Sticky Notes, Oven Thermometers, Community and the Important Thing - A Thanksgiving Recap

Last week was a big week for us...Us being Americans. Thanksgiving week can be a crazy and frenetic time. It was especially so for us. The luxury of putting a holiday meal together when you are stateside is a relatively easy, if time consuming process. There is the actual meal to plan, necessary ingredients to obtain, the seating arrangements and so on. However, when you are in a foreign country that A. Does not celebrate the same holiday - let alone regularly eat the same foods, and B. You are planning the meal for several of your fellow Americans and their families, it it quite another thing. If you really want to spice things up, you add an American made full-sized gas stove - quite a luxury - that has been "adapted" and I'm using that term loosely to India's gas supply. But we'll get to that bit in a minute.

A friend and fellow FS (Foreign Service) spouse and I had volunteered to host way back in October. The prospect did not freak me out, I have fed a lot of people at once..a LOT of people. So things like dishes, cutlery, and serving bowls/platters are something that I drag around the planet. My friend was eager and willing to do whatever was necessary to make this dinner a success. We had already been told that previous holidays of this kind had relatively small turn-out (12-15), so do not be disappointed if you do not get much response...ha! The challenge came in the form that we had to get our order into the commissary (and trust me I'm grateful to even have a commissary) in New Delhi over a full month prior to really knowing who was actually coming. So we met, we postulated, we planned, we guessed...no really....and fingers crossed we placed our order.

Having done all of this before, I had the necessary formulas to figure out how much food to prepare for any number of guests (Thanks Eden Goldberger). The meal was planned for some hors d'oeuvers, veggies and dip, turkey, stuffing (likely both cornbread and regular) green beans, rolls, cranberry sauce, salads, mashed potatoes, gravy and of course...pies. I jokingly dubbed the whole effort "Operation Get Stuffed." Utilizing sticky notes (a favorite, ask my friends) I wrote out our battle plan and posted it on one of my cabinet fronts. But something strange was happening with my oven and it wasn't the usual "hot spots" than sometimes happen with ovens. It seemed like that temperatures were all over the board. So I called my brother in the states. He's a good egg. He works for a big-box merchandiser and grocery chain in Oregon and he agreed to get me an oven thermometer and put it in the mail right away. Right away you should know, translates into a minimum of 3 weeks to get here. So fingers crossed that it would arrive in time for me to figure out what was going on with my stove, plans proceeded.

Because a few of our community are vegetarian, I made use of the weekend before the event to make eggplant involtini. It is a great entertaining dish involving grilling eggplant steaks and stuffing them with a combination of bulgur wheat, pistachios, feta cheese, etc and covering them in a casserole with a terrific tomato sauce. I figured two large casseroles should more than cover my vegetarian guests with a bit left over in the event it appealed to anyone else. Just about the time I was ready to put them in the oven, the thermometer from Oregon arrived. As suspected my schizophrenic oven, was heating to almost 100 degree over what the setting indicated. This answered a lot of questions, but as you might imagine, set off even more alarm bells in my head...what in heaven's name would it do while I was trying to cook a turkey? A test run seemed like the only logical solution to such a problem - where a potential negative outcome would adversely affect 41 hungry people. Fortunately, I had just such an opportunity at my fingertips. Each year the Americans at the Consulate hold a pre-Thanksgiving celebration. It offers the locally employed staff a chance to sample some of the holiday foods. In India, however, as a large percentage of the staff are vegetarian it has mostly served as a pie party. We had decided in addition to the pies, we would cook a small turkey and those who are not vegetarian would have a chance to try it. So the day before our dinner would serve as a test run of sorts for the crazy oven. But I still needed somewhere for everyone to sit.

Now unless you are having a party where people will walk around with their beverages and perhaps small snack plates you do not really have to consider seating. A Thanksgiving meal with all of the trimmings requires tables, chairs, dinnerware, glasses, cutlery and napkins. Lucky for us, we are at a furnished post with a stellar GSO (General Services Officer - he's the guy who keeps the post functioning) and his facilities maintenance team. Once we figured out really how many people were attending, they swooped in with an additional two full-sized dining room tables and chairs. Now equipped with the requisite seating, meal preparation could begin in earnest.

Pies were made (Thanks for the pumpkin Joy, your shipment made it just in time), potatoes were mashed, eggs for deviled eggs were boiled, hummus was blended...and yes the test turkey, bravely going where no turkey had been before - into the depths of an oven whose temperature could not be relied upon. I'm a seasoned cook, I've worked in some pretty weird and far-fetched environments, but this was one of the quirkier ovens I've ever depended upon. Watching the temperature like a hawk, I employed a myriad of tactics from venting to intermittent cooling...that is when I discovered that I touched the temperature dial just a bit the temp would drop up to 75 degrees. If I adjusted it too much it would drop 125. Using a marker I made notation on the dial as to where I "should" remain for optimal cooking and crossed my fingers. Success! A beautifully browned and juicy turkey was cooked, wrapped, delivered and devoured by consulate staff. Now, if I could only repeat the process in spite of my temperamental appliance.

