Paris

Being in Paris makes you do funny things. Like wear horizontal stripes and consume Camembert for breakfast. Like sip wine at noon and fall in love with your apartment's Twinkie-sized kitchen. It may make you recite "Madeline" books verbatim while strolling over the Pont du' Art. It might inspire you to put on a pink trench coat, sit on a bench, and pretend you belong in this mad but glam mix of Lilliputian balconies, punctiliously groomed Parisians (canines and human), hawkers, and boulangeries.

It can also make you a bit nervous. Like lunching in a bistro full of Parisians, unsure of what the menu says because you really thought it was a better idea to take German rather than French in high school, and feeling a bit tuckered out after a day's touring. All I really wanted to do was go to the loo and wash up. I didn't mean to turn off all the lights in the upstairs dining area. Gasp. Silly tourist. Tres embarrassing.

I had been feeling homesick before our trip. Exhausted from the long haul between Christmas and Easter, tired of seeing the ubiquitous peachy-brown hue that is Qatar, weary of the increasingly warm weather that would no doubt soon sequester us indoors. I thought that Paris might cure all that, but instead it made me miss home more.

While settling into our apartment the first night, Nolan declared that he heard the call to prayer outside. My ears perked up and then realized it was the whiny siren of an ambulance. You know the wee-eww, wee-eww song of a French ambulance? Should I get his ears checked?


All I wanted to do in Paris was walk. And walk we did.
Everyday, all day, we walked. It was the most exercise I'd had since our nanny left, leaving me with the mildly calorie burning tasks of laundry and cooking rather than a proper butt and thigh workout in the gym. I actually lost weight while in Paris. Don't worry, though, it's all reappeared. Sigh.

Again, like with Vietnam,it's the small slices of the holiday that I will treasure. Watching Greta absorbed in Van Gogh and Monet. I watched her watch the paintings spring to life before her eyes, the swirls of color and playful paint strokes unlocking a world of art in a nine-year-old's mind. I was 23 before I saw any major pieces of art in person. Two brought me close to tears: Goya's The Third of May in Madrid's Prado and Boticelli's Primavera at the Uffizi in Florence. But the image of my lovely Gbug standing serenely in front of her beloved Van Gogh provoked some teary eyes as well. This was, of course, before a museum docent scolded us for giggling as we perfected our hand clap lyrics (shown above in the video).

We surprised Nolan with a two day trip to Disney Paris. My favorite moment with him was zipping up and down, sideways and screaming, snuggled in the roller coaster cart of Big Thunder Mountain. Scared and brave and screeching with joy. That's my boy.





 

Suitcase Savvy

      I was always the girl who forgot to pack something importantly girlie, like post-sun aloe lotion or lipgloss,  a mildly slinky beach cover up or extra earrings. Forgetting these tiny luxuries would be entirely unfathomable to many, but for me it was completely beyond my radar. Why would I take $15 lipgloss on holiday when I have my beloved and reliable tube of cherry Chapstick? Isn't a beach cover up basically an expensive towel with shoulder straps? Extra earrings? I'll be lucky if I don't lose the ones I have on now!
     Now that I am officially, ahem, a grown up woman (really, I almost wrote the word lady there just so I could avoid calling myself a woman - what's wrong with me?!), I should know how to pack a utilitarian yet  feminine suitcase full of holiday necessities. As a mildly-seasoned traveler, I should be able to excise the junk in my suitcase, yet my luggage often reveals a hodgepodge of not entirely coordinating clothing items, assorted reading material (though only some of it will actually be read), and one too many pair of shoes (always). My suitcase is typically on the heavy side even if it's not perfectly packed.
     Suitcase, luggage, carry on. More glamorous words for baggage, I suppose. Suitcases I am still working on, but baggage? Baggage I can do: heart baggage, brain baggage, thigh baggage - I have it all! I truck that stuff around every day! It's the sorting (what's worth carrying, what' not?), weeding (could I really just throw that out without regret?), and rehabilitating (that old plum camisole could perk up that tattered vintagey cardigan!) of baggage that I don't quite have the knack for (yet). Which jacket is both fetching and deliciously warm? What can I simply delete from my packing list? Is there some basic necessity that I am forgetting, or a minor girlie accessory that I should reclassify as a staple item? Figuring out what truly belongs in one's suitcase is a skill I assumed would magically come with age. Turns out, it's a fair amount work.
     This attempt at metaphor may or may not be working for you, so permit me to reveal my intention: everyone has baggage, and at some point it's probably wise to whittle it down to the baggage you can carry without burden, allotting only the baggage that keeps you honest and sincere, ambitious and hopeful. Anything else has to be checked.
   
