etc.
And our town felt so safe; it still is in a lot of ways. I guess part of it was my childhood blissful ignorance. I never knew fear or pain or anything. Nowadays, it seems like the whole world's out to get you lol. Or sue you for something.
Bidding
The bid list won't come out until August, but I have been thinking about possibilities already. Am I jumping the gun? Probably. There is just something so exciting about the possibility of going anywhere in the world. When I think about the endless possibilities, my heart starts to race.
The biggest contradiction with this life I live is the complete and utter lack of control I and we have over the future. And I have learned over the years that I am a bit of a control freak. I am always thinking of the next place, of preparing for it, and wondering what it will be like. I have been doing tons of research, which is a bit of a joke because the list won't be out for two months. Will it be Africa? Will it be eastern Europe? Will we have to learn a new language?
If so, that means at least six months in Washington, daycare bills way less money...but if we stay in the Americas, we will never get out of them.
Would doing a real hardship be worth it? Could we handle it? It would be a shorter tour, no debt, and a great start on buying a house in NOLA. I guess only time will tell.
The biggest contradiction with this life I live is the complete and utter lack of control I and we have over the future. And I have learned over the years that I am a bit of a control freak. I am always thinking of the next place, of preparing for it, and wondering what it will be like. I have been doing tons of research, which is a bit of a joke because the list won't be out for two months. Will it be Africa? Will it be eastern Europe? Will we have to learn a new language?
If so, that means at least six months in Washington, daycare bills way less money...but if we stay in the Americas, we will never get out of them.
Would doing a real hardship be worth it? Could we handle it? It would be a shorter tour, no debt, and a great start on buying a house in NOLA. I guess only time will tell.
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Saturday, June 25, 2011
Seasons
Canada has two seasons: Winter, which lasts for 8-9 months; and construction. We get heat here, God knows; but it never lasts very long. I never realized how much precipitation Ottawa gets (around five feet or so a year minimum in snow alone if I remember correctly). It seems like every time it gets really hot and sunny for a couple of days, in come the summer showers. Last night we got something that's really rare--something I've really missed ever since leaving Louisisana--a summer thunderstorm.
I remember those amazing, drenching summer showers that we got every day in Louisiana. When the temperature hit 100+, in came the violent afternoon thunderstorm that would drench you in five seconds flat. It was always during summer school at college when it happened. I'd get out of my last afternoon class, and the bottom would fall out. People would be running to and fro trying to get out of the rain. I never carried an umbrella, and trying not to get wet was completely futile. So, I'd just pack up my bookbag and walk leisurely to my car in the blinding rain. Running was useless and (for a klutz like me) dangerous; so I just took it all in stride. I'd always get home and take a nap during those storms. I still feel like I sleep the best during a summer thunderstorm, my bedroom ice cold and my sheets so soft and cozy. I don't ever get to see storms like that anymore. Even storms like last night are over way too quickly and not nearly as loud and rumbling as what I grew up with.
Ecuador has two seasons: hot and hot and rainy. It rains for about three months out of the year and then stops--I mean not a drop falls--for the rest of the year. I'll never understand how that can be and the place be so green. I used to marvel at how fast the "jungle" would take back a piece of abandoned property. In less than two months, a cleared lot would be covered in plants, vines, and iguanas. It's amazing (and very succinctly put in "Jurassic Park") that life finds a way no matter what.
I miss having actual seasons in Louisiana. You get everything: rain, sun, heat, cool, and--once a decade or so--a little powdering of snow. It's so funny that my "winter" coat that (finally fits again!) I brought from Louisiana is, at most, an early fall jacket here in Canada. I didn't believe my co-workers when they said that Labor Day would be the last warm weekend in Ottawa before the fall/winter started and that we'd have the first snow by Halloween. I should have listened and enjoyed the sun while I could because, sure enough, out came the coat a few days after Labor Day. And trick-or-treating was a slippery, slushy affair. I have sworn to myself that I am going to embrace the summer this year and not let sweat get in the way of it this time!!
I remember those amazing, drenching summer showers that we got every day in Louisiana. When the temperature hit 100+, in came the violent afternoon thunderstorm that would drench you in five seconds flat. It was always during summer school at college when it happened. I'd get out of my last afternoon class, and the bottom would fall out. People would be running to and fro trying to get out of the rain. I never carried an umbrella, and trying not to get wet was completely futile. So, I'd just pack up my bookbag and walk leisurely to my car in the blinding rain. Running was useless and (for a klutz like me) dangerous; so I just took it all in stride. I'd always get home and take a nap during those storms. I still feel like I sleep the best during a summer thunderstorm, my bedroom ice cold and my sheets so soft and cozy. I don't ever get to see storms like that anymore. Even storms like last night are over way too quickly and not nearly as loud and rumbling as what I grew up with.
Ecuador has two seasons: hot and hot and rainy. It rains for about three months out of the year and then stops--I mean not a drop falls--for the rest of the year. I'll never understand how that can be and the place be so green. I used to marvel at how fast the "jungle" would take back a piece of abandoned property. In less than two months, a cleared lot would be covered in plants, vines, and iguanas. It's amazing (and very succinctly put in "Jurassic Park") that life finds a way no matter what.
I miss having actual seasons in Louisiana. You get everything: rain, sun, heat, cool, and--once a decade or so--a little powdering of snow. It's so funny that my "winter" coat that (finally fits again!) I brought from Louisiana is, at most, an early fall jacket here in Canada. I didn't believe my co-workers when they said that Labor Day would be the last warm weekend in Ottawa before the fall/winter started and that we'd have the first snow by Halloween. I should have listened and enjoyed the sun while I could because, sure enough, out came the coat a few days after Labor Day. And trick-or-treating was a slippery, slushy affair. I have sworn to myself that I am going to embrace the summer this year and not let sweat get in the way of it this time!!
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Wanderlust
I've always felt different because I've never wanted to just stay put and put down "roots" somewhere. I feel like there are so many things I want to do, learn, explore, and figure out before I just settle down forever.
I'm reading a book called Wanderlust right now. It's a memoir by Elisabeth Eaves--someone I'd never heard before--and her almost biological need to travel. I feel like I'm getting together with an old friend when I read it, because it's so much like me (so far).
She describes the word wanderlust as, "the very strong or irresistible impulse to travel...Wanderlust is not a passion for travel exactly; it's something more animal and more fickle--something more like lust" That had me hooked right there. I finally found a word for my...reason for being different from those where I grew up. She goes on to quote other people, which I am going to use here:
"Anatole Broyard (I have no idea who that is) put it perfectly in his essay, "Being There": 'Travel is like adultery: one is always tempted to be unfaithful to one's own country. To have imagination is inevitably to be dissatisfied with where you live...in our wanderlust, we are lovers looking for consummation.'"
Former U.S. President, Thomas Jefferson, cautioned his nephew against roaming, saying, "Traveling makes men wiser, but less happy. When men of sober age travel, they gather knowledge, which they may apply usefully for their country, but they are subject ever after to recollections mixed with regret--their affections are weakened by being extended over more objects, and they learn new habits which cannot be gratified when they return home."
Now, I don't want to sit here all but plagarizing someone else's thoughts and rewriting what other people have already written; but it's been really gratifying to be able to put my feelings of wanderlust into words for once--even if it takes someone else's words to do it.
While this life is so much fun and so very fulfilling in many ways, it does have its drawbacks. It is very hard to to stay close and/or get close to people. I mean, not only are you just going to pick up and leave those friends you hopefully (finally) make every two to three years and never come back; but your short vacations home are never long enough to really get to know your family and friends all over again. I find it hard identifying with them, and I know for a fact that they find it hard identifying with me.
See, when you live this life and work for the government and all that entails, you live a public life in a sense. You always have to be on guard. Once you've built that very necessary wall up, it's pretty much impossible to let it fall back down. We can never let loose. We can't go out in public and around people we don't know and discuss our political views out in the open or get falling down drunk (outside of the U.S.). We can't just bust loose in a foreign country. That is a lot of pressure and often a serious inconvenience. But it's the life we've chosen and--finally--gotten used to living.