The day of the event was a blur. Friends pitched in to help cook and serve (you know who you are and thank you)! Everything turned out great. Even the oven cooperated - with a bit of cajoling and produced yet another beautiful turkey. My friend also produced a beautiful turkey which brought the number of turkeys for our meal to 2 - apparently her oven was not as temperamental. Despite having 7 surprise diners in addition to our 21 adults and 11 children, we managed to produce a Thanksgiving holiday meal that would have been the envy of anyone stateside. The most important ingredient for the whole event was the fact that we had successfully brought a big percentage of the community together...around one table. Away from the chaos and frenzy of the office, people broke bread, shared a meal and laughed - enjoying the simple luxury of one another's company around a table.

This career requires my husband and I to be thousands of miles away from our family and friends - something that is especially hard during the holidays. But as we looked around our table we were reminded that we are truly blessed - We saw friends. Individuals whom we respect and depend upon, especially while living abroad. People whose company we truly enjoy. And we realized that combined with our friends and family all around the world wealthy beyond measure.

To you all...we are blessed to know you, we are blessed to have you in our lives... And that...is the important thing.

And to my brother Stephen....Thanks! The thermometer was a lifesaver!

But Most Of All...I'm Thankful

My apologies. I've been out of pocket and out of communication for too long. The perfect storm occurred here...I caught a virus, my husband caught the same virus, we had a trip to a local Hindu temple, our belongings arrived from Switzerland...finally... - which resulted in the pandemonium of putting our house back together in time for the impending Thanksgiving holiday. So as you might imagine, my ability to put a cogent sentence together, much less a whole blog post was a little challenged. But things are settling down around here and I thought that this would be a perfect time to put together another posting.

It is Thanksgiving week and I'm feeling a little nostalgic. Holidays can be difficult when you are far away from families and friends and it is sometimes a little more challenging to get into the spirit when all the trappings...weather, decorations, etc are missing in the country you now call home. It is one of the hurdles that global gypsies like our family face.

It drives home that while those things are lovely and eminently special, they really are not the point. There will be turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans and pie. But most of all there will an overwhelming feeling of thankfulness. My cup literally runneth over..

I am blessed with family and friends all around the world - my family of choice - whom I love.

I am blessed with a roof over my head, plenty to eat, and the ability to pay my bills.

I am blessed with the opportunity to live in extraordinary places around the world and to actively engage in those communities and learn things about amazing and diverse cultures.

I am blessed a husband who loves me deeply, sees me clearly and knows me for who I really am.

I am blessed to be a citizen of a country where democracy is celebrated - even when we do not all agree and where free speech is a cornerstone of our civil rights.

I am blessed to be healthy

I am blessed - and I am thankful.

Happy Thanksgiving!

P.S. I will get the blog back on schedule...right after I get everyone fed and everything cleaned up.

Dancing the Limbo

Home - it is an extraordinary word. The word is descriptively simple. It can be a permanent or semi-permanent dwelling in which an individual/family or families reside. The word is also used to describe where we, as individuals, are from. It is an end point of a long journey or the starting point off another. It is an adjective used to imbue something with resonances of warmth, joy and comfort. The word home can be any of these things or an amalgamation of all of them. But in the lifestyle that we as nomads live, home is almost never brick and mortar, instead it is where our family is - temporarily or permanently, or as my husband is fond of saying "home is where my wife and the dog are." While I value his sentiment greatly, on a larger scale home for us where we set up all those things that we drag around the world - rugs, towels, pictures, dishes, pans, mementos and things we hold precious.

As a Foreign Service family we never really settle in somewhere until those things arrive, I am confident that is a true statement for many of our colleagues and their families as well. We have been here for over a month and our belongings are still not here. In theory, if the gods smile on us, our belongings will arrive sometime towards the end of next month. We are in our permanent quarters and the very thoughtful and conscientious consulate staff have done their level best to provide the basics of what we need to be comfortable. We have basic furniture, dishes, pots, pans, bedding, towels and even some nifty appliances that go a long way towards helping us get settled. But one fact remains. We are in limbo - in a house, a lovely, large place that does not feel right (unfamiliar), does not look right (does everything have to be so starkly white?)  does not sound right (echo, echo, echo) does not smell right (sterile - clean but not inviting), we are not at home, at least not yet.

Then there is the the frustration of not having what you need immediately accessible. For what seems like the millionth time I have rolled up my sleeves to embark on a project only to  stop short with the realization that I cannot do this or that yet, I do not have what I need...a casserole dish...my sewing machine...a rolling pin...cookie sheets...whatever it is, it is not here yet. In some cases I could easily just go out and replace whatever it was I needed, but my frugal mind demands "WHY??? You own 3! Your stuff will get here eventually."

Being limited to a wardrobe consisting of the clothes we drug along with us in suitcases presents another set of challenges. I cannot speak for my husband, but I am heartily sick of seeing much less wearing some of these clothes. These have been our only options for the six weeks since we left our last post in Bern, Switzerland. But despite my frustration I was struck with a small burst of panic struck yesterday when the edging of our granite countertop claimed yet another victim - the fourth of my "fit for public wear" T shirts, I only brought 5. Granted I have a few other tops, but I am very mindful of my appearance and do not wish to create undo a tension or gain unnecessarily attention in our new host country.

