I realize that on my last post I ended with the line, "It's not an easy life, but it's a good one." When I reread my writing this morning, I noticed that I did not highlight any of Doha's uneasy qualities. The best I can do right now is a list, so here you are (in no particular order) - a list of unsavory details about Doha.

1. The driving. See previous blog posts.

2. The rubble and the litter and the dust (though many career international teachers say Doha is very clean compared to other places they have lived)

3. The lack of safe places to walk (this is due to reason one, not due to crime)

4. The "throw away" attitude and the obstacles to recycling (so easy on the island, we didn't even have to sort!)

5. Seeing movies at the theatre without the good kissing scenes


Our front gate



6. The likelihood we will get into a car accident and all the red tape that will surely follow

7. The lack of a true cultural experience even though there people from all over the world living in Doha

8. The reliance on cheap labor (Indian, Bangladeshi, Sri Lankan)

9. The shelves lined with "skin lightening" products for men, women, and kids



Doha skyline



10. The difficulty in finding common items such as frozen blueberries and canned black beans, the right printer cartridge, a wood saw, tiki torch oil, decent tape. The frustration is often followed by uninhibited bouts of giddiness upon finding the said product.

There are more, of course, but it's the stuff for stories told with a bottle of wine . . . while wearing a tank top and short shorts after watching the unedited version of Sex and the City after a day of eating pork products and attending church and kissing the husband in public. Wink, wink.



Spiderman and Greta guarding the goal





No Longer a Newbie

I've been sleeping. And it's been good.

Since moving to Doha, there has not been one night that I have been plagued by sleeplessness, uncomfortably awake at three in the morning stressed out by the one enormous factor that caused us to leave the island: money. We are beyond grateful that the director of our school hired us and that we have been allowed to embark on this journey. The international life is a good one. We work, we play, we travel, we swim, we watch movies, and we sleep.

I have had plenty of sleepless nights, especially when the kids were itty bitty babas and I was a nursing mama. One dreadful morning I drove absentmindedly through the stoplight on Guard Street and Tucker Avenue due to sheer exhaustion. I pulled over as soon as I realized what I had done and cried because I could have caused serious injury to a neighbor, to myself, or to my kids in the backseat simply because I was blinded by lack of sleep. However, money, not my kids, has consistently been the culprit behind my many sleepless nights. I am grateful that part of my life is over (for now).

A friend (okay, three friends) told me they had been worrying about me since the last post. The last post is from February and highlighted some of my struggles. I did this not to alarm anyone or to complain, I did it to be honest. It would be mighty easy to sugarcoat the annoyances of living here and say everything is dandy, but I didn't move here for my life to be easy. We did it because we wanted to seize control of our family's future instead of being at the mercy of the budget-axing school district, the hyperactive housing market, and the relentless bills. Our island life was blissful and idyllic, certainly, but it was not always easy.

Although we didn't realize it would be, our life in Doha is, in many ways, quite easy. Our jobs provide daily challenges, of course, but our life outside of school is manageable and fairly stress-free. Our nanny, Alita, is an enormous factor in our manageable home life. I have not ironed, scrubbed, swept, or wiped anything since August. Call me spoiled, I simply don't care. I love having a nanny! I can enjoy my home without feeling that constant tug of the to-do list and the mountain of dishes. Though I admit I loved my little kitchen on Carter Avenue much more than my current kitchen in villa 7B, the absence of stress associated with the housework is something I do not miss. At all.

There are other times, too, when Doha seems polar opposite of Friday Harbor. My eyes have, sadly, grown accustomed to the ubiquitous peachy brown sandy ecru color that is Qatar. This is a huge contrast to my former visual palette of the blue Puget Sound, the Mount Baker's pristine white tip, the evergreens, and the brown fertile soil beneath it all. I fear I may experience color shock rather than culture shock when we come home for the summer. I fear I may take my newly-acquired aggressive driving habits home with me and cause an accident not from lack of sleep but from overly-assertive vehicle maneuvering. This is all aside from the fact that I live in a conservative Muslim country and not a progressive enclave of outdoorsy dads and marsupial moms. This is perhaps the most obvious contrast of all, but I'm not sure it is. I will keep thinking about that one.

In three weeks, we will be visiting Brian and Katelyn and baby Avery in Maine. In four weeks, I will give my dad the biggest hug in the world and surely cry when I see Shayla. In five weeks, we will be at American Dream Pizza in Corvallis, Oregon. In six weeks, we will be celebrating Fourth of July in Liberty Lake. In seven weeks, we will be watching the Mariners play (and beat) the Yankees. In nine weeks, we will be back on the island. I will be sitting with Betsy in her backyard listening to the kids play, digging my toes in the sand at Eagle Cove with Kerry, sampling Val's vegies, and sipping coffee with Adrienne at Cafe Demeter. In ten weeks, I will be at my sister's house savoring every morsel, every sunset, and every minute before we fly back to the Middle East. Back to the empty skyscrapers, the piles of rubble, the heat, the air conditioned everything, and the promise of a new school year. It's not an easy life, but it's a good one.