My longest, dearest friend from back home told me on my last trip home that I absolutely cannot identify with other adults anymore. The sad thing is, she's right. And, becuase of that, I often wonder if quenching this thirst, this "wanderlust" is really going to make me/us happy in the end. But, for now, it's all I know. For now, it's worth it.
I'm reading a book called Wanderlust right now. It's a memoir by Elisabeth Eaves--someone I'd never heard before--and her almost biological need to travel. I feel like I'm getting together with an old friend when I read it, because it's so much like me (so far).
She describes the word wanderlust as, "the very strong or irresistible impulse to travel...Wanderlust is not a passion for travel exactly; it's something more animal and more fickle--something more like lust" That had me hooked right there. I finally found a word for my...reason for being different from those where I grew up. She goes on to quote other people, which I am going to use here:
"Anatole Broyard (I have no idea who that is) put it perfectly in his essay, "Being There": 'Travel is like adultery: one is always tempted to be unfaithful to one's own country. To have imagination is inevitably to be dissatisfied with where you live...in our wanderlust, we are lovers looking for consummation.'"
Former U.S. President, Thomas Jefferson, cautioned his nephew against roaming, saying, "Traveling makes men wiser, but less happy. When men of sober age travel, they gather knowledge, which they may apply usefully for their country, but they are subject ever after to recollections mixed with regret--their affections are weakened by being extended over more objects, and they learn new habits which cannot be gratified when they return home."
Now, I don't want to sit here all but plagarizing someone else's thoughts and rewriting what other people have already written; but it's been really gratifying to be able to put my feelings of wanderlust into words for once--even if it takes someone else's words to do it.
While this life is so much fun and so very fulfilling in many ways, it does have its drawbacks. It is very hard to to stay close and/or get close to people. I mean, not only are you just going to pick up and leave those friends you hopefully (finally) make every two to three years and never come back; but your short vacations home are never long enough to really get to know your family and friends all over again. I find it hard identifying with them, and I know for a fact that they find it hard identifying with me.
See, when you live this life and work for the government and all that entails, you live a public life in a sense. You always have to be on guard. Once you've built that very necessary wall up, it's pretty much impossible to let it fall back down. We can never let loose. We can't go out in public and around people we don't know and discuss our political views out in the open or get falling down drunk (outside of the U.S.). We can't just bust loose in a foreign country. That is a lot of pressure and often a serious inconvenience. But it's the life we've chosen and--finally--gotten used to living.
My longest, dearest friend from back home told me on my last trip home that I absolutely cannot identify with other adults anymore. The sad thing is, she's right. And, becuase of that, I often wonder if quenching this thirst, this "wanderlust" is really going to make me/us happy in the end. But, for now, it's all I know. For now, it's worth it.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Fascination
People absolutely fascinate me. I love to watch people and hear their stories, which I've mentioned previously. And, yes, I like to look at the visas and stamps in their passports. But I also love to hear different accents, try different foods, see the way people dress. You know, even if I don't or can't appreciate all quirks of society or someone's culture, I can still--and do--appreciate them. I know I sound redundant, but writing about my observations has really helped to appreciate what I appreciate, if you will.
For instance, Canada is absolutely chock-full of foreigners. They have this permanent residency program--like the green card program we have in the States. Only this one lets a lot more people in. Canada is absolutely gigantic, but it's underpopulated. They subsidize that by allowing tons of immigrants in. We literally see almost every nationality in the Embassy, and a large percentage of those people are immigrants--permanent immigrants--here in Canada. People come here for different reasons and under different circumstances, most of which boil down to having a better life. We see lots of refugees from war-torn countries and "protected persons." Many of these people come here and work to send money home to their families, like Filipino nannies. A lot of these women come here under the "live-in caregiver program." I don't know all of the ins and outs of it; but from what I understand, they live with a family (or families) for a two- to three-year period on a work visa and are then able to gain permanent residency here in Canada. After that, they can begin petitioning for their family members and/or obtain Canadian citizenship. I think it's wonderful. This program is amazing because these nannies basically live debt/rent-free and have all of their food, lodging, etc. paid for. When they become PRs (permanent residents), they can begin using Canada's socialized healthcare. I think it's a win/win for everyone, considering the good it does for the immigrant and how much money a family can save by not using daycare. Yeah, you read that right: it's cheaper to have a live-in nanny than it is to put two children into daycare.
So, these PRs come from everywhere. Many, if not most, of them wind up at the American Embassy trying to obtain a tourist visa for the U.S. One thing most people don't know is that as big as Canada is, something like 90% of Canadian residents and citizens only live an hour or so from the border. That means there is a lot of unpopulated territory in this country. My guess is that it has to do mostly with the bitter cold. We only live 45 minutes from New York, but temperatures get as low as -40 (did you know that at -40 degrees, Fahrenheit and Celsius meet?) and as high as 100+. There is literally up to a 140 or 150-degree temperature difference every year.
When it gets about 10 F outside, your nose hairs freeze solid. It's incredibly uncomfortable and painful. But the heat is absolutely sweltering as well. The amazing thing about it is that these people LIVE to be outdoors. Everyone embraces whatever the temperature is. If it's 110F, people are out riding their bikes, rollerblading, playing ball, etc. And if it's the other extreme, they're out ice fishing, ice skating, skiing, snowshoeing. You name it, and they do it. I thought it was crazy when we moved here and people were outside in shorts and flipflops when it was in the fifties. Well, now I completely understand. When you're covered head to toe in sweaters, snow boots, ankle-length down coats, hats, scarves, gloves, wool socks, etc., for 8 months out of the year, you want to feel that sun on your skin! I totally get it now. I was amazed to realize that I've become one of those sun worshipers in the past year because we never see the sun. The proof came when I walked outside and it was in the thirties and I told Don how warm it was. THAT's when you know you've been in Canada too long.
Another crazy difference between Canada and the U.S. is the amount of sunlight you actually get. Right now, in June, the sun rises at 4:30 AM and sets around 9:30 PM. In December, the sun rises at around 7:30 AM and sets at 4:30 PM. It is incredible. Ecuador never varied much: the sun rose and set at around 6:30 AM/PM every single day, 365 days a year. They don't even have time changes there like we do. And it's always mid to high 70s to high 80s or low 90s, even in the rainy season. In Ecuador you will never see a drop of rain for 8-9 months out of the year.
For instance, Canada is absolutely chock-full of foreigners. They have this permanent residency program--like the green card program we have in the States. Only this one lets a lot more people in. Canada is absolutely gigantic, but it's underpopulated. They subsidize that by allowing tons of immigrants in. We literally see almost every nationality in the Embassy, and a large percentage of those people are immigrants--permanent immigrants--here in Canada. People come here for different reasons and under different circumstances, most of which boil down to having a better life. We see lots of refugees from war-torn countries and "protected persons." Many of these people come here and work to send money home to their families, like Filipino nannies. A lot of these women come here under the "live-in caregiver program." I don't know all of the ins and outs of it; but from what I understand, they live with a family (or families) for a two- to three-year period on a work visa and are then able to gain permanent residency here in Canada. After that, they can begin petitioning for their family members and/or obtain Canadian citizenship. I think it's wonderful. This program is amazing because these nannies basically live debt/rent-free and have all of their food, lodging, etc. paid for. When they become PRs (permanent residents), they can begin using Canada's socialized healthcare. I think it's a win/win for everyone, considering the good it does for the immigrant and how much money a family can save by not using daycare. Yeah, you read that right: it's cheaper to have a live-in nanny than it is to put two children into daycare.
So, these PRs come from everywhere. Many, if not most, of them wind up at the American Embassy trying to obtain a tourist visa for the U.S. One thing most people don't know is that as big as Canada is, something like 90% of Canadian residents and citizens only live an hour or so from the border. That means there is a lot of unpopulated territory in this country. My guess is that it has to do mostly with the bitter cold. We only live 45 minutes from New York, but temperatures get as low as -40 (did you know that at -40 degrees, Fahrenheit and Celsius meet?) and as high as 100+. There is literally up to a 140 or 150-degree temperature difference every year.