To my own ears it sounds like I am whining, my apologies. We are blessed, I am blessed and I know it. We are on another adventure of a lifetime. My husband, whom I adore, has a job he really loves. I am grateful....just unsettled.

Limbo, that precipice we encounter at the beginning of every new posting where we have yet to take the measure of the water or know if it is safe or if we even want to dive in. Yet I am a seasoned enough traveler now to know that the only way is over that precipice and through - once out the other side we will both be able to take a breath as we breach the surface into what our life will be here. So I buy some clothes and though my red hair and Celtic completion belie the point, I fit into the crowd around me. With the help of my steadfast and determined driver I find cookie sheets. We buy some cushions and covers to mitigate the uniformity of the Drexel Heritage furniture found in the homes of US Diplomatic families around the world. With paint, candles, flowers, coverlets and the aromas of home-cooked meals, the space conforms around us. We've danced the limbo and did not touch the pole. Slowly we begin to settle in and with that reach out to friends and family intent of visiting with the assurance..."come on in, the water's fine."

Tipping Point

"We live in a bubble," a friend remarked when talking about living as a diplomatic family abroad. It is true. Regardless of the friends we make, the investment in community, and attempts to fit in, we do in-fact live a bubble and it is a bubble of privilege. But with that privilege comes responsibility. We bear the responsibility of representing our country and our values in a positive manner while we live in our host nation. We bear the responsibility of upholding the rules and abiding by the law. In some posts, that bubble is easy, pliant and almost transparent because our lives are not so different than the citizens of the country where we are living. Other times, the life inside the bubble is so markedly different from the lives lived by the general populace in the host country that it is almost impossible to comprehend. 

Safely ensconced in my car with a driver navigating the vehicular insanity of the roads it is easy for me to become oblivious. That is until I hear it...tap, tap, tap - begging me to look at the novelty items they are selling. I look away, perhaps down at my phone. Is it the reality that I am trying to avoid? Tap, tap, tap, hand outstretched while the other holds a clearly hungry child on her hip. Is it so beyond my own understanding that in the 21st century people must resort to these measures? Tap, tap, tap, more insistent now, the light is about to change. Am I embarrassed or overwhelmed? The answer must truthfully be both. How is it this life affords me the luxury and safety of a car and driver when a thin layer of glass separates me from a body so wracked with poverty that the joints are over absurdly overemphasized. The traffic moves and it comes again, tap, tap tap. This time a child so grievously deformed, no hands, ropey scars smoothed over what must have been horrendous burns. Hands reach, tucking a few rupees here and few rupees there into a shirt pocket as the recipient has no palms to receive. The traffic moves on.

Inside the bubble my understanding of the world shatters. That anyone especially a child should be faced with such a life is this. I am a stranger here, but surely there are things I can do?? This question races through my mind and I begin to measure every encounter, every transaction against those images that in spite of my bubble remain - reminding me of the precariousness of survival here; reminding me not to think like an entitled idiot. I must not presume for one moment that I am above them - better than I have a right to believe I am. But I am fortunate and with that comes responsibility - to give back, to be kind, to be fair in my dealings - professionally, personally, socially, whatever they are. I never want to be thought of as the "ugly American," either too oblivious or selfish to care about what is going on around me. I do not wish to be thought of as overindulgent, or boastful of how fortunate I am. Instead I want to be remembered as reasonable and fair.

This is India. Things work a little differently here. The average (nominal) annual income for the whole country is approximately $1,497. That's $124.75 a month. A MONTH!! Takes your breath away doesn't it? Now, to be fair there are other issues at play here. To really get a perspective of the economy you have examine the PPP or purchasing parity power. This is a system that seeks to put two country's currencies on par to examine the purchasing power of each within their own country. I'm not an economics expert, so if you want to learn more about it, Google it. 

But I am wandering away from the story.

I ventured out to the nearby fish market today. I had heard from various friends and acquaintances that good quality fresh seafood was readily available and inexpensive. I must say that the market, while small, did not disappoint. They offered a nice selection of shrimp, prawns, crabs, and several options of fish - some I knew immediately - some I did not. After making a mental note to brush up on local varieties of fish, I opted for the shrimp - they were fresh and beautiful and whole. After pulling the requested quantity from the cooler, the clerk asked, in Telegu, if I wanted them cleaned. Luckily Nawaz, our awesome driver had come along with me and played interpreter.  While my shrimp being cleaned I wandered around the shop and tried to commit to memory the local names of fish. Dutifully, the clerk reweighed my order of freshly cleaned shrimp and I paid my bill. Armed with my bounty, I headed for the door only to be stopped and addressed once again in Telegu. Apparently, local custom is to tip the fishmonger who cleans, filets or chops up your seafood. Yikes! Tipping to have my fish cleaned was not in my briefing info, nor had it been addressed in the myriad of traveler sites I had scoured upon learning of our new posting. 

