En"lighten"ment

You cannot go anywhere without seeing billboards, signs and various advertisements offering services to lighten your skin. It is a cultural obsession. The personal hygiene section of any store will offer a variety of products specifically targeting the purchaser's desire for fairer skin. Billboards proclaim their ability to effectively remove the "tan" and you can readily expect to see such services also available at almost every salon and spa. There are creams, salves, waxes, washes, laser treatments, and a myriad of things I'm confident that I have overlooked. While I can readily speculate as to why this is such an enmeshed desire within Indian culture - in many cultures actually, the reality of it comes down to a belief that fairer skin equates to high cultural status. In other words, having fair skin means that you do not have to labor every day in the sun. Consequently, it is of little wonder that cultures that hold these ideals are completely mystified by western cultures of sun worship and tanning salons. I am certain that while sunbathing is already a mystery, the idea of paying actual money to lay in a tanning bed to eradicate your fair skin is well beyond their understanding.

This has never been my issue. I was born a redhead...and all that entails. I freckle easily. I have shockingly fair skin. Despite the with the promises of various sunscreens I do not tan and even with 50SPF I burn in minutes, which then renders my skin approximately the color of a boiled lobster, then it peels, I get more freckles and return to an approximation of my previous skin tone...pale.

I consider this whole thing grossly unfair. All of my siblings tan (granted they are all half siblings), and my mother tanned beautifully. Even my son tans to a lovely shade of bronze. There have been exactly two times in my life when I managed to achieve even the slighted additional color to my skin as a result of sun exposure. The first was a few days I spent snorkeling in Barbados, the second is here in India where I have managed to achieve an albeit pale, but noticeable tan line...specially on my feet.

Now you may be wondering why I feel it is necessary to share this particular personal information - well the other day I decided to get a pedicure and that is where the story begins.

There are many things about living in India that are wonderful. One of those things is the availability of manicures/pedicures...very, very inexpensive and wonderful. As my husband and I have the luxury of a 4-day weekend and I knew we would be going out with friends, I decided to take myself off and get a pedicure. The salon could take me immediately so off I went.

This is the salon where I get my hair cut, so I have become something of a "known" quantity. They know my name, they know how I like my coffee and they are warm and friendly every time I go. So I settled into the pedicure chair and looked forward to the pampering. I had a lovely whirlpool treatment, a moisturizing treatment, a foot massage, all followed with a full pedicure and polish. It was lovely and relaxing.

As we neared the end, the lovely lady who had given me the pedicure asked me a question. In fact, she asked it twice. I did not have the vaguest idea what she was asking. Suddenly the receptionist for the salon, who speaks flawless English, appeared. She said, "Madam, we have noticed that you have some tanning on the tops of your feet and your hands, she (being the pedicure lady) was asking if you would like it removed?" I must have looked shocked and then to their dismay I started laughing thinking to myself this was not the "enlightenment" I sought when I came to India.  "No," I said, "I've worked very hard for this, I think I will keep it!" I paid my bill and tipped my pedicurist and left two terribly confused women behind me. 

It's A Wrap - Shopping For Saris

"Incredible India" as the slogan goes...is a burst of color swirling against a backdrop of sounds and smells - vibrant and alive. Your senses - all of them -  can be so engaged that it literally will make your head spin. And if India is colorful, which it most assuredly is, then I would contend that it is the saree or sari that serves as palette and brush. Bright, bold, soft, somber, abstract, floral, elegant, jewel encrusted, beaded, flowing encasing the life-force that pulses through the country. As ethnic clothing goes, the sari is perhaps one of the most singularly identifiable wardrobe items in the world and I must say that there is nothing else makes you feel quite as regal. But to say sari and mean only one thing is a discredit to the garment because it can literally be worn dozens upon dozens of ways...or so it would seem.

I had the wonderful privilege of going sari shopping with two of my dear Indian friends recently. To say I was unprepared for the experience would be an understatement. Having lived in India now for a few months, I had already adjusted my mindset when shopping for things like jewelry. When you enter a jewelry store in India you do not wander around per se and peruse the cases. You sit, are offered refreshments, and salespeople scurry around and bring anything you might be interested in or would like you to see. The same thing, with a few exceptions, happens when you go sari shopping. You enter a store which is usually lined with shelves (floor to ceiling) all the way around the store. You sit and tell the waiting salespeople what you are seeking. For example, you may be looking to purchase a sari for a particular function or perhaps you are just looking for the latest trends. Whatever it is, salespeople scurry off in various directions (unless you have the foresight to sit right in front of the shelves holding the type of sari you desire). Baskin Robbins has NOTHING on this process...to say that every color configuration is available is a gross understatement. Not only are all the various color combinations available, they are frequently available in two or three varieties of material from silk to cotton-silk to brocade to banana fiber-silk to jute...no really.