When it gets about 10 F outside, your nose hairs freeze solid. It's incredibly uncomfortable and painful. But the heat is absolutely sweltering as well. The amazing thing about it is that these people LIVE to be outdoors. Everyone embraces whatever the temperature is. If it's 110F, people are out riding their bikes, rollerblading, playing ball, etc. And if it's the other extreme, they're out ice fishing, ice skating, skiing, snowshoeing. You name it, and they do it. I thought it was crazy when we moved here and people were outside in shorts and flipflops when it was in the fifties. Well, now I completely understand. When you're covered head to toe in sweaters, snow boots, ankle-length down coats, hats, scarves, gloves, wool socks, etc., for 8 months out of the year, you want to feel that sun on your skin! I totally get it now. I was amazed to realize that I've become one of those sun worshipers in the past year because we never see the sun. The proof came when I walked outside and it was in the thirties and I told Don how warm it was. THAT's when you know you've been in Canada too long.
Another crazy difference between Canada and the U.S. is the amount of sunlight you actually get. Right now, in June, the sun rises at 4:30 AM and sets around 9:30 PM. In December, the sun rises at around 7:30 AM and sets at 4:30 PM. It is incredible. Ecuador never varied much: the sun rose and set at around 6:30 AM/PM every single day, 365 days a year. They don't even have time changes there like we do. And it's always mid to high 70s to high 80s or low 90s, even in the rainy season. In Ecuador you will never see a drop of rain for 8-9 months out of the year.
Things You Take For Granted
Getting ready to move to a foreign country can be tricky; at least, it was when we learned we were moving to Ecuador. Some countries where Foreign Service officers are assigned allow food shipments (consumables allowances) and some don’t. Ecuador didn't. You know, when we found out we were going to Ecuador, I didn't even know where in the world it was; I didn't know anything about it all other than the fact that it was Spanish-speaking. When my mother pointed out that Ecuador means "equator," I was scared to death of the heat. But, you know, it's not nearly as hot as South Louisiana is in the summer; in fact, it's not even on the same spectrum of hot.
Ecuador doesn't allow us to ship "consumables," so I had no idea what in the world to bring with us. One good program that the State Department has is a sponsorship program. You get assigned a sponsor, a member at post, who helps you prepare for the move and is there to welcome you when you arrive at the airport. My family and I had really amazing sponsors, and they gave us pretty good information on what we should stock up on before the move. It's weird to try and plan two years of your life ahead of time; no list can help you do that. She started off by saying that paper products were really expensive and often pretty inferior to those we were used to. I, always wanting to "be prepared" for anything, took that to heart.
We and I went to the local target in Falls Church, VA, where we were living and bought $250 worth of toilet paper and paper towels. No, that's not a typo. Have you ever seen $250 worth of generically-priced toilet paper? We filled three carts worth of TP and rolled out of there, receiving looks from passersby that I cannot even describe. Our Envoy was so full of toilet paper that I don't think we could have squeezed a tic tac in there. We made several trips to Target and Walmart in the final weeks before we left. I was determined to stock up on baby wipes, diapers, lady products, makeup, soaps, and clothes for the next two years. My God, was our apartment ever full.
You never know what to expect to find in a foreign grocery store. I took the availability of my favorite products for granted to say the least. Before I moved away, I was what I call a "box cook," meaning that pretty much everything I cooked came from a box. I didn't use any fresh ingredients in my meals back then (which probably explains all the baby weight I gained and couldn't lose lol). I do want to say that Ecuador has TONS of American products and brands that I was familiar with; they also have tons of other products that I wish I could have taken away with me. See, when you are posted to a country that doesn't have a consumables allowance like Ecuador and now Canada, you actually have to either give away or throw away your entire food supply; i.e., empty your pantry. It sucks. Most moving companies will ship spices, but it ends there. When we were leaving Washington, we brought the contents of our pantry to a local food bank; so at least some good did come of it. The expense is another thing entirely.
When we got to Ecuador, our sponsors had bought us a bunch of groceries and put them in the house for us. The next day, they took us to the local supermarket to start the long and tiring process of building a stocked pantry again. I was both amazed and disappointed in the grocery stores there. The prices on produce are incredible. I wish that I had been as healthy eater then as I am now, because that is the place to go for produce. You can grow anything in Ecuador, and that's the truth. The same amount of produce that I buy now and costs me a minimum of $200/month would have been about $30 there—no joke. The disappointment was in the lack of baby food and products I used the most in the States but didn't realize. Now, there is baby food in Ecuador, but it's about 99% fruit purees. Now, our first son was a year old when we moved; but being a first-time mother, my biggest fear was that he would choke; so he was still on baby food. I look back at my stupidity and at how much money we wasted on baby food, and I still get hot under the collar. I started him on canned green beans and such when we moved, and that worked great—that is, until they stopped carrying canned green beans. My God, you never knew what you would find when you went to the grocery store. It took me about nine months to realize that if you found something you liked, you better buy every single available can/box/bag they had because, chances were, that it wouldn't be there the next time. I think that NOT hoarding when we finally left Ecuador was the hardest habit of mine to break.
I ended up going back and forth to the States several times while we were in Ecuador, and I ended up shipping untold numbers of things like: Cool Ranch Doritos, Honey Nut Cheerios, Goldfish crackers, baby wipes, taco seasoning mix, meat seasonings, vegetable purees, canned green beans, etc. We were able to get a layette shipment sent to Ecuador once we had the baby—a one-time 250 lb, free shipment of baby items. We weren't supposed to be able to ship any kind of liquids (like baby food), but I hid it in boxes lol. I used every ounce they gave me and then shipped about 200 lbs more.
Baby formula is something else that you don't really think of when you're moving. There was of course baby formula in Ecuador, but it was double the price and half the amount one would get in the States. So I started ordering it from Target in boxes of six. Oh, and let me tell you how fun it is trying to ship 6-12 cans of white powder through the diplomatic pouch lol. Yeah, they don't like that and they especially do not like it when you make jokes about the fact that you're shipping 6-12 cans of white powder to them…
You never think about the fact that you need 10 bottles of baby Tylenol, teething gel, and Ibuprofen when you're packing for two years either. I mean, you don't realize how many products you take for granted because they're always there and usually available 24 hours a day, every day. That just isn't so in other parts of the world. I think we all take a lot of things for granted when we've been in the U.S. for extended lengths of time.
One of those is the fact that there is literally a gas station on every corner. Even here in Canada, where it's as "first world" as it gets, there are nowhere near as many gas stations as in the U.S. my husband and I have coasted in on fumes more times than I can count because you'll literally have 30-mile stretches of interstate without a gas station. It things like this that make living in the Foreign Service a never-ending adventure.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
The Hardest Thing To Get Used To
The hardest thing for me to get used to when we moved to Ecuador wasn't the language or the food or even the crime. The hardest thing for me was (and let's be clear that I'm not trying to offend anyone or critique anyone's way of life; I just want to tell my stories) the lack of what we'd call "social contract" people had for those outside of their own families and circle of friends.
You see, we had to live in these walled communities. There were something like 9,000 homes in Puerto Azul, the ciudadela (little city) where we lived. You had to go through a checkpoint to enter and exit. Our neighborhood had a small shopping center that got bigger and bigger the longer we lived there. There was a market that had tons of American products, a movie store that didn't just sell pirated DVDs and video games; it also had a membership like a Blockbuster in the States would have. There was a school in our neighborhood too. Basically, if you didn't want to leave our neighborhood, you didn't have to.
These neighborhoods--or at least ours did--have their own sets of rules and laws. The people that lived in these communities are usually very rich and/or powerful and the rules don't usually apply to them. To be clear again, it's not that they "think" the rules don't apply to them; in fact, in most cases, the rules just don't apply to them because of who they know or who they're related to. It's a different system than we are accustomed to in the States, but that's just how it is. I'll explain more about life outside of Puerto Azul later; but for now, I'll stick close to "home."