This person just performed a task I hate, it is a reasonable service and should have a reasonable tip. So I winged it. I tipped double what I have been told is a fair tip for the guys that carry your groceries to the car. I figured I had handled it correctly as the fishmonger smiled, Nawaz did not look alarmed and I was not receiving any "stupid American" looks.

Once in the car, I asked Nawaz if I had tipped correctly. He said, "tipping is entirely up to the individual." Not satisfied with the answer I pressed further, "True, but did I tip fairly? Was the amount too little? Was it too much? Will they just chalk it off to a stupid foreigner who does not know better?" He chuckled and said, "No madam, you tipped fairly and they will remember."

Tap, tap, tap.

The Guardian Angel and the TukTuk

Someone asked me once, "What is the worst thing about living overseas?" The answer, at least for me, was very simple:  it is the fear and feeling of being stranded. 

I can tell you with absolute confidence that this is the worst feeling for me, though I did not enter this lifestyle knowing that. I did not find out until my husband and I went to Paris for our anniversary. I happily, if naively, agreed to flying into Charles de Gaulle Airport and then taking the metro system into the city and then catching a cab to our hotel.  I thought there would be no issue for me. And I was partially right.

Navigating the airport was no problem. Catching the right metro to the city was no issue. The cab, well... We had booked a hotel room in the Montmartre neighborhood in Paris, and despite my husband's ability to speak French, the cab driver had not the vaguest idea where our hotel was, even armed with the address. So like any professional hack, the cab driver literally dumped us off on a side street stating that the hotel was around here somewhere, unloaded all our luggage, insisted on payment and sped off. Standing on a side street in Paris is one thing,doing so with a veritable mountain of luggage is another. However, doing all those things with no cell service to your phone, and then your husband announcing "I'll be back in a few minutes" in an overly chipper voice and leaving you standing there is something else again. For the record, I do not speak French and had not idea what I would say if someone said something about this jet-lagged, middle-aged women standing with a heap of luggage by herself in the middle of Montmartre. 

Armed with that knowledge, I have done everything I could humanly think possible to prevent myself from being put into that situation again. Or at least I thought I had...

The first weekend we were in India we were invited to a Sunday brunch. It was great and we had a wonderful time. Since we have not had the chance to go out and explore much, we decided to head out for some shopping. After all, now armed with our handy-dandy cab phone app, we had managed to traverse the city to get to brunch, and therefore shopping should be no issue. And it wasn't - the cab arrived, picked us up, knew right where we were headed - all accomplished with the greatest of ease. 

I had a great time showing Barrett the mall; I had already been there. We found some fun things to buy for the house and after wandering around a bit decided it was time to head home. There was just one problem...The cab phone app utterly refused to work. We did everything we could think of to try to make the app work and finally figured out that the mall was in a dead zone - oh the irony as the mall is apparently aptly called InOrbit Mall. 

So we decided that perhaps if we walked up the hill a bit we would get better reception and maybe, just maybe the app would start working again. Now when I say walk up the hill, I suspect that many of you are imagining a tranquil suburban mall, with pedestrians strolling, birds chirping and sidewalks bordered by trees. 

That would be almost the exact inverse of the reality of walking up the hill by the mall. A veritable sea of Tuktuks and cabs congregated like hungry sharks at the entrance of the mall - each waiting for their chance to lure a departing mall customer into their vehicles. There are no sidewalks anywhere in the entire city, so amongst these vehicles, pedestrians are attempting to safely circumnavigate the traffic while losing neither their packages nor children. Into this fray we began to make our way up the hill. We had only made it a few feet before Barrett noticed that an empty cab from the company we use was amongst the sea of vehicles. We got into the cab and began what turned out to be a fruitless attempt to arrange for transport to our apartment all the way across the city. The driver did speak English, did not know our neighborhood - despite 2 telephone calls to our housekeeper for directions in Telegu and then quoted an exorbitant price for the ride - especially since we were confident he did not know where he was going. So we got out of the cab.  

We continued our slog up the hill hauling our packages when another driver approached us. In beautiful English he said, where do you want to go? Now given my husband's line of work and the fact that we are both seasoned travelers, we were a little wary. We asked if was a driver and he responded "yes!" So we explained that our situation. We told him where we lived and he responded that he knew that area and the road we lived on. 

Great!  How much? He quoted a figure that while still high, it was half of what the cab had demanded. Eyeing him suspiciously, my husband responded that his amount was far above what our cab company charged, the driver patiently responded "yes, but they aren't coming to get you are they? Net is down Sir." He had a point. 

It was then that we discovered that this was not a cab driver but instead a driver of one of the myriad of Tuktuks swarming around us. In for a penny, in for a pound as they say, we got in the Tuktuk and held on. Our driver beaming driver proudly shot off into traffic and very competently navigated us across the city and into our neighborhood. I will likely never know what the security detail at the front gate of our building thought as these two heavy set, middle aged Americans pulled up in a Tuktuk, but their faces registered combinations of bewilderment, amusement and maybe a little respect. Our driver was clearly thrilled that in one fare he had made as much as a dozen or more trips would have netted him. 