Liz Lemon Moments

I'm in a funk. I am a bit lonely and a lot tired. I am counting the days until we leave on that big plane, stopping in London and Boston before landing in our beloved home state of Washington. Last week, I told one of my classes that I was disappointed in their efforts. We hired a counselor to help Greta with her angry outbursts. Nolan's diet has been atrocious lately. I am battling the stinking ten pounds that I want to lose before spring break, I am struggling to teach my elective class about climate change (I am not a science teacher for goodness sakes), and I hate the color of my living room walls. They're the color of sand; as if I don't see enough of that. All I can say is (insert voice of Liz Lemon here), "Blurg."
I have heard that this time of year is the toughest for teachers. The big holidays are over. Week Without Walls has come and gone (and it would have been perfection if not for the colleague who took multiple - okay, daily - opportunities to insult me). Double blurg.
What am I going to do to perk up my sinking attitude? I run a little, but not enough to keep my arse from expanding into another zip code. I plan our vacations. I Skype. I daydream. I remember what it was like to work part time, to prepare Sunday suppers, to read novels from the library's new fiction shelves, and to walk to the post office. We are enjoying our time abroad, but I think I am having a bit of an identity crisis. Am I a lifer? Do I want to teach overseas for the next ten years and give my kids the tremendous gifts of travel and international education? Am I an island girl? What would it be like to return to the islands after being away? Is there anyone left to hang out with who will put up with my flaky memory, my ongoing mini-dramas, and my lazy attitude toward socializing? Maybe I belong in the Skagit Valley where my family roots are strong and the landscape is achingly familiar.
Blurg, blurg, blurg.
If you're still reading this, I suppose I should toss in some good news. I love that Greta's best friend here is from Pakistan. I love that my students are crazy mixes of Welsh/Iraqi, Japanese/Qatari, and Cuban/Egyptian. This gives me hope for the world. All our students at ASD are like little ambassadors for their own country (and in some cases their own country is Texas . . .) as well as the home countries of their peers. They go to school every single day with kids from places that are feared by many Americans.
Other good news includes that I just finished teaching the novel The Giver and I think I did a pretty darn good job. Expository writing and poetry are next. It's exciting to think about next year and about all the improvements I want to make. I really do want to be a good teacher; it's just so darn tiring! I have been watching Chris go through trials and triumphs of teaching for the past seven years. I have, I admit, thought many times there is no way I am going to put myself through that. Well, here I am, teaching and trying to survive, looking forward to spending my birthday in Sri Lanka, counting the days until we fly home, and daydreaming about all the things I will do when I get there. In the meantime, I will just keep swimming. And running. I will paint my living room walls and try to be a good parent. I will attend Zumba more and eat less. I will try to master the carbon cycle, to teach poetry, and to rekindle Nolan's love for broccoli. I will, I will, I will.

Let's Do This Alphabetically . . . India then Italy

We didn't really plan on going to India. Chris and I were booking tickets from Doha to Izmir, Turkey so we could roadtrip along the southern coast - and be in Turkey for Thanksgiving - when the Qatar Airways website reported the flight was no longer available. We navigated back to the homepage of QA (our favorite airline, but not our favorite website . . . more on that later) to discover they had a special on their new destination: Goa, India. Goa, known also as "India-lite" and a Portuguese colony until the 1960s, is only three hours away from the sandbox (Doha), boasts beaches, cheap food, warm weather, and market shopping. Tickets booked.

I'll spare the part when we arrived at the airport hours early only to be told the flight was booked. I'll leave out the details of our hair-raising, clutch-the-kids-for-dear-life taxi ride from the Goa airport to our hotel at four 0'clock in the morning on a seriously curvy road with a driver who looked no older than my students. I might even leave out the Panjim market story, but it's just too good.

What I will include are the extrinsic juxtapositions that seem to define India, the ones that trigger a simultaneous adoration for and disdain of a place. While our hotel, The Lemon Tree, provided a tranquil, lush setting complete with a pool, a few hammocks, and a swim up bar, a few meters beyond the lobby thrusted us into a mini-whirlwind of traffic (tuk-tuks and trucks), hawkers, colorful shops, and strolling bovine. It was an overwhelming yet fascinating assault on my senses. I had to multi-task on a new level: maintain hand-holding with kids, avoid cow poo on dirt sidewalk, participate in conversation with husband, sniff out a supper spot, and snap photos when possible. Leaving the hotel was both a welcome challenge and a chore.