Living in Puerto Azul, it was all about who you were and who you have influence with. The rich all had domestic staff that would come in at dawn and leave at sundown. You could spot them easily, because almost everyone had "the uniform." I remember seeing a maid in the pharmacy one time. She was easy to spot in her uniform, and she was carrying the packaging from a certain brand of sanitary napkins. I could tell she wasn't shopping for personal reasons; she was on a mission. She had the package in her hand and would hold it up to each and every different type the pharmacy had because you could tell that it was very important that she find the exact type she'd been sent to find. It was around this time when my then two-year-old decided to scream out, "Mommy, you have a vagina!!" So I don't know if that woman ever in fact completed her task ;).
After we first arrived in Ecuador, it became clear that Puerto Azul had no type of noise ordinances in place; or if there were, no one followed them. We had these neighbors who lived behind our house. Their backyard faced mine and Don's bedroom. And, boy, did they like to party! They would have a party every six months or so that would last until dawn or later and usually had at least 50 or 100 guests. My God, those parties were loud. On two separate occasions, they had full bands--we're talking 8-10 musicians minimum--with amps, microphones, and speakers that were five feet tall or so. The best part about the speakers is the fact that not only were they at least five feet tall, they were up on tripod-type racks that were tall enough to reach just over the wall that we shared and turned not toward the party but at my bedroom. I mean, God forbid the music be too loud for their guests. We called these people the "Rednecks" for our entire time in Ecuador because they always had some old, rundown, half-put together car in front of their house.
The first party they had during our posting in Guayaquil was about a 12 out of 10 noise-wise. In fact, looking back, it wasn't that bad. But since we'd never been exposed to an all-night party that shook the walls and since I absolutely DESPISE Mariachi music, I thought the world was coming to an end. The good news was that Atticus was able to sleep through it. Don and I didn't get a wink.
I remember going to work that Monday and ranting and raving and having a truly "ugly American" moment. I no doubt offended my many Ecuadorian colleagues and friends with my inability to understand their culture. And, let me frank, I would NEVER want to offend someone about their culture--least of all people I love and respect very much. We all see each other differently; we are all different. That is what makes the world go 'round and makes it so interesting to me. I love learning about different cultures and places, but I am not going to pretend to understand all of their customs and practices, just as I in no way expect them to understand and appreciate mine. That's just the way it is.
And, apparently, having neighbors who had parties that last until dawn or later is just the way Ecuador is. It's very much a night-time culture. One interesting thing is that many of the younger crowd will work all day and go home and go to sleep for a five or six hours so they can wake up to go out when the party starts at midnight or 1:00 AM. That is incredible to me, because it's almost impossible for me to keep going that long. So, starting a party at your house after most of the world would have already gone to sleep isn't strange at all. I remember several times being woken up from a sound sleep by a band, or a karaoke machine, or even soccer game fans screaming from a patio outside. I have to admit that I never, ever got used to this.
The neighbors to my right were the repeat offenders. They'd have a Mariachi band on a Tuesday night during a late dinner, complete with waiters and valet parkers. And just dinner would last until 1 AM. Did I mention that mine and Don's bedroom was on the RIGHT back side of the house? Yeah, we got it from all sides lol. Yeah, in fact, I had a lot of "ugly American" moments in Ecuador. The neighbors on the right (we never did learn their names), had kids who are/were college-aged. They had 10-20 friends over at least three times a week. Those kids would park in front of our house and stay outside by the pool all night long. The best was when they'd break out the karaoke machine and try to sing. And I want to emphasize "TRY." The thing was that it wouldn't have been so bad if it had been at a normal volume. But there was no such thing. It had to be cranked and crackling or it wasn't loud enough. It had to be loud to be completely audible (lyrics and all) through their concrete walls and into ours. God, I hated those people.
The final straw came with those neighbors one day when I was at home on my day off. That insipid little girl next door (probably 18) decided to crank the karaoke up during the day. I heard every lyric to every song through our concrete wall, over the central air conditioner that sounded like a plane landing, and she drowned out the volume on my television. This was after I hadn't been able to sleep the night before because of her and during my child's nap time. Yeah, I went a little crazy. I tore out of my house and went ring her doorbell. One thing you should also know about Puerto Azul (and most of the houses in Ecuador) is that not only did we have patrolling guards in the neighborhood and checkpoints to enter and exit, but we also had these tall, metal, usually spear-tipped gates that had a door to the street. But, as apparently that wasn't enough, we had barred windows and a large metal gate in front of our front doors as well.
So when this girl came to the door, I never did see her face because there were too many metal bars in the way. She knew I was American and spoke English to me. All the rich people speak English. I didn't realize that at the time and was prepared to use my less-than-mediocre Spanish to tell her exactly where she could stick that karaoke machine. The fact that she spoke English threw me. So I just asked her in a VERY strong, Southern accent if she could "Please turn down the radio, because my child can't sleep." She was very taken aback and immediately lowered the volume. That was that. So I thought.
A few days later, I went to the Puerto Azul salon to have my hair done and my eyebrows waxed. All you fair-skinned people know how bad you look when you have your eyebrows waxed: you look like you just stepped on a rake. Well, I walked back to my house in the heat looking like I'd been tortured. When I got to my gate, this woman I'd never seen before approached me and asked if I spoke Spanish. I said yes. She proceeded to tell me that it was her beloved daughter who'd answered the door. She went on to tell me how much I'd upset her precious child and how her daughter was going to the U.S. to college (that's when she started to cry) and that she now was scared to have any friends over for fear of making too much noise. That's when the woman got nasty. I didn't understand everything she said (as I tried to cover my red, swollen eyebrows out of shame) but I did understand the part about, "This is how we do it here." After that, the next door became known in my family as "Snowflake," a precious, perfect thing that is unlike anything else.
The Rednecks' best party ever was the one they had a few months before we left. This was when their beloved son was turning 30. We knew this because there were signs all over the neighborhood that directed people toward the party. And, just so you know, these signs stayed up where they'd been left at least until we left Ecuador. Don and I heard the band setting up around 5:00 PM, and we knew we were going to be in for a long, loud night. So, we decided to call for reinforcements. We called our back-up nanny and asked if she could spend the night. We explained the situation to her and told her we were going to go out to avoid to volume. We had dinner and drinks at the local Chili's and took a cab home at around midnight. The party (along with the 12-ft high speakers aimed at our room, the rock band, and the 100 guests) was just getting started. Don and I drank ourselves stupid until 4:00 AM, trying to just pass out so we could get some sleep. Well, when Atticus woke up screaming because the walls were shaking, we had had enough. Don and I headed to the guard shack at the front of the neighborhood. The guards were amazed that we were complaining about the noise and didn't want to do anything. Don started screaming at them that "Eso es fucking ridiculo!!!" They understood that and went to investigate. Of course, nothing happened. My guess is that someone slipped them a $20 and told them to go. When minimum wage in a country is $12 a day, you can get someone to do just about anything for $20 lol. Can't blame them.
That's when Don and I headed to the Rednecks' house ourselves. I pleaded with the "lady" of the house that our small son was screaming and scared and to please turn down the music. She told me, with a face I will never forget, that she didn't care about me or my child and that HER beloved son was having a party. She told me she'd turn it down "ya mismo." Now, "ya mismo" is a term in Spanish that I don't think can be translated. It can mean anything from "in just a second" to "in two weeks." For us, it was two hours. That was a really "ugly American" moment but also a really ugly Ecuadorian one. That woman and her family didn't care who they were offending or bothering because it was their party, their time. One good thing did come of that confrontation, though. See, as that horrible woman was telling me that she didn't care anything about my screaming child, the biggest cockroach I have ever seen crawled up the sidewalk, over her shoe, and up her pants. I, sweet Southern girl that I am, didn't say a word. Karma is a bitch to bitches; and I bet about 30 seconds after I left, that bitch got hers.
You see, we had to live in these walled communities. There were something like 9,000 homes in Puerto Azul, the ciudadela (little city) where we lived. You had to go through a checkpoint to enter and exit. Our neighborhood had a small shopping center that got bigger and bigger the longer we lived there. There was a market that had tons of American products, a movie store that didn't just sell pirated DVDs and video games; it also had a membership like a Blockbuster in the States would have. There was a school in our neighborhood too. Basically, if you didn't want to leave our neighborhood, you didn't have to.