It is like that old joke about the man whose house is caught in the flood. His neighbors come by and say "the flood is getting worse, grab your things and come with us." He refuses saying "God will take care of me." The flood waters rise and the man is forced to take refuge in the second story of his house. As he is looking out the window he sees a guy with a boat going down his street. The guy in the boat shouts up, "the rain is not stopping and the water is getting higher! Get your things and I will take you to safety." The man refuses and shouts back "God will take care of me." More and more rains come and the water continues to rise and the man is forced to escape to the roof of his house. This time a helicopter comes by and sees the man on the roof. Using a bullhorn, the pilot says to the man, "the flood is out of control, grab the ladder I am throwing down to you and I will take you to safety." The man waves the helicopter off yelling back "God will take care of me!" The flood waters sweep the house down river and the man dies. At the Pearly Gates, the man goes up the St. Peter and says "I don't understand, I was in the flood and I was sure that God would take care of me. How is it possible that I died?" St. Peter looks at the man and says, "Did you miss your neighbors? The man in the boat? and the helicopter?" 

The lesson is to let go of your expectations and amazing things happen. So when your Guardian Angel shows up in a Tuktuk… Get in!

I Don't Know How To Be A Madam

When you move around like we do, you learn to adapt. In Bern, we learned to say "Gruezi" instead of the High German "guten Morgen." At dinner parties in Tel Aviv, we didn't bat an eye when someone asked questions of a more personal nature. The point is this lifestyle has an expectation of abiding by the old "When in Rome..." approach to fitting into new cultures. So we had already prepared ourselves when we arrived in the hustling/bustling city of Hyderabad. We knew the traffic, on the wrong side of the road from what we are used to, would be sometimes overwhelming and chaotic. We understood that the head bob prevalent when you spoke to someone here was more of an acknowledgement of your question or answer, although it is interchangeable with yes, no and thank you in many cases.

I guess what I did not understand was that I would be a Madam.

I consider myself to be a fairly personable person. I'm friendly, I'm a Midwesterner after all. As such, we don't hold with a lot of pretense there. Was a rule, we are approachable, affable, and when faced with surprise additional guests, we abide by the philosophy of "what's one more?" Certainly our stint in Switzerland had been a little more formal and I became used to being referred to as Frau Travis, versus the more familiar Deidre, but it usually didn't take very long for the privileges of friendship and familiarity to settle in and my identity was restored to my first name among my friends and acquaintances. That is excepting all of our Marine Guards - for whom I am and I imagine will forever be "Ma'am," but I'm married to a Texan so it just made me chuckle. But about the fourth or fifth time that I introduced myself to various people who came to the apartment to help us settle in, I noticed that despite my introducing myself with my first name I continued to be addressed as Madam.

I'm not sure I know how to be a Madam.

This point was driven home for me the other day when I went to the grocery store with our housekeeper, Savari. Having been cooped up in the house for several days, an issue compounded by the fact that we did not yet have a car, I decided an outing was in order. Despite our previous encounter with one of the local cab companies and their dubious phone app, we made our way to the front gate and I summoned a cab. I could already tell that Sarvari was suspicious of the entire process. Several minutes passed and the first of 4 telephone calls came - the driver, despite having access to the app which is supposed to pinpoint our location via GPS, could not begin to figure out where we were. When I answered the phone a rapid fire stream of Telegu issued forth from the phone, I did what any rational person in my position would do and handed my mobile phone to Sarvari. She answered and then something amazing happened, her entire countenance changed. Gone was the quiet and solicitous woman I had come to know and admire and in her place was an officious and frankly disgruntled commanding officer. Though I understood not a single word, her tone was clear, she thought the cab driver was an idiot and she was not impressed with his ability to do his job. Several of these calls occurred and each time the Sarvari I knew would re-appear as she patiently returned my phone to my hand. In no small part due to the very specific instructions issued by Sarvari, the cab eventually appeared. She opened my door and ushered me in and once settled turned her full attention to the driver. I sat quietly in the back of the cab as I heard a rather heated exchange between her and the driver. I heard the driver say something referring to me. Immediately Sarvari turned to me in the back seat and asked "Did madam give the cab directions to where we were?" I answered that no I had not, but explained that the app received our location based on satellites. Apparently my answer was a satisfactory as she nodded and returned to giving the driver a piece of her mind. Just when I thought things would settle down in the front seat, I realized that he was completely ignoring the instructions that his navigation system was giving for how to get to the store, Sarvari noticed too. A tongue lashing ensued and he had the good sense to cower.