Once you have told the salesperson what you are looking for the unfurling of the the most spectacular array of colors and textures begins. Now as I was not the primary customer for this expedition, I had the luxury of sitting back and watching the whole production. A series of interjections praising the option or directing a minor adjustment to the request begins, interspersed with a distinctive shaking of the head or a head bob to indicate that the offering could be added to the stack of "maybes" already beginning to grow at the edge of the counter. As the options are depleted, the next phase of more closely examining the "maybes" stack begins. A salesgirl is summoned and my friend takes her place in front of a full-length mirror to have the various choices draped (as in wrapped like a finished sari so as to provide the customer a sense of what the finished product would look like) for her review. By way of clarification, when you go shopping for saris in this fashion it is important to know that is literally 5 to 9 yards of material (depending on the draping). Within the length of that material is not only the sari itself, but also material for the accompanying blouse...an either matching or contrasting material. Once purchased, you haul your treasure to your favorite tailor and voila...insta-sari. Well, sort of. After the accompanying blouse is made, then comes the process of wrapping, tucking, pleating and draping. The resulting ensemble is quite beautiful. By way of a quick history lesson, the Indian sari is believed to be the oldest "non-stitched" garment. While getting the hang of actually wearing one takes some practice, they are not only extraordinarily versatile, but comfortable as well.

My friend did not find precisely what she was looking for, so all eyes turned to me. Luckily, as I was leaving the house that morning, my amazing housekeeper Lakshmi suggested that I should really look at a black sari. She said you never know when you might need something formal for a wedding or an event here in India. It is also important to note that I'm of Scottish descent. This matters for two reasons. First, I have red hair which translates to no "pink," ever. Second, I am very fair skinned and therefore gray and silver have a tendency to make me look like I am headed to a morgue instead of whatever festivities may be looming. So I made my request of the salespeople and a new round of scurrying occurred. Despite my very best efforts to explain the "no pink" scenario at least a half dozen options were presented with the most vibrant of raspberry or fuchsia. I finally had to resort to holding the offending color up to my hair which resulted in much intake a breath, head bobbing and a chorus of "no madams," so I felt confident they had finally received the message. Finally, two very beautiful black sari options were presented. The first with a stunning temple border and the second with a contrasting cranberry pattern on the body, which repeated to the paloo  (the piece that traditionally drapes across your arm). With those two options at my disposal, the salesgirl was summoned and I dutifully placed myself in front of the full-length mirror to examine how the finished product might look. While I really did think the temple border was beautiful, the second option was absolutely breathtaking.

This is a temple border:

Happily I purchased my sari and can't wait to have it made. The whole experience was rather amazing and was such a contrast to purchasing clothes from a western retailer. Do not misunderstand, Indian fashion is as cutting edge and hip as any culture in the world, perhaps in some ways more so. But the idea of purchasing clothes from a very limited seasonal palate seems so mundane now, so contrived. I may never look at clothing the same way. After all, why color with 4 pre-approved crayons when you can have the big box and pick what pleases you?

Lakshmi and me:

My friend Shirin did eventually find the sari she wanted, lovely isn't it?

Arming Your Housekeeper and Managing Grief

I've been out of contact for a bit and for that I do apologize. December was a terrible month - holidays aside. We lost our 16.5 year old terrier...who had been my constant companion. I started this post on December 9, my apologies for not getting it done sooner, but I literally just had no more words, plenty of tears, but no ability to convey my grief. Now, these several weeks later it is time for me to attempt to get back in the saddle, so to speak, and get this blog on a regular schedule of timely entries. Forgive my grief and my nostalgia.

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 What no one could have known was how difficult these last 10 days have been for me...Thanksgiving aside.

16 years ago, I was given the most wonderful of gifts. A wedding gift. A small little tuft of fur, with one floppy ear, which would later straighten. A little brindle terrier girl we named Maggie. Well...I named Maggie. She was named for Patricia Neal's character in one of my favorite movies..."In Harm's Way" in which she starred with John Wayne. She was to be our dog. She wasn't. She was then and even now at the advanced age of 16 is every bit my dog. And I love her as much if not more than the first time I set eyes on those sweet little brown marble eyes.