These neighborhoods--or at least ours did--have their own sets of rules and laws. The people that lived in these communities are usually very rich and/or powerful and the rules don't usually apply to them. To be clear again, it's not that they "think" the rules don't apply to them; in fact, in most cases, the rules just don't apply to them because of who they know or who they're related to. It's a different system than we are accustomed to in the States, but that's just how it is. I'll explain more about life outside of Puerto Azul later; but for now, I'll stick close to "home."
Living in Puerto Azul, it was all about who you were and who you have influence with. The rich all had domestic staff that would come in at dawn and leave at sundown. You could spot them easily, because almost everyone had "the uniform." I remember seeing a maid in the pharmacy one time. She was easy to spot in her uniform, and she was carrying the packaging from a certain brand of sanitary napkins. I could tell she wasn't shopping for personal reasons; she was on a mission. She had the package in her hand and would hold it up to each and every different type the pharmacy had because you could tell that it was very important that she find the exact type she'd been sent to find. It was around this time when my then two-year-old decided to scream out, "Mommy, you have a vagina!!" So I don't know if that woman ever in fact completed her task ;).
After we first arrived in Ecuador, it became clear that Puerto Azul had no type of noise ordinances in place; or if there were, no one followed them. We had these neighbors who lived behind our house. Their backyard faced mine and Don's bedroom. And, boy, did they like to party! They would have a party every six months or so that would last until dawn or later and usually had at least 50 or 100 guests. My God, those parties were loud. On two separate occasions, they had full bands--we're talking 8-10 musicians minimum--with amps, microphones, and speakers that were five feet tall or so. The best part about the speakers is the fact that not only were they at least five feet tall, they were up on tripod-type racks that were tall enough to reach just over the wall that we shared and turned not toward the party but at my bedroom. I mean, God forbid the music be too loud for their guests. We called these people the "Rednecks" for our entire time in Ecuador because they always had some old, rundown, half-put together car in front of their house.
The first party they had during our posting in Guayaquil was about a 12 out of 10 noise-wise. In fact, looking back, it wasn't that bad. But since we'd never been exposed to an all-night party that shook the walls and since I absolutely DESPISE Mariachi music, I thought the world was coming to an end. The good news was that Atticus was able to sleep through it. Don and I didn't get a wink.
I remember going to work that Monday and ranting and raving and having a truly "ugly American" moment. I no doubt offended my many Ecuadorian colleagues and friends with my inability to understand their culture. And, let me frank, I would NEVER want to offend someone about their culture--least of all people I love and respect very much. We all see each other differently; we are all different. That is what makes the world go 'round and makes it so interesting to me. I love learning about different cultures and places, but I am not going to pretend to understand all of their customs and practices, just as I in no way expect them to understand and appreciate mine. That's just the way it is.
And, apparently, having neighbors who had parties that last until dawn or later is just the way Ecuador is. It's very much a night-time culture. One interesting thing is that many of the younger crowd will work all day and go home and go to sleep for a five or six hours so they can wake up to go out when the party starts at midnight or 1:00 AM. That is incredible to me, because it's almost impossible for me to keep going that long. So, starting a party at your house after most of the world would have already gone to sleep isn't strange at all. I remember several times being woken up from a sound sleep by a band, or a karaoke machine, or even soccer game fans screaming from a patio outside. I have to admit that I never, ever got used to this.
The neighbors to my right were the repeat offenders. They'd have a Mariachi band on a Tuesday night during a late dinner, complete with waiters and valet parkers. And just dinner would last until 1 AM. Did I mention that mine and Don's bedroom was on the RIGHT back side of the house? Yeah, we got it from all sides lol. Yeah, in fact, I had a lot of "ugly American" moments in Ecuador. The neighbors on the right (we never did learn their names), had kids who are/were college-aged. They had 10-20 friends over at least three times a week. Those kids would park in front of our house and stay outside by the pool all night long. The best was when they'd break out the karaoke machine and try to sing. And I want to emphasize "TRY." The thing was that it wouldn't have been so bad if it had been at a normal volume. But there was no such thing. It had to be cranked and crackling or it wasn't loud enough. It had to be loud to be completely audible (lyrics and all) through their concrete walls and into ours. God, I hated those people.
The final straw came with those neighbors one day when I was at home on my day off. That insipid little girl next door (probably 18) decided to crank the karaoke up during the day. I heard every lyric to every song through our concrete wall, over the central air conditioner that sounded like a plane landing, and she drowned out the volume on my television. This was after I hadn't been able to sleep the night before because of her and during my child's nap time. Yeah, I went a little crazy. I tore out of my house and went ring her doorbell. One thing you should also know about Puerto Azul (and most of the houses in Ecuador) is that not only did we have patrolling guards in the neighborhood and checkpoints to enter and exit, but we also had these tall, metal, usually spear-tipped gates that had a door to the street. But, as apparently that wasn't enough, we had barred windows and a large metal gate in front of our front doors as well.
So when this girl came to the door, I never did see her face because there were too many metal bars in the way. She knew I was American and spoke English to me. All the rich people speak English. I didn't realize that at the time and was prepared to use my less-than-mediocre Spanish to tell her exactly where she could stick that karaoke machine. The fact that she spoke English threw me. So I just asked her in a VERY strong, Southern accent if she could "Please turn down the radio, because my child can't sleep." She was very taken aback and immediately lowered the volume. That was that. So I thought.
A few days later, I went to the Puerto Azul salon to have my hair done and my eyebrows waxed. All you fair-skinned people know how bad you look when you have your eyebrows waxed: you look like you just stepped on a rake. Well, I walked back to my house in the heat looking like I'd been tortured. When I got to my gate, this woman I'd never seen before approached me and asked if I spoke Spanish. I said yes. She proceeded to tell me that it was her beloved daughter who'd answered the door. She went on to tell me how much I'd upset her precious child and how her daughter was going to the U.S. to college (that's when she started to cry) and that she now was scared to have any friends over for fear of making too much noise. That's when the woman got nasty. I didn't understand everything she said (as I tried to cover my red, swollen eyebrows out of shame) but I did understand the part about, "This is how we do it here." After that, the next door became known in my family as "Snowflake," a precious, perfect thing that is unlike anything else.
The Rednecks' best party ever was the one they had a few months before we left. This was when their beloved son was turning 30. We knew this because there were signs all over the neighborhood that directed people toward the party. And, just so you know, these signs stayed up where they'd been left at least until we left Ecuador. Don and I heard the band setting up around 5:00 PM, and we knew we were going to be in for a long, loud night. So, we decided to call for reinforcements. We called our back-up nanny and asked if she could spend the night. We explained the situation to her and told her we were going to go out to avoid to volume. We had dinner and drinks at the local Chili's and took a cab home at around midnight. The party (along with the 12-ft high speakers aimed at our room, the rock band, and the 100 guests) was just getting started. Don and I drank ourselves stupid until 4:00 AM, trying to just pass out so we could get some sleep. Well, when Atticus woke up screaming because the walls were shaking, we had had enough. Don and I headed to the guard shack at the front of the neighborhood. The guards were amazed that we were complaining about the noise and didn't want to do anything. Don started screaming at them that "Eso es fucking ridiculo!!!" They understood that and went to investigate. Of course, nothing happened. My guess is that someone slipped them a $20 and told them to go. When minimum wage in a country is $12 a day, you can get someone to do just about anything for $20 lol. Can't blame them.
That's when Don and I headed to the Rednecks' house ourselves. I pleaded with the "lady" of the house that our small son was screaming and scared and to please turn down the music. She told me, with a face I will never forget, that she didn't care about me or my child and that HER beloved son was having a party. She told me she'd turn it down "ya mismo." Now, "ya mismo" is a term in Spanish that I don't think can be translated. It can mean anything from "in just a second" to "in two weeks." For us, it was two hours. That was a really "ugly American" moment but also a really ugly Ecuadorian one. That woman and her family didn't care who they were offending or bothering because it was their party, their time. One good thing did come of that confrontation, though. See, as that horrible woman was telling me that she didn't care anything about my screaming child, the biggest cockroach I have ever seen crawled up the sidewalk, over her shoe, and up her pants. I, sweet Southern girl that I am, didn't say a word. Karma is a bitch to bitches; and I bet about 30 seconds after I left, that bitch got hers.