Once we finally reached our destination, it was clear that Sarvari was quite unimpressed with our driver and once we had paid, she removed me and our shopping bags with the practice of a seasoned mother of many children. I followed her into the elevator. I quickly discovered that being a Madam also extended to not pushing elevator buttons or driving a grocery cart. We made all of our selections and headed to the check out and I paid for our purchases. I was, however, not allowed to carry anything except the soup pan that I had just bought. Back down in the basement of the building, I asked Sarvari if I should summon another cab, her response was quick and to the point "No, madam, we will take a tuktuk." Like a shot she was up the ramp to the street after giving me instructions to stay put. I did as I was instructed but did not have to wait long as moments later she returned, gathered the shopping and me and trundled us up the ramp to the street and into a waiting tuktuk.


Now I am a stalwart traveler, but even I will tell you that tuktuks...in crazy Indian city traffic are not for the faint of heart. Riding in one is roughly like riding in a very large riding lawn mower that has an extended cab that has been dropped into the middle of a demolition derby...possibly with goats, camels and a few hundred pedestrians for good measure - get the idea?

Despite the death defying traffic, we made it home safely. The tuktuk driver was very friendly and I paid the fare. I was once again I was relegated to carrying the soup pot. Sarvari was very pleased that I enjoyed the ride, and while it was a bit alarming, I did enjoy it. When I told a fellow American about our shopping adventure, she said "aren't you an adventurist," and while I'm still not sure about being a Madam, I'm always up for an adventure

India is...

India is an enchantress. She will lure you in with her vibrant life force and energy - redolent with fragrant spices, music, and colors. She will mystify you with enormous cities that shouldn't work as well as they do, and yet they do. She will charm you with the warmth, kindness and curiosity  of her varied people. She will alarm you with the frenetic pace and chaos of her traffic careening in a million directions. She will make you consider your beliefs as you listen to the muezzin call out the adhan (call to prayer) - a rending sound that simultaneously holds the fervor and passion of great love, or as you watch a Hindu reverently bow in prayer to an elaborate and masterful sculpture of Ganesh that will soon be returned to the lake or river. She will humble you as you watch a woman beautifully resplendent in a pristine sari walk barefoot through one of the poorest neighborhoods in the city. She will challenge you and ideals you think you hold when you discover the housekeeper whom you have come to respect and care for can read barely a word - in any language, yet is working two jobs to ensure that her children - daughters too - are well educated and able to achieve more.  She will shock you when you see entire families living in abject poverty, huddled together under elaborate tarps trying to stay dry during the monsoons. She will make your blood seethe when you see gross injustice of begging children, advertisements begging the populace to educate girls and animals beaten before your very eyes. Yet in the next breath she will hearten you as a dozen hands reach to keep an elderly man from falling, friends holding hands walking down the street or laughing young children playing together in an abandoned field. She is all of these and so many more.

It can be overwhelming, it can be breathtaking, it can be shattering.

There are moments where the things I wish to share with you run like a torrent through my brain defying my hands to keep up as they attempt to capture each image and word - committing them to virtual paper. And that is if the power has managed to stay on during the most recent monsoon. There are other moments when I simply have no words to describe or discuss what I'm seeing, feeling, or thinking.

So my apologies for the delay in getting the blog up to date. I needed a couple of days to sort myself out. I have 4 entries poised for publication on the blog and I'll have them up for you to read soon - promise.

Mr. Toad's Wild Ride

You think you are prepared (for living overseas). You have researched. You have read. You have tapped all your friends who have been there. I will assure you now, you are in no way prepared.

There are as many ways to approach the lifestyle of a foreign diplomat as there are stars in the sky. For me the only way is to go all in. To dive headlong, for better or worse, into the chasm of the unknown. Sometimes this means rolling out the language I've managed to hobble together or by using the internationally sanctioned pantomime routine to make myself understood. Frequently the results of either approach are quite funny and frustrating at the same time. Other times, no amount of pantomime or attempt to overcome language barriers is enough. Fortunately, we live in a digital age.

We had our first official function as part of the consulate community here on Sunday. It was a "Hail and Farewell" - in layman's speak an opportunity to come together as a community and wish old friends good luck in their onward assignments and a chance to meet the newcomers that have just recently arrived at post. As you can likely imagine, it is a bittersweet affair.

The event had been arranged to be held at a restaurant at the edge of a beautiful lake that completely disappears during the dry months and returns to lush glory in the monsoon season. As with many things here, it was difficult to find. But we are stalwart folk and had decided that we could make our own way there to join the festivities. Armed with a nifty phone app that would allow us to summon a taxi to our location, we were confident that this should be no issue.

We were wrong.

Now to fully appreciate one of the major challenges that we face as nomads, I should explain that when a new officer arrives they are usually provided the phone and accompanying phone number of the person that they replaced. In this digital age this presents a problem because that number has been associated with various accounts from the previous officer including things like cable, and in this case taxi accounts. Fortunately, we had already taken the necessary steps to equip me with my own cellular account. Since we could not figure out how to change the taxi account set up with my husband's phone we just set up a new one tied to my phone. Easy, right?

Nope.