The beach near the hotel posed as another juxtaposition. It was lovely spot of land facing west, perfect for watching sunsets and evening strolls. It would have been even lovlier minus the plump, pink Brits who overtook the beach each afternoon, sans the defunct cargo ship perched in the shallow waters, and without the myriad tankers in the distance not obstructing the view so much as just tainting it with their presence. Perhaps I have been spoiled by all the beautiful beaches that dot my memory: Bondi Beach in Australia, Akumal in Mexico, Salema in Portugal, and the dozens of beachs in Oregon, Hawaii, and Washington that act as my (high) standards for beach aesthetics.

Since I am operating on a mere ninety minutes of sleep, I will fast forward to the market. Another harrowing taxi ride (this time in the daylight, this time no seatbelts) took us to the Panjim market. I knew I wanted to buy some goods for the house and some gifts for folks at home, and I thought we could roam around for a couple of hours and absorb all that interesting India-ness. We were back in the taxi after ten minutes. Here's Chris with the story:

The Panjim market was what I had always pictured India to be: a kalidescopic sensory experience. As we exited the taxi the drum seller was the first to pounce upon us. Laden with at least 30 drums he pushed us to buy from him, "You will not get a better deal anywhere else." We pushed past him with a feeble promise to look when we returned and entered a sea of bodies, brightly clad, all inviting us to visit their stall, to buy from them. A glance in their direction seemed to be a promise to come in and buy. The best strategy was to walk past holding up hand to wave them off and dive down a side "street." Not all vendors accepted this, especially the one who decided to grab me by the earlobe and tug me (unsuccessfully) into his stall. In the end the money went quickly. A couple of shirts, an anklet for Greta, some woven work and the money was gone. I didn't bring too much for fear of pickpockets in the mass of humanity. The market was truly overstimulating and the children found the heat and press of flesh to be especially oppressive. This was compounded by the people who kept reaching out and touching Nolan and Greta's heads. Our money spent, we worked our way back to the taxi. While waiting for the cabbie to return the drum seller spotted us.
"Now you buy a drum," he said. "600 rupees."
"Sorry, we spent our money. We can't buy a drum."
"For you,my first customers, very lucky, I give a good price. 550."
"Thank you, but we only have 50 rupees."
"No, you have money," he pressed angrily. "500."
The exchange continued this way as I looked deperately for our taxi driver. The price lowered as far as 250 rupees, but I honestly didn't have the money. In fact, I was counting on our taxi driver to let me run over to an ATM when we returned to the hotel. Then the final straw. When I said I din't have any money, the drum monger replied, "Maybe your wife will have sex for you?"
At that point my hands balled into fists. "You can go away, now!" I said through clenched teeth, trying not to loose my cool. The drum man backed away fear in his eyes, realizing that he had crossed the line.
The taxi driver appeared shortly thereafter and we left the insanity of decorated cows, billowing insense, and overzealous hawkers for the relative tranquility of the taxi.

It's me again. Some of you know that I have a tendency to mix up facts (you know, like the opening times of the Orsay Museum during the one trip to Paris with my parents) that typically have minor, harmless ramifications (sorry again Mom and Dad). During the retelling of our India experiences in the weeks following our trip, I reported the story how I interpreted it (okay, I also have bad hearing, so I told it how I thought I heard it). I thought the drum guy offered his wife to Chris if we would just purchase the darn drum. I had no idea the guy was attempting to negotiate me into the deal!

This was all before I became debilitated by tonsillitus on the last day of our trip. I kicked out Chris and the kids so I could be sick in solitude. Our kids' music teacher, however, was at the same resort. She saw me at my worst: disgusting breath from infected tonsils and recent pukage, clothes stuck to my aching body from the fever-induced sweatiness, and an attitude from hell. Not many people have seen me in such an awful state - not many who have lived to tell about it anyway - and she could not have been kinder. Laurie, whom my kids love as much as Maggie the Music Teacher, took my ickiness in stride and even invited us to her New Year's bash which we missed due to an impossibly long spin cycle and the whimsey of Qatar Airways. Stay tuned.

Out of my Box and into the World

I am not sure what is happening. I like the heat and I really do not mind the air conditioning. I bought a blue bikini and wear it in public. I splurged on Fendi sunglasses then took my kids to Burger King for dinner. These are not my normal habits.

A few weeks ago I jumped (fully clothed, not in the blue bikini) into a swimming pool because I thought I saw our friend's son sinking (there is still a bit of argument about whether or not he was actually in trouble). Yesterday I brought home a possibly blind dumpster kitten. I make no secret of the fact that I normally feel about animals the way that people without kids feel about other people's kids - nice to play with if they're well behaved, but feeling it's a privilege to walk away without any true responsibility. . . so bringing home a kitten was a bit out of my comfort zone. I have to drive somewhat maniacally to survive a trip to the market (hopping the curb, passing on the right, temporarily making a third lane in traffic just so I can pull a u-turn at the right spot). And most of you know that I went to see Air Supply. I am not sure what is happening to me. I have never wanted to go to India, but off I go in three weeks. Oh, and I haven't baked anything, not even a blueberry muffin, since I arrived in Doha.