   

Roses and Thorns

It's true. We play games at the dinner table. There was one Thanksgiving when we let the kids have a mashed potato fight and sometimes we eat pizza at the coffee table over a game of Wii bowling, but the game we play consistently while suppering is Roses and Thorns. Between bites, each person shares a rose and thorn about the day. A rose can be something kind you did, a moment that made you smile, or anything you are grateful for. A thorn is a disappointment, something that made you frown, or a worry. Nolan loves to explain the rules to dinner guests and Greta likes to make up new rules along the way. I just like hearing about everyone's day.

When Margaret, Chris's youngest sister, lived with us last fall, we assigned days of the week to each person in the family, beginning on Sunday with the oldest (Chris) and ending on Thursday with the youngest (Nolan). Tuesday was Margaret's day. She's been back in the States for months now, but we still pretend that Margaret goes first on Tuesday. "Margaret, where are you? It's your turn," I say. No answer. "Margaret, we're playing Roses and Thorns," Chris says. Nothing. The kids laugh every time.

I've worked hard to be an optimist, so I say my Thorn first and end on a Rose.
Here are my Roses and Thorns for this year abroad:

THORNS

Our stress levels have been higher this year because of our expectations of ourselves have increased

My grade one muscle injury during a softball game (who collapses while running to first base and has to get a piggy-back ride off the field and to her car?)

That I still feel disorganized in our Doha house (desk, toys, wrapping paper drawer, still haven't found proper storage for our towels and magazines, think yellow walls in the dining room was a mistake)

More nights of poor sleep this year than last

Sometimes hard to be away from family and friends

Losing most of my saved documents from last year and starting the year without them

Working full time means less time involved in our kids' day to day schooling even though we now have more time with them overall (summers, weekends, holidays)

ROSES

Greta is much happier this year (making friends, Girl Scouts, more confident). Perhaps the biggest rose of all!

Visitors: Gary, Chris's dad, for a week in September; Margaret for four months; my parents for three weeks

We ventured out more this year than last (and hope to do more next year)

Andorra and Vietnam

Nolan lost a tooth and learned to read and to swim underwater (next: bicycle on two wheels)

Bryan Adams, Pro women's tennis, McEnroe and Borg, seeing Messi score a goal from not so far away, Ahmed Ahmed's comedy show, full moon yoga, days at the Intercontinental Hotel pool

Chris's renewed passion for playing tennis (and he went snowboarding in Andorra, first time in years)

Chris's Habitat for Humanity trip to Romania (planning one for next year in Thailand)

Playing softball for the Sons of Pitches

We still love our jobs and we still feel lucky to be here

Friends here in Doha

Weekends with the kids (unless we have massive amounts of grading, like we do right now)




Our last day in Vietnam



Margaret joined Chris on the Habitat for Humanity trip to Romania. Here they are in the Blue Mosque in Istanbul during a long layover back to Doha. Chris is sporting his Movember mustache to raise money for charity. 

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Margaret's first attempt at sandboarding.




Grandma Doris giving the kids a drawing lesson.




We signed on for another year here, and let go of Chris's leave of absence on the island. At some point, he will need to teach in Washington state again in order to retrieve his pension. It feels too risky to move back to the States without secure jobs lined up for both of us, so, for now, we will continue this little adventure, wading through the thorns and soaking up the roses.

Just Quit Already

I have quit so many things that I lost count a long time ago. Flute lessons and Girl Scouts, various sports, scrapbooks and journals, learning how to knit and how to sail, watching Dexter, and sewing projects big and small.

The "winners never quit" attitude never appealed to me. I stop reading books as soon as soon as I have that it's just not worth my time feeling. This is not to say that I choose not to persevere ever, just that I persevere with what seems right at the time. I forced myself to read Twilight even though the writing was awful, and I'm glad I did because it's something I refer to in class (conflicts in literature, word choice - every page says "Edward chuckled" - and foreshadowing). I persevered reading a book I would never normally choose to read because I knew it would be useful. I persevered during our first year of marriage when both Chris and I were earning master's degrees but not earning an income, knowing that in time our decision to further our educations would be useful (and one day, we hoped, earn us a decent salary seeing as how I was also pregnant during this time).

I think this blog might be useful too. I'm not sure how exactly, but it may come in handy someday. Not many people read it, not many people need it, but someday, for someone near or far, it might be useful.

So I promise not to quit.

Vietnam, our December destination, is somewhere I have longed to experience ever since I read a National Geographic article about Hanoi during my teens. Yes, the beaches are beautiful, and yes, the food is beyond delicious. The rice paddies really are as emerald as in the pictures and it really is a life-risking adventure crossing city streets. My favorite memories from the trip, however, are snippets of dialogue from Nolan and Greta. We visited the beautifully-housed modern art museum, and as she entered the second floor, Greta whispered, "I feel as light as a feather in here." Not a crumb of cliche in those words, she just felt light and happy and calm. It was a perfect life moment and, being an artist's daughter, I love that it was in a museum. In Vietnam. If you look at the pictures from our trip, I think you'll agree that Greta possesses an uncommon (for her) calmness.