But once we went through the necessary machinations to get the account set up, we figured we were good to go. Not quite. Apparently this taxi service has a nifty feature whereby using the location of the cell phone a taxi is summoned to your exact location - The fourth floor of an apartment building that appears to be on one street, but whose entrance is on an entirely different and unconnected street was not especially helpful. This was easily resolved by going to the entrance of the building complex and repeating the process of summoning a cab. Terrific! Even better, the cab company immediately responded with a text notifying us not only that our cab was en route, but the description of the vehicle, the license number and the name of the driver! Pretty cool. And that is where the problem began.

Already behind schedule because of the various technology issues we had faced that morning, we got into the newly arrived cab (my husband got in the front seat and I got in the back) and provided the address to which we needed to go. My husband and I are still unclear as to whether the driver actually spoke English - albeit too fast for our western ears to discern, or if he only spoke Telegu (one of the local Indian dialects). What happened next was akin to Mr. Toad's Wild Ride.  (For those of my friends who do not herald from the States, Mr. Toad's Wild Ride is a Disneyland Theme Park Ride in Anaheim, California and is a sort of homage to the children's book The Wind in the Willows, written by Kenneth Grahame).

Now we had both seen various movies and YouTube videos displaying the organized chaos that is traffic in our new city, but it was an entirely different experience to be inside a wheeled metal box careening through the streets and trying to avoid other cars, motorcycles that literally appear out of nowhere, tuk tuks (think motorized rickshaw) and pedestrians diving between all of the aforementioned vehicles. Combine this with a driver who did not seem entirely certain where we going and repeated consulted various cell phones, including my own and you might imagine the scene was a little stressful. Suddenly our driver announced that location was just behind us and that he would drop us off. We paid, exited the vehicle with assurances that the restaurant was on the road just behind us and he drove off.

To our driver's credit, his cab was clean and comfortable, and he was friendly - there was just one problem. We were, we discovered by means of a call to another officer, at least 2 kilometers from where we were supposed to be! The other challenge? My cellphone had not gotten a full charge and what with all the use of navigation apps, etc was rapidly dying.

Using the handy-dandy new taxi app we summoned yet another taxi. This time, however, we had the added challenge of not actually being at a specific location but we're standing in the midst of a market street. Again came the text message notifying us of the impending arrival of the cab and the pertinent details. Almost immediately my phone rang and in Telegu came the inquiry as to "where are you?"...at least that is what I think he said. I gave the name of the store we were standing in front of and a moment later the taxi stopped to pick us up. As we jumped in the cab, so as not to impede traffic any longer than necessary, I noticed that my husband had gotten in the back seat with me. A little sheepishly he declared, "I won't be doing that again." I think being that close to the "action" was even a little much for my sweet husband whose first word's upon entering the German Autobahn, where he had learned to drive, was "Yeehaaaaw."

There is nothing like the feeling of being lost in a foreign country, in a cab you are paying for and no one speaks English.  Worse, you and the driver don’t know where you are supposed to go.  Fortunately, one of the employees at the restaurant hosting the event played interpreter and provide the much needed directions. It should be noted that even with those directions, the remainder of our journey included at least two wrong turns and a complete U-turn.

We did eventually arrive safely at our destination, albeit over an hour late. We are wiser for the experience. This lifestyle teaches you many things, perhaps the most important of which is patience and flexibility. I was reminded of a quote from one of my favorite movies about India, The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, in which Sonny says, "Everything will be all right in the end... if it's not all right then it's not yet the end" (2011). I guess Sonny was right, another officer and his wife gave us a lift home - and everything was all right.

Early Hour Observations

I think one of my favorite things in the world is the quiet, not just any quiet, but the one found in the middle of the night. Those hours that that don't quite belong to the night, but are not quite morning are my favorite, even in most large cities that space is held like a poignant pause, like the world holding its breath before that energy is flung simultaneously in all directions as people launch into the rigors of life.

Hyderabad is magical in the middle of the night. Though as far removed from the sleepy town of Thun, Switzerland, where we used to live, as the moon is from the floor of the ocean. At 9:30 each night Thun went to bed - figuratively or literally, almost as though you could hear the switch being flipped off. Hyderabad never really sleeps, but it stills...dramatically. The cacophony of city traffic and of blaring horns pauses so significantly that you can hear the cooing of the pigeons in their perches. Like a sigh of relief from the frantic pace of life, warm breezes caress the branches of palm and bottlebrush trees and if you are particularly observant you can spot a flying fox/fruit bat winging its way through the night. But like most large metropolitan cities this respite is brief and just before dawn the call to prayer beckons from the minarets of the mosques calling observers to worship and heralding the first rumblings of tuktuks and motorcycles through the city streets. Soon melody is joined by neighbors sweeping their entryways with long-tendrilled natural brooms. The steady rhythm of swish-swish interrupted only by an occasional horn then punctuated by the crow of a rooster who surprisingly lives next door in this sprawling metropolis. Vegetable carts begin their slow and steady journey through the city and more and more traffic until layer by layer like a symphony the city fully thrums to life. Yet a potent reminder that this sprawling city is a composite of individuals came from the fragrant scents of biryani and freshly baked naan from my neighbor's kitchen.

Limes have seeds?