Friday, June 17, 2011
They Don't Make Em Like That Anywhere Else
I haven't been everywhere; and I haven't done everything yet. But I do know one thing for sure: Southerners are unlike any other people I've ever met. While there are many cultures and peoples that I am sure are very warm and caring people, I don't fine any other group to be AS kind and AS giving--and, frankly, as emotionally invested in other people--as Southern people are.
I grew up in a place where saying "y'all" was more than commonplace (as ya'll know ;) . When we left Louisiana and moved to Washington, it was immediately obvious to me that every time I said it--even to yuppies who were from the South--people would look at me just a little differently, like they thought I was just a little dumb for the way I talked. So, you know what? For about two years, I stopped saying it AT ALL. I adopted the Midwesterners "you guys" because I was so afraid that people would give me that belittling look again or think less of me. I actually tried to find ways to tone down my accent and tone down my way of dressing so that I wouldn't appear too different. I just wanted to blend in to avoid that look.
Thinking back now, it's kind of funny; it was my own insecurity really. I mean, honestly, what the hell do I care about how those sheep think of me? It took moving to Ecuador and living there for a while to make me realize that if you don't like it (me as I am), you can just go straight to hell. I've been a much happier person ever since I came to that realization, and I thank my Nanny for that.
It took me a long time to gather some self esteem and some self awareness to get over what I felt was a character flaw: being TOO Southern. By wanting to blend in, I almost lost myself and my heritage. Southern people (and I am not talking about the stereotypical rednecks and/or racist idiots we always see on the news when something happens south of the Mason-Dixon Line) are beautifully unique from every other type of people out there that I've met so far. We are a personable, funny, easy to talk to, almost always willing to help, kind, considerate, and giving people.
I always heard that manners were just a way of making people feel comfortable around you. I never understood the meaning and importance of that until I left the South. I never appreciated how good it felt for a person to hold a door open for me (other than my hubby) and how I just expected it and took it for granted until I moved away. Here's a fact: people do not do that anywhere else. Even here, people just walk in ahead of you and let the door slam in your face (although I think part of that may be the frigid cold that lasts seven months out of the year). People actually give me strange looks when I hold doors open for them or smile at them in the street or--Godforfreakingbid--say a polite "How do you do" to them. It is still amazing to me to this day.
And people don't care how physically comfortable you are when you go to their homes like they do in the South. I mean, in my family, you don't really get to relax at a function that you're hosting because your job is to make your guests feel completely comfortable. If that means that you've got blisters on your feet and nothing in your belly by the end of that function, so be it; because your guests come absolutely first. Not so anywhere else. And, for me, I can't believe there was ever a time when I thought I needed to hide or shield that part of me.
Another thing I didn't realize until I got a bit older: Men are suckers for an accent and a little touch to the arm or shoulder. (Damnit, now I'm telling all of my secrets.) It's so funny, but they fall for it every time. It never fails at a party full of these very knowledgeable and/or powerful men and women: the women look at me like I'm a dumb blonde, and their husbands and/or business partners fall all over me. In my world, my Southern accent has gotten me far already. See, nobody expects you to be very smart; so you never fail to exceed expectations; and, when you're not sure of something, just play the dumb blonde card because these powerful men love the ego boost. ;)
I grew up in a place where saying "y'all" was more than commonplace (as ya'll know ;) . When we left Louisiana and moved to Washington, it was immediately obvious to me that every time I said it--even to yuppies who were from the South--people would look at me just a little differently, like they thought I was just a little dumb for the way I talked. So, you know what? For about two years, I stopped saying it AT ALL. I adopted the Midwesterners "you guys" because I was so afraid that people would give me that belittling look again or think less of me. I actually tried to find ways to tone down my accent and tone down my way of dressing so that I wouldn't appear too different. I just wanted to blend in to avoid that look.
Thinking back now, it's kind of funny; it was my own insecurity really. I mean, honestly, what the hell do I care about how those sheep think of me? It took moving to Ecuador and living there for a while to make me realize that if you don't like it (me as I am), you can just go straight to hell. I've been a much happier person ever since I came to that realization, and I thank my Nanny for that.
It took me a long time to gather some self esteem and some self awareness to get over what I felt was a character flaw: being TOO Southern. By wanting to blend in, I almost lost myself and my heritage. Southern people (and I am not talking about the stereotypical rednecks and/or racist idiots we always see on the news when something happens south of the Mason-Dixon Line) are beautifully unique from every other type of people out there that I've met so far. We are a personable, funny, easy to talk to, almost always willing to help, kind, considerate, and giving people.
I always heard that manners were just a way of making people feel comfortable around you. I never understood the meaning and importance of that until I left the South. I never appreciated how good it felt for a person to hold a door open for me (other than my hubby) and how I just expected it and took it for granted until I moved away. Here's a fact: people do not do that anywhere else. Even here, people just walk in ahead of you and let the door slam in your face (although I think part of that may be the frigid cold that lasts seven months out of the year). People actually give me strange looks when I hold doors open for them or smile at them in the street or--Godforfreakingbid--say a polite "How do you do" to them. It is still amazing to me to this day.
And people don't care how physically comfortable you are when you go to their homes like they do in the South. I mean, in my family, you don't really get to relax at a function that you're hosting because your job is to make your guests feel completely comfortable. If that means that you've got blisters on your feet and nothing in your belly by the end of that function, so be it; because your guests come absolutely first. Not so anywhere else. And, for me, I can't believe there was ever a time when I thought I needed to hide or shield that part of me.
Another thing I didn't realize until I got a bit older: Men are suckers for an accent and a little touch to the arm or shoulder. (Damnit, now I'm telling all of my secrets.) It's so funny, but they fall for it every time. It never fails at a party full of these very knowledgeable and/or powerful men and women: the women look at me like I'm a dumb blonde, and their husbands and/or business partners fall all over me. In my world, my Southern accent has gotten me far already. See, nobody expects you to be very smart; so you never fail to exceed expectations; and, when you're not sure of something, just play the dumb blonde card because these powerful men love the ego boost. ;)
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Global Nomad
I sometimes wonder if I'm really weird for wanting to live like a global nomad (and keep in mind that this career has only just begun). I look on Facebook or in old year books, and I see people I grew up with who are in the same town they were born in. They went to school there, college there, got married there, started their careers there, and are now raising their families there. And I believe that to be a very natural and normal cycle of life so to speak. It's quite amazing actually.
I remember having friends when I was younger whose grandparents lived next door. Maw Maw and Paw Paw had them over for Sunday dinner every week, etc. And, now, many of those friends live next to THEIR parents. And they get together with their parents every weekend. And the cycle continues. I think that's beautiful. They know exactly where they come from and exactly where they're going in life, and they don't seem to ever question that (as if I would know any different). I have never felt that way: just knowing WHO I am and WHAT I want. I've never really known what I want(ed). I've always been on the lookout for a way OUT, for a different place and a different life--that is VERY different from the way I was raised. I've given the possible reasons and reasoning quite a bit of thought over the past few years. I am no longer searching for a way out; I'd actually say that I am now looking for a way in.
First, let me say that I believe the way that I am--this wanderer, if you will--to be a genetic predisposition. Most of those people who know me know that I was raised by my mom and my stepfather (who, to me, is my father in every way except in blood and chromosomes). My biological father has always been a bit of a wanderer, although that usually dealt with different women/wives and different children in between. I think this desire to seek out things comes from him; in fact, all of my half-siblings seem to have some or all of this same trait. It generally consists of thinking that the grass is always greener on the other side (usually combined with an almost phobic fear of commitment to anything or anyone). I, however, think I've figured out how to beat it.
Through my hubby's job in the Foreign Service, my life is constantly changing. I always have something to look forward to because we're pretty much always planning a move or just recovering from one. I don't ever get that desire to wander or to want something "more" or something intangible because I know without a doubt that there is more out there and soon I'll get to see it!
