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.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
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.
Published with Blogger-droid v1.7.1
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.
Published with Blogger-droid v1.7.1
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.
Monday, June 13, 2011
I Was Born On The Bayou
I was born in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, but I spent 26 years growing up on Bayou Lafourche. South Louisiana is a place that I didn't appreciate until I left it. I always wanted to get out, to get away, to see bigger and brighter things. I didn't realize what a rich, old, and beautiful culture I was a part of until I didn't have those roots anymore. The truth is, I don't have roots at all outside of my little family. There are four of us: my hubby, our two boys, and me, plus our nanny. My husband and I both work for the U.S. Government abroad. Don is the officer, and I am trailing spouse (to those who remember the days of Julia Child and Rose Kennedy). I hope not to be the trailing spouse for long; in fact, I'm trying for a more permanent position at the moment.
I grew up on Bayou Lafourche in Louisiana, a town of just a few hundred people. Some people call it a "One-Horse Town"; I describe it as a "One-Stoplight Town." There's one stoplight of course. Everyone there knows everybody else. If they don't know you, they know your daddy. "Who's your Daddy" or "Who's your family" were the most-asked questions whenever meeting someone new. If they didn't know your mama or your daddy, they knew of him or her and then knew who to call when you got into trouble.
When I was growing up, we had two gas stations: Popingos and Gator Stop. The (Da) Gator Stop had the best fried chicken and hamburgers in the history of the world. It's so funny to think about because Mama could always tell when any of us went to the Gator Stop that day, because you came home smelling like it: deep fried. I wasn't there anymore, but we lost the Gator Stop in Hurricane Gustav. I want to cry every time I go home and pass where it used to be. I guess I'll never smell "deep fried" again.
I grew up on Bayou Lafourche in Louisiana, a town of just a few hundred people. Some people call it a "One-Horse Town"; I describe it as a "One-Stoplight Town." There's one stoplight of course. Everyone there knows everybody else. If they don't know you, they know your daddy. "Who's your Daddy" or "Who's your family" were the most-asked questions whenever meeting someone new. If they didn't know your mama or your daddy, they knew of him or her and then knew who to call when you got into trouble.
When I was growing up, we had two gas stations: Popingos and Gator Stop. The (Da) Gator Stop had the best fried chicken and hamburgers in the history of the world. It's so funny to think about because Mama could always tell when any of us went to the Gator Stop that day, because you came home smelling like it: deep fried. I wasn't there anymore, but we lost the Gator Stop in Hurricane Gustav. I want to cry every time I go home and pass where it used to be. I guess I'll never smell "deep fried" again.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)