Maggie was a unique pup. She loved to bounce and play, but was never really the excitable type - unless you messed with her stuffed animals...or me...then all bets were off. Sweet natured and gentle, she had a long memory. Holding a grudge against Barrett for swatting her as a puppy, lo these many years later would circumnavigate a room...eyeballing him the whole time, daring him to come near. That is, unless I wasn't home, and then he would do, lol. It should be noted that her attitude did not prevent Barrett from loving her too, it just made her a little prickly sometimes and never a day passed where he did not try to make amends...holy terriers are quirky.

We did not know when we got her that we would be joining the Foreign Service and subsequently dragging her all over the planet. But such is the life of a Diplodog, relegated to a cyclical dance of booster shots, health certificates, riding under airplane seats (and occasionally being relegated to the "accompanied baggage hold" so that the temperature and cabin pressure would be maintained at levels safe for her. A merry-go-round of temperate or not so temperate weather, feral cats (the forward scouts of the Huns...in case you didn't know), long car rides and even 4-star dining. Maggie traveled more than many adults I know. In her 16.5 years she visited 7 countries, 4 continents and survived or enjoyed (depending on the trip) a multitude of home-leaves and vacations. She traveled with us everywhere.

So as we say goodbye to 2016, the year I lost my sweet girl, I thought I would share one story that features from Israel.

We had just returned from R&R and had planned on holding a party (my sweet husband's idea) to celebrate Texas Independence Day - March 6. We didn't quite make the day because weather had been rainy and as we were planning on hosting in our garden, we had to be flexible on the date. We had planned on having a tostada party and even shipped in tostada shells from Texas for the occasion. This would be my second big Foreign Service hosting opportunity, but the first one at post. It literally seemed every time I turned around that my husband had invited more people. I tried not to be alarmed and kept marching forward with my preparations.

I should take a moment here to explain something. Tel Aviv, like a lot of Israel, has feral cats...they are everywhere. I have joked on several occasions that if two Israelis are standing in a field...anywhere...there will be a dozen cats. Our sweet Maggie was Cairn Terrier (or Holy terrier, if you asked my father) and as such a bit territorial. While she had been raised in her early life with us in a house which included another dog and a cat, as she aged, her tolerance for any animal that "didn't belong" in her yard substantially decreased. As the weather cleared up, so did the appearance of more cats in her yard - she was not amused and would race after them, fiercely barking until they had been "deported" from her territory. We frequently joked that they did not have the appropriate visas to be in the yard - Foreign Service humor.

As we continued to make preparations for the party, we hauled the large rolling trash bins to just outside the kitchen side door. Almost immediately, we realized we had a problem. The arrival of the trash bins apparently was the equivalent of ringing a dinner bell for the cats and they perched themselves up on the wall above the bins anxiously awaiting any potential delicacies. Closed lids on a trash bin means nothing to these cats, as was proven by us finding the turkey carcass from Thanksgiving at our front door - so we knew we were going to need more than just rocks on keep them out. Additionally, the moment the cats starting lining up on the wall, Maggie would begin barking, leaping up the whole time in hopes of catching an unsuspecting feline's cat or dangling foot. In addition to driving us crazy, we also did not want to drive our neighbors crazy with our obsessed dog's barking.

Finally, the day of the party arrived, as did a solution. As I had already had several run-ins with the feral cats, my brother in Portland, Oregon had sent me a Super Soaker water gun. Knowing that I would never be able to keep Maggie from escaping outside while guests were going in and out, our housekeeper Sinora and I devised a plan. Since Maggie already knew that the cats had targeted the trash, and as the trash would be in relatively constant use from the disposal of paper plates, etc, we were confident that she would alert us if any cats showed up to pillage the dumpsters for food. Once that happened, Sinora would step out the kitchen side door and use the water gun to disperse the cats from the wall. Once peace was restored, Maggie would return to visiting guests and Sinora could return to helping me in the kitchen. The plan worked beautifully. The food was terrific, our guests enjoyed themselves, the Tex Mex food was well received and even better, we did not have to face trash being dispersed everywhere from feral cats - thanks to Maggie with backup from Sinora with a water gun.

A few days later I was talking with a good friend who happened to be The Irish Ambassadors wife, who said, "So, I hear you armed your housekeeper?" All I could do was laugh.