And, second, I am trying (and may or may not be successful) to get a job with the Foreign Service in my own right, as a diplomat like my husband but just in a different section. I mean, my employer is the State Department; but my job is one that was created with a spouse in mind (i.e., it ain't exactly rocket science). I've had two different jobs with State so far, and I have loved them both.
I like the fact that I have a chance to learn about each part of the State Department and how it works. I like to feel like I am DOING something. I finally feel like I belong somewhere and to something so much greater than myself. So when I say that I'm trying to find my way "in," what I mean is that I have finally realized that being a part of this life and this organization is what I have always been looking for. Now, I just want to be able to get in on my own.
I remember having friends when I was younger whose grandparents lived next door. Maw Maw and Paw Paw had them over for Sunday dinner every week, etc. And, now, many of those friends live next to THEIR parents. And they get together with their parents every weekend. And the cycle continues. I think that's beautiful. They know exactly where they come from and exactly where they're going in life, and they don't seem to ever question that (as if I would know any different). I have never felt that way: just knowing WHO I am and WHAT I want. I've never really known what I want(ed). I've always been on the lookout for a way OUT, for a different place and a different life--that is VERY different from the way I was raised. I've given the possible reasons and reasoning quite a bit of thought over the past few years. I am no longer searching for a way out; I'd actually say that I am now looking for a way in.
First, let me say that I believe the way that I am--this wanderer, if you will--to be a genetic predisposition. Most of those people who know me know that I was raised by my mom and my stepfather (who, to me, is my father in every way except in blood and chromosomes). My biological father has always been a bit of a wanderer, although that usually dealt with different women/wives and different children in between. I think this desire to seek out things comes from him; in fact, all of my half-siblings seem to have some or all of this same trait. It generally consists of thinking that the grass is always greener on the other side (usually combined with an almost phobic fear of commitment to anything or anyone). I, however, think I've figured out how to beat it.
Through my hubby's job in the Foreign Service, my life is constantly changing. I always have something to look forward to because we're pretty much always planning a move or just recovering from one. I don't ever get that desire to wander or to want something "more" or something intangible because I know without a doubt that there is more out there and soon I'll get to see it!
And, second, I am trying (and may or may not be successful) to get a job with the Foreign Service in my own right, as a diplomat like my husband but just in a different section. I mean, my employer is the State Department; but my job is one that was created with a spouse in mind (i.e., it ain't exactly rocket science). I've had two different jobs with State so far, and I have loved them both.
I like the fact that I have a chance to learn about each part of the State Department and how it works. I like to feel like I am DOING something. I finally feel like I belong somewhere and to something so much greater than myself. So when I say that I'm trying to find my way "in," what I mean is that I have finally realized that being a part of this life and this organization is what I have always been looking for. Now, I just want to be able to get in on my own.
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Professional Travelers
I often wonder what my kids are going to be like when they grow up, as most moms and dads do. But I wonder two things the most: is the lack of having definitive "roots" going to affect my children for the worse or for the better and since they're being raised as these professional travelers, will they find it hard to assimilate into every-day society once they grow up?
I am not raising my children the same way that I was raised--where the family (immediate and extended) lived only as far as Baton Rouge or, at worst, North Carolina. I'm raising my children completely independent of my previous life. Sure, we see my parents and in-laws, brothers and sisters, neices and nephews once a year or so if we're lucky; but they aren't able to participate in the Good Friday crawfish boils and Easter Sunday egg hunts at Granny and Grandpa's like I did growing up. And I truly hate that. Truly. But I keep telling myself that I'm giving them something--not better per se, but something --that most parents are not able to give their children: the chance to be true citizens of the world.
I love meeting people in this life (the Foreign Service life) and hearing their stories. I've had colleagues who lived in Lesotho, Africa, during the start of the AIDS crisis, in Guyana in the ER when there were three people to a bed, etc. (I never said they were all good stories.) I love that my kids have different names for things: they call french fries "papas fritas" and peanut butter "mani" and talk about doing things "properly" instead of "correctly" (the way Americans would say it). At this point, my children are 1/3 American, 1/3 Guayaquileno, and 1/3 Canadian Kanuck lol. I'm not ashamed that my littlest guy speaks more Spanish than he does English at this point because all of these things are opportunities and quirks that make my little family different. I sit back and I am amazed at where our choices have taken us these past five years. I fantasize and worry about where our choices will take us in the next five. I wonder if we can handle it, not only together as a family, but also as individuals.
I worry about the fact that my children are going to have to change schools every single two to three years of their lives. But I also marvel at the fact that they're going to have lived in a minimum of six countries by the time they're eighteen years old. My oldest child is already learning his third language, and he's four years old. I mean, that's incredibly cool. It's amazing really. But is he going to be able to function in a group of his peers when he's going through puberty? Only time will tell. I just hope that in the future my hubby and I will still be as sure of the choices we've made as we are right now.
I am not raising my children the same way that I was raised--where the family (immediate and extended) lived only as far as Baton Rouge or, at worst, North Carolina. I'm raising my children completely independent of my previous life. Sure, we see my parents and in-laws, brothers and sisters, neices and nephews once a year or so if we're lucky; but they aren't able to participate in the Good Friday crawfish boils and Easter Sunday egg hunts at Granny and Grandpa's like I did growing up. And I truly hate that. Truly. But I keep telling myself that I'm giving them something--not better per se, but something --that most parents are not able to give their children: the chance to be true citizens of the world.
I love meeting people in this life (the Foreign Service life) and hearing their stories. I've had colleagues who lived in Lesotho, Africa, during the start of the AIDS crisis, in Guyana in the ER when there were three people to a bed, etc. (I never said they were all good stories.) I love that my kids have different names for things: they call french fries "papas fritas" and peanut butter "mani" and talk about doing things "properly" instead of "correctly" (the way Americans would say it). At this point, my children are 1/3 American, 1/3 Guayaquileno, and 1/3 Canadian Kanuck lol. I'm not ashamed that my littlest guy speaks more Spanish than he does English at this point because all of these things are opportunities and quirks that make my little family different. I sit back and I am amazed at where our choices have taken us these past five years. I fantasize and worry about where our choices will take us in the next five. I wonder if we can handle it, not only together as a family, but also as individuals.
I worry about the fact that my children are going to have to change schools every single two to three years of their lives. But I also marvel at the fact that they're going to have lived in a minimum of six countries by the time they're eighteen years old. My oldest child is already learning his third language, and he's four years old. I mean, that's incredibly cool. It's amazing really. But is he going to be able to function in a group of his peers when he's going through puberty? Only time will tell. I just hope that in the future my hubby and I will still be as sure of the choices we've made as we are right now.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
AK-47s And Hair Nets
I think the funniest thing that has happened to us so far in the Foreign Service was when we first moved to Ecuador. Ecuador is a high-crime country; there's no doubt about that. Every business and most of the well-to-do folks have guards posted outside their buildings and homes. We got used to that in a hurry, but I have to say that all those guns made me nervous.
What you don't expect to see much is a tank driving up to the local McDonald's very often. Not only that, but you don't expect four or five soldiers carrying AK-47s to jump out at said McDonald's and go inside while you're waiting to order your child's McQueso happy meal.
On this particular day, we were waiting in line to order when these armed-to-the-teeth soldiers/guards walk into the McDonald's. Imagine our surprise when they took off toward the kitchen of the restaurant. My hubby and I looked at each other, ready to bolt ASAP, figuring there was a really bad dude who was about to get shot. Well, out comes the manager--screaming at the soldiers in Spanish (which we only half understood at the time). The soldiers do a full "about face" and head out of the kitchen like they've seen a rat.
Then, to our total and complete shock, the manager comes running out with a handful of hair nets. You guessed it: they were for the soldiers!!!! It seems that--AK-47 carrying or not--EVERYONE needs a hair net to enter a McDonald's kitchen, even the guys coming to pick up the cash to deposit it at the bank.
What you don't expect to see much is a tank driving up to the local McDonald's very often. Not only that, but you don't expect four or five soldiers carrying AK-47s to jump out at said McDonald's and go inside while you're waiting to order your child's McQueso happy meal.