Perhaps the thunder and lightening called to me and woke me from my jet-lagged slumber or maybe it was just my sleep-deprived brain that decided I should be awake instead of asleep, it really doesn't matter. I was thirsty and there were no clean glasses, despite the alluring vision of a dishwasher in our new kitchen, regardless of how many buttons we pushed it just blinked at us. So I snuck out of bed and I padded to the kitchen intent on at least providing my husband a clean travel mug for his first day of work, and a clean glass for something to drink for me. I washed and rinsed until the drainer could hold no more.

It is now 1:45 a.m. We have been in India for just under 24 hours now. Despite the myriad of responses from friend when they heard about our next post and the wide variety of their commentary, I'm somewhat enchanted by my new home. As my brother aptly said, "You aren't in Kansas anymore." Well thank goodness for that. No offense to the State of Kansas. Those types of responses have become part and parcel of our lives. Six years ago my husband joined the US State Department and we joined thousands of families across the world by becoming the professional gypsies of the Foreign Service. We move, whether we need to or not, every 2-3 years. We love it, and so far (this is our third posting) we have yet to feel the need to recreate any of America's 50 great states wherever we land. Instead we have become a variation of chameleon that simultaneously tries to positively represent the US, we work to blend into the culture of our host country (or at least not disrupt it) while maintaining enough of our ethnicity to identify us as American. This "foot in both worlds" is a challenge and frequently has the strange effect of putting us slightly out of step with our fellow countrywomen and men. For many of them this lifestyle is beyond comprehension - we hear a lot of "oh I couldn't do that," "I wouldn't eat that," or "why would you want to live outside the US?"  But for us, we cannot imagine any other way to life and frequently ask each other in bewildered voices, "Why did we wait so long to join?" That, however, is another story.

A co-worker of my husband's stayed up half the night to meet us at the airport. Maridela, a complete Boddhisatva (look it up) met us at the airport in Hyderabad. Though our plane had landed after an arduous journey involving 12+ hours from DC to Doha, Qatar and at least a dozen babies who had decided to take shifts screaming and another 3 hours and 44 minutes from Doha, Qatar to Hyderabad, India with another 5 babies reprising the roles from the first leg of the journey, we didn't actually make it out of customs/immigration until well after 3:30 a.m. Maridela did not bat an eye at receiving two incredibly sleep deprived adults, a creaky 16 year old terrier and a mound of luggage. Instead with the help of an embassy driver shunted us into a van with the ease of a seasoned world traveler and guided us to our new home. Upon delivering us into our apartment and making sure we had what we needed (she had stocked us with basic to make us more than comfortable for the first 24 hours), she headed home to sleep briefly before heading to work mere hours after seeing to our needs - a blessing on her and her house, as they say.

For our part, bleary with fatigue, amazed at our wonderful accommodations, and armed with two  glasses of vodka and orange juice (it was breakfast after all, ha!) we landed on our patio to  watch the cityscape of Hyderabad awaken. The first tendrils of light entered the skyline just as the first morning prayers were called from one of the three mosques in our part of the city.
As morning broke in earnest two very weary travelers and one very tired terrier surrendered to sleep - at least for a few hours.

While I am confident that my husband felt the same, when the alarm went off a scant 3 hours after, I would have cheerfully handed over every Rupee in my wallet (and maybe a few of my credit cards come to that) for a few more hours of sleep. But having the extraordinary luxury of almost a full day to get settled before Barrett headed to work, we needed to get moving and begin to set our lives to order. We had our tea on the patio watching our new world unfold around us. B was rather alarmed to see two guys scramble up a power pole, barefoot and either repairing, replacing or adding a new line with a stick to guide their efforts - not something you see everyday.

Maridela had set things in motion for us to get our internet up and operational, and she had rightfully warned us of the almost absurd way that it would be handled. True to her description two guys did show up (one wearing a backpack) and explained the options for Internet service available to us. We selected our option and as instructed handed over the requisite Rupees (cash only) for a year's worth of service. Papers were handed over and signed. The two visitors thanked us and said someone would be by later today to set up the system and unceremoniously left. Unfazed, as we had been told this was EXACTLY how it would happen.

We gratefully accepted the offer of a car and driver to take us to the grocery store to obtain stores to hold us for a few more days. Within blocks of joining the city traffic, B announced he absolutely saw the wisdom of employing a driver. Fortunately, the driver we borrowed for the day will be available early September. He seems terrific and even-keeled, if a little shy.

 We had no sooner returned and stowed all of our purchases than another two guys, also wearing backpacks came to set about connecting the Internet service. Completely freaked out by the appearance of our 8 kg 16 year old dog, they wouldn't move until I had her safely away from them. Apparently, things were not as they should be, as despite searching the entire apartment and attempting to find the connection they needed, they left after assuring us they would return the following day. So one more day without connection to the world

Though still exhausted, we are unpacked, we've begun to organize the apartment more to our needs and are ready for Barrett to start working tomorrow. We ended our day much as it had begun. We sat out on the patio with G&Ts just as the first call for evening prayer went up. I said to Barrett, I don't ever remember seeing a lime with seeds, do you?

A little flavor from our new post