On Phu Quoc island, where we spent our final days

of vacation, Nolan (after hesitating repeatedly) ran into the ocean, all smiles, and yelled, "I'm amazing!" Yes, little one, you are. He was so proud of himself, and he simply could not contain his jubilance. He still asks if we can return to that morsel-of-heaven cove.

Traveling to Vietnam with Chris meant exploring some historical sites (which I have grown to appreciate more and more). We went to the Cu Chi tunnels to see for ourselves the underground maze of dugout earth that protected the Vietnamese during the "American War" and during their battles with the French. Our guide was a sweet older lady who Chris posited had endured the reeducation camps common for the southern residents after the American War. She was chatting about the bombs dropped and the environmental damaged caused and the heartache of war, when Nolan, in all his big-blue-eyed innocence, gently grabbed her hand asking,

"Were we the enemy?"

My heart sank. I held my breath. Our friends, Pete and Julie, looked at us with an anticipatory What can she possibly say to that? We hadn't prepared our kids for this part. Oops. Too busy packing and daydreaming and booking hotels. "We're friends now," she replied, hugging him. I exhaled.

I hope I never stop traveling with my kids. We started small, and we've come a long way. Our first adventure was taking Greta on a two week road trip to Montana, Idaho, and Wyoming when she was thirteen months. A few years later, determined to score a free airline ticket while Nolan was still under two years old, we packed up the kids and went to the Yucatan for beaches and ancient ruins (one of our favorite holiday combos). Then, after moving to Qatar, came India, Sri Lanka, Italy, Vietnam, and now we're off to Spain and Andorra. I love that our family has experienced these places together. It's fun to see the world with kids. It forces us to slow down, to alter our pace to a five-year-old's footsteps, to take ice cream breaks and visit toy shops if only for the air-conditioned interior.

Not that it's always easy. Like when we rented bicycles in Hoi An, determined to view Vietnam from two (rickety) wheels. We put a kid on the back of each bike, local style, and rode for about ten minutes before Nolan's foot slipped (darn Crocs) between the spokes, stopping Chris's bike on the side of a busy street. I screamed. Chris hopped off the bike. Nolan was eerily silent but dazed, and I was flush with guilt (why did we think we could do this?). An old Vietnamese woman ran up to us offering us a bottle of oil. A woman tending her kiosk pointed us to the direction of a hospital, so off we went. The hospital (no sign, we just had to guess) basically ignored us. Nolan wasn't bleeding, but his ankle wore the imprint of a bike chain and bluish bruises marked up all sides of his now-swollen foot. Back at the hotel, I took pictures of his foot just to remind myself to slow down, for goodness sakes.

Last week, I experienced my first inkling of wanting to quit my job. It was the first time that I thought, with that ugly wince of regret, why on earth did I sign a contract for next year? Wouldn't everything be easier if I was still working at the library and Chris still teaching on the island? And, wait, aren't I living in a country seemingly surrounded by countries in the midst of, or on the brink of, chaos? Does all of this really matter - the stellar but stressful job, the travel, the can't-beat-it schedule of teaching? The truth is that we probably should have done this overseas gig in our twenties, then moved home, scored jobs and a house, had kids, adopted a dog, and built a normal life. We never planned this move, but somewhere inside of us was this desire to be out in the world, to be a part of something that seemed attainable only for other people. Whatever happens after next year, if we quit and move home, go to another international school, or stay in Doha, I know that our time overseas is worthwhile, possible even useful.

Year Two

This year, our second year at the American School of Doha, began with less disarray (despite the delay of our luggage), fewer jet-lag inspired tears, and the same anticipatory energy that each new school year brings. We finally received all of our luggage twenty days after landing in Doha. Our final bag, Nolan's monkey suitcase, arrived damp after spending some quality time outdoors at Heathrow Airport in London. We managed our jet lag with slightly more dignity than last year and felt normal one week after arriving, just in time to report to school for meetings.

We love our jobs, but all year we anticipate the summer. Then all summer, we felt displaced and frazzled. This is not to say we were not blessed with lovely hosts or that we did not savor some sweet, peaceful moments. We were and we did. But it was also odd and uncomfortable and stressful (I cried, I admit) at times. We packed, unpacked, visited, drove, packed, unpacked, visited, and drove. And again and again and again. Nolan asked if we now lived not in Qatar but in our car. I felt like such a slut - I slept in sixteen different beds in seven weeks.

Oh, well. Just like we have improved the way we plan our trips and travel, we will improve the way we allocate our time and energy during the summer. Not only am I determined to be a better teacher this year during the school year, I am determined to be a better houseguest our next summer home.

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.