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.

Same Same Only Different

When Chris returned from Thailand a few years ago, he told me about the phrase, "Same, same, only different." It's what the Thai say to explain something that is, well, the same - only different. That's a bit how I am feeling about Doha right now. It possesses much of the same characteristics of the West, only different. Sort of.

We drive on the same side of the road here, except the roads are punctuated with a plethora of roundabouts, and u-turns are common. The driving is aggressive and fast, and there is a zero tolerance law for drinking and driving (meaning an automatic fine and definite jail time). Only people in the front seat have to wear seatbelts, there are many SUV's, and the locals get annoyed with the non-Qataris. So it's the same, only different.

The school, The American School of Doha, offers an "enriched American curriculum" to its students and has many of the same sports as any American school. These sport teams may travel to Cairo or Kuwait or Bahrain for tournaments, but they are still kids dressed in handsome uniforms playing their best game. It also has, however, three swimming pools, a gym the size of Xtreme Fitness, small class sizes (I have one class of 20 and three classes of 16), fabulous technology resources, two libraries, art programs for all students, and one counselor for every two grades. It is one of the top international schools on the planet and my kids get to go there!!! Sorry, I just had to throw that in . . .

Doha has a Dairy Queen. And a Chili's. And KFC, H&M, Prada, Haagen-Dazs, McDonald's, and Starbucks. Same, same. Very different from the island.

One thing that is truly different about our life here so far is having a nanny. She lives with us five days every week (Sunday-Thursday) then goes home to her husband on the weekends (Friday and Saturday). She has already done more ironing in two days than I have done in my entire life, cleans the house, and does the laundry. She has already proved to be resourceful and a bargain shoppper. We went shopping for provisions and she let me know which soap, rice, and brooms were the best deal. Food shopping, by the way, is fun. I love seeing all the different food items from different countries and not knowing exactly what every item is. I loved seeing Eden Organic Sauerkraut on the shelf next to a jar of an unkown pickled vegetable. There is a large Indian grocery store I want to explore called the Lulu Hypermarket. It looks enormous from the road and its name alone is enticing. Tomorrow we are going to the Museum of Islamic Art and the old souk.

I have to address the issue of jet lag before I wrap up this post. It has been, by far, the most difficult obstacle since arriving (more than seeing the local women in their abayas, more than the heat). For the first week I felt like I had a newborn baby in the house. I was awake at 3 AM, craving a nap by 9, struggling to keep my eyes open at 6 PM, and forcing myself to stay awake until 10 because someone (Nolan) needed to eat. The exhaustion was exacerbated by the tiny but irritating knot of queasiness I carried in my stomach for the first six days. Am I sick? Did I contract some awful illness on the flight? Am I pregnant? No, no, no, I realized, I am simply stressed and nervous. What could I possibly be stressed and nervous about? Uprooting my family to move to Qatar? Knowing that my first year teaching is at the top school in the Middle East and wanting desperately to do well? Oh yeah, that. And knowing I am so very far away from everyone and everything my family has known. And feeling so very tired.

Now that it is the weekend and we have kicked jet lag's sorry biscuits, we are going to check out the beach (same), hit the playground (same), then order in some Turkish food (different) while we set up Skype - just another Friday in Doha.

Bon Voyage

Last night we drove out to the west side of the island for a little family excursion (a.k.a. we really needed to get out of the house after a day of packing). We glued ourselves to a rocky perch and watched the sun settle behind the mountains and saw the whales swim by. This island, our (mostly) idyllic home for the past six years, is so incredible. It's not simply the naturally beautiful surroundings that we love, it's all the truly amazing people who choose to call the island their home. Sitting quietly with my family and absorbing the view, I wondered, "When exactly did the island became home?"

Was it when I started playing Bunco once every month with eleven hilarious women, rolling dice and chatting nonstop and laughing like only twelve ladies can? Thank you Deb Vermiere for asking me to be a part of this raucous, inspiring group of women. Or was it when I started running several mornings each week with Kerry, Adrienne, and Shannon? We tested our strength, our endurance, and our friendships. Perhaps the island became home when I had hyperemesis gravidarum (translation: the worst morning sickness possible) while pregnant with our son? Word traveled quickly (as it usually does here) that I was too ill to assume anything but the couch potato position, and soon Kathy Babbitt, Val Curtis, Lovell Pratt, Cheryl Opalski, and Amy Harold (others too, though my memory is a little fuzzy concerning that time period) knocked on the door with delicious dinners in hand for Chris and Greta. I think, too, it could have been when I started volunteering at the library just two months after we moved here. I coveted my Thursday afternoon shift that I shared with Beth Hudson as time away from being a mom and time devoted to the library, a place I grew to love. Of course, the island becoming home is a summation of all these examples . . . and many, many, many more.

I think I have grown up a lot since moving here. I have learned to navigate life with two kids (more challenging and more joyous than I could have predicted), to run 13.1 miles and cross the finish line with a smile, and to be courageous enough to embark on this adventure. It's difficult to leave such a lovely paradise. The consolation is knowing that this place, this island with its tremendous people, gave me the confidence to simply go for it.

Seventy-five Days and Counting

Seventy-five days until the insanely hot desert greets us. Seventy-five days until we arrive in Doha, sleep in our new house, hear the call to prayer, and begin a barrage of meetings in preparation for the school year. Seventy-five days! Is that enough time to begin a blog, purchase new running shoes, catch up on inoculations, shuffle our finances, stash stuff in storage, and say goodbye to everyone? I suppose it has to be.

It's been honeymoon-ish dreaming about our new life abroad. In February, we ceremoniously signed our teaching contracts in Iowa and pledged our lives to ASD. I donned a dress and Chris sported a tie. We've been blissed out ever since.

The honeymoon glow is fading. Slightly. Now, it seems, reality is setting in. I am nervous about being in the classroom full time, anxious about feeling deflated by the heat, and uneasy about helping the kids adjust to life abroad. We have made the right decision to move overseas, that I know. Chris and I are lucky to have secured these jobs. It's been a goal of ours for years to teach internationally, and it feels so fantastic to embark upon our dream. Honestly, there are moments when I am so thrilled about Doha I could turn a cartwheel on the kitchen floor and others when I am queasy with uncertainty about teaching.

I hope seventy-five days is enough time complete my growing to do list, quiet the queasiness, and perfect my kitchen cartwheels.