On this particular day, we were waiting in line to order when these armed-to-the-teeth soldiers/guards walk into the McDonald's. Imagine our surprise when they took off toward the kitchen of the restaurant. My hubby and I looked at each other, ready to bolt ASAP, figuring there was a really bad dude who was about to get shot. Well, out comes the manager--screaming at the soldiers in Spanish (which we only half understood at the time). The soldiers do a full "about face" and head out of the kitchen like they've seen a rat.
Then, to our total and complete shock, the manager comes running out with a handful of hair nets. You guessed it: they were for the soldiers!!!! It seems that--AK-47 carrying or not--EVERYONE needs a hair net to enter a McDonald's kitchen, even the guys coming to pick up the cash to deposit it at the bank.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Deciding To Leave
I don't feel like "deciding" to leave was ever really a decision; it was just going to happen eventually. I met "the one" at a bar one night. I sat down next to him, and we started to talk. I asked him what he did; and when he told me, I asked him what the hell a "business analyst" does (which I still don't understand). He told me that he had no idea but that he had bigger plans for the future. He told me about the Foreign Service.
I'll explain what a diplomat does for those of you who have no idea. The Foreign Service is the part of the U.S. State Department that works overseas. These people are specially vetted to promote U.S. policies abroad. They're taught every language you can think of (usually 2-3 per person over a career) and specially trained in specific areas of diplomacy. These people pick up their lives and move every two to three years to a different country--sometimes across the world--to serve our country. Our U.S. diplomats go in to prevent the wars. It's a pretty amazing job and an incredible opportunity. But it comes at a price a lot of the time.
Say you're in Brazil on vacation and your passport gets stolen. What do you do? You're stuck in Brazil without that little bitty book with the pretty visas and stamps in it. Well, when you go to the local U.S. Embassy or Consulate, the people that help you there are Foreign Service officers. Or another example would be--for those of you who know international students--those students had to apply for a U.S. visa at a consulate or embassy somewhere in the world. And the people who interviewed them? Yep! They were FS officers too. There are lots of different types of Foreign Service officers: some work in Consular (visas), economics, political section, public affairs, etc.
So when my (future) hubby explained to me what the Foreign Service was and what he wanted to do, my response was--and still is--"That is my dream life." So, not to gloat, but I am living my dreams. I found the guy who was perfect for me and luckily that came with the life I have always wanted to lead. We got married just five months later. I was having contractions with our first son during our pack out for Washington, D.C. He left for Washington just ten days after the baby was born, and we followed two weeks after that. Our life has been a non-stop whirlwind since we met, and there are times that we can barely hang on. We still look at each other and say, "Can you believe we get to do this for a living?"
But, like I said, it comes with a price. We rarely see our families anymore. There aren't many friends left. It's just us and the kids, taking on the world. We've seen hungry children on the street, true poverty that those depressing, late-night commercials can't compete with. But, in contrast, we've seen the look in children's eyes when they got an actual gift from "Santa" that they wouldn't have received otherwise. Life, so far, is just a trade off: good and bad.
I'll explain what a diplomat does for those of you who have no idea. The Foreign Service is the part of the U.S. State Department that works overseas. These people are specially vetted to promote U.S. policies abroad. They're taught every language you can think of (usually 2-3 per person over a career) and specially trained in specific areas of diplomacy. These people pick up their lives and move every two to three years to a different country--sometimes across the world--to serve our country. Our U.S. diplomats go in to prevent the wars. It's a pretty amazing job and an incredible opportunity. But it comes at a price a lot of the time.
Say you're in Brazil on vacation and your passport gets stolen. What do you do? You're stuck in Brazil without that little bitty book with the pretty visas and stamps in it. Well, when you go to the local U.S. Embassy or Consulate, the people that help you there are Foreign Service officers. Or another example would be--for those of you who know international students--those students had to apply for a U.S. visa at a consulate or embassy somewhere in the world. And the people who interviewed them? Yep! They were FS officers too. There are lots of different types of Foreign Service officers: some work in Consular (visas), economics, political section, public affairs, etc.
So when my (future) hubby explained to me what the Foreign Service was and what he wanted to do, my response was--and still is--"That is my dream life." So, not to gloat, but I am living my dreams. I found the guy who was perfect for me and luckily that came with the life I have always wanted to lead. We got married just five months later. I was having contractions with our first son during our pack out for Washington, D.C. He left for Washington just ten days after the baby was born, and we followed two weeks after that. Our life has been a non-stop whirlwind since we met, and there are times that we can barely hang on. We still look at each other and say, "Can you believe we get to do this for a living?"
But, like I said, it comes with a price. We rarely see our families anymore. There aren't many friends left. It's just us and the kids, taking on the world. We've seen hungry children on the street, true poverty that those depressing, late-night commercials can't compete with. But, in contrast, we've seen the look in children's eyes when they got an actual gift from "Santa" that they wouldn't have received otherwise. Life, so far, is just a trade off: good and bad.
The Visa Line
I think that the visa line is one of the most interesting places on earth. Here in Canada, we see every nationality in the world save two or three (including Canadians, if you can believe it). Actually, I'm pretty sure the only passport I've never seen is that of North Korea. Passports come in different sizes and hues, full of stamps and visas from places I've never been but hope to someday go. Some passports have been well-used and even well-loved. Some passports smell of incense and flowers, while some smell and appear that they've been dropped in the sewer once or twice; however, they all fascinate me.
I love travel, hearing about travel, learning about foreign places. There are so many countries that I never heard of before working in an embassy: small islands like Seychelles, small African countries like Eritrea. They don't teach you about those in World History class, but you hear all about them on the visa line.
We see every walk of life here, every culture, language, and manner of dress (and sometimes smell) imaginable. I love to sit back and listen to people's stories of how they got here and what they do. We see immigrants, asylees, new citizens, new-born babies, students--you name it, and we've seen it.
The stories are what fascinate me the most. People leave their homes for different reasons: to study, to find work, to escape oppression. But, more or less, they're all looking for something bigger, brighter, better than home. They're people like me in a sense: they wanted out and did it. I think about the people and family they left behind. Some send home money; some petition for family members to join them. And some just pick up and leave without ever looking back. A long time ago, I thought I'd be like that; but I was wrong.
Don't get me wrong because I had a great life in South Louisiana. My family was close, we had more than enough of everything, and everyone was good about being good to each other. But this travel bug bit me many years ago. I didn't grow up living this international life, but I always wanted to. I spent summers with my grandparents and got to see a lot of the southern United States that way, and I was very content with that for a while. But, then, something changed when I turned seventeen.
My high school offered a trip to Europe in conjunction with the local university. We could earn college credit while touring places like Paris, Frankfurt, and Venice; and I got to go. My life has never been the same.
I love travel, hearing about travel, learning about foreign places. There are so many countries that I never heard of before working in an embassy: small islands like Seychelles, small African countries like Eritrea. They don't teach you about those in World History class, but you hear all about them on the visa line.
We see every walk of life here, every culture, language, and manner of dress (and sometimes smell) imaginable. I love to sit back and listen to people's stories of how they got here and what they do. We see immigrants, asylees, new citizens, new-born babies, students--you name it, and we've seen it.
The stories are what fascinate me the most. People leave their homes for different reasons: to study, to find work, to escape oppression. But, more or less, they're all looking for something bigger, brighter, better than home. They're people like me in a sense: they wanted out and did it. I think about the people and family they left behind. Some send home money; some petition for family members to join them. And some just pick up and leave without ever looking back. A long time ago, I thought I'd be like that; but I was wrong.
Don't get me wrong because I had a great life in South Louisiana. My family was close, we had more than enough of everything, and everyone was good about being good to each other. But this travel bug bit me many years ago. I didn't grow up living this international life, but I always wanted to. I spent summers with my grandparents and got to see a lot of the southern United States that way, and I was very content with that for a while. But, then, something changed when I turned seventeen.
My high school offered a trip to Europe in conjunction with the local university. We could earn college credit while touring places like Paris, Frankfurt, and Venice; and I got to go. My life has never been the same.
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