I suppose some things do not change. I am still the unassuming girl who doesn't say much in staff meetings and is willing to do what I am told. I have opinions and qualms, but no desire to ruffle the status quo's stable boat (or whatever you say, I am not versed in easyspeak). Even when the principal announced that the school simply does not hire new teachers because the high expectations placed on the staff would overwhelm anyone new to the profession, I rebelliously thought, I am here and I am doing okay and I haven't cried yet and I might just surprise you with my mad skills.

I am the only woman teacher hired this year for the middle school. I am floating in a sea of forty-something men. It feels like I have inherited several big brothers who call me "Em" or "Wolf" and I learn a little from them every day.

I know I will return home a different person (not to worry, I will still take an hour to get the jokes and will still shout "bunco" like a little girl) . I know our kids will change because of our time overseas. I also know that I am working harder than I have ever worked before, that Chris and I are doing this not just to check one more item off our life list, and that this crazy desert city is exactly where we should be.

Just thought I would post the link to my class website. All ASD teachers have to be ready and able to conduct their classes online should the school close due to H1N1.

http://sites.google.com/a/asd.edu.qa/asd-seventh-grade-language-arts-with-mrs-wolf/

I am still working on it, but take a look if you want. Suggestions welcome.

Details

I don't know how I am going to live without my beloved chard pasta. It's my comfort food. Swiss chard sauteed in olive oil with garlic, salt, and red pepper flakes, served with pasta then topped with parmesan. I also miss my Alba shampoo, my cookbooks, and my framed photos of family and friends.

These are minor details, I suppose, and I have no excuse for not snuggling them (minus the chard) next to my new Danskos and Apples to Apples in my suitcase. Somehow, Chris and I thought that our life overseas would automagically (yes, automagically . . . that term is courtesy of Floyd) invite minimalism, as if we just would not want or need all the "extras" most folks find necessary. Maybe we thought our lives would be full simply because we live abroad. As if living overseas is itself a form of entertainment.

People who know us know we lived without cable for the past twelve years, that we choose to spend our dollars on travel not trinkets, and that we pride ourselves on being a one-car family. We debated over whether or not we should purchase a blender and a microwave for our home in Doha, and chose frugality over fabulousness when we bought carpets and dishes. I am not sure when the shift happened (my guess is around payday) but, my friends, the times are a-changing. The blender and microwave are sitting pretty in the kitchen, the new flatscreen TV (outfitted with cable) is Chris's favorite item in the house, and we just spent two nights at the Doha Intercontinental Hotel. Not exactly a minimalist's destination.

We now own two cars. While our beloved Odyssey ("Homer") lives the quiet life in LaConner, our Mitsubishi (hereafter referred to as Mitsi) keeps us safe on the somewhat manical (mostly unnamed) streets of Doha. Last week, Mitsi served her true purpose when she locked into 4WD and took us to the southwestern border of Qatar to the inland sea. She powered up sanddunes and hurdled sandy bumps causing the kids to screech in delight. Okay, okay, that was me screeching with delight. It's the most thrilling, fun adventure our family has shared in a while. Our caravan was 19 cars strong. We cheered each other on as we took turns venturing up the dunes, assisting one another when the wheels just wouldn't turn, and celebrated by swimming in the salty waters claiming the border between Qatar and the UAE. Mitsi, though covered inside and out with sand, proved herself a workhorse and made us proud.

"We should get the car detailed," I mentioned to Chris the morning after the dune trip. I had made this same request repeatedly in the States.

"What do you want for your birthday, Em?"
"Maybe get the car detailed?"
"Oh."

Now Homer, our trusty vehicle since Greta turned one, has never had a detail job. That's six years of transporting cracker-crunching toddlers and hauling piles of Costco goods without a decent interior scrub and vacuum. Not that I didn't request one for him. On numerous occasions.

Along comes Mitsi. Twelve hours after her first real excursion she's in the "jackwash" line at the local petrol station. She is jacked up, sprayed, and scrubbed, then lowered and vacuumed. The station guys lovingly bathe her and dutifully detail her, then fill her with gasoline. It's a whopping twenty-five dollars. Fifteen for the jackwash and detail, then ten for a full tank of gas. Poor Homer. It's no wonder why he hasn't experienced this luxury treatment. It would cost forty dollars to fill up his tank and one hundred (?) for a good detailing.
So while Homer waits patiently for us to return, Mitsi takes us to school (a three minute drive), to the mall (complete with ice rink), to the beaches (and the warm, warm water), to potluck dinners and birthday parties (courtesy of our insta-family here in Doha), and to the numerous grocery stores where I shall continue to search devotedly for chard.