Trade Winds Make Me Happy

Things I Saw This Weekend That I've Never Seen Before:

• A giraffe on the side of the road. Why?
• Grown men swimming in their Fruit of the Looms (something I prefer to never see again).
• A helicopter land on a helipad that stuck out from the side of the extremely tall skyscraper. Scary, but cool.
• A call button on my table at a restaurant so I don't have to hunt or wait for my server (can't decide if that would fly at American restaurants or not...).
• A (non-helmeted) man riding a bicycle down the middle of a very busy interstate. Terrifying.
• A child smoking the Turkish bong (although here it's not a Turkish bong, but an Arab bong). By the way, I was offered a puff on the bong--also a first for me--and politely declined. How would I explain THAT to the folks at home, ehh?
• A mall designed to look like Tuscany.
• A mall designed to look like old Arabia.
• A mall designed to look like several different countries of the world.
• (This I've seen, but it's been so long my eyes bulged out of my head)--SKIN! I went to the beach, and the (might I add, oblivious and therefore clueless to culture) foreigners were wearing next to nothing. Men with no shirts on, women in bikinis! Sitting in the same park as fully covered Muslim men and women on a Friday, with the mullah teaching from the loudspeaker at the mosque across the street. Dichotomy.
• Two beautiful sunsets over a beautiful, almost Caribbean looking, body of water. Spectacular.
• A fridge with a 13 inch TV screen on the front. Entertainment while you cook, saved counter space. Brilliant. What will they come up with next?

Just to update you...

• Computer DOES NOT have April 26 virus, has faulty CD drive. Not all is lost. Happiness! Cannot watch ER DVD's. Sadness.
• Began learning my first verbs today.
• Was thrilled to learn yesterday that 'orange' is 'PORTUGAL' (one of my favorite things to say in any language).
• I made a gazillion friends at the beach yesterday, caught up with old friends from school the day before--happy weekend.
• We still haven' reached 100 degrees yet...soon!

Ray Alexander

Ben, the guy who runs the desk at the gym, is a bit talkative. Mabye a bit too talkative.

"Nik-key...war yoo frahm?"

"The United States."

Eyes big with delight, "oooh... U! S! A! Aye wan go tere on day." (And no, I'm not mispelling...just trying to give you a bit of Ben's accent.)

"Oh yeah? Where in the US would you like to go?" I always ask, because I think most people don't realize how big my country is. I tell them I live in California, and they ask if I've ever met their cousin's girlfriend in Detroit.

"Al! A! Bama!" Ben replies excitedly. He's obviously thought this through. (Or has he...?)

"Alabama? Why in the world would you want to spend all your money to fly to the US, and then go to Alabama? It ought to be on the bottom of your list. New York, LA, Disneyworld...those are places you should want to go."

"No! No! Aye wan go Alabama! Tere man tere, famos man. Aye go see im."

"Who?"

"Ray Alexander. Yoo erd off im?"

"No... who is Ray Alexander?"

"Ee very famos man in my contree. Ee cock breeder!"

At this, I try not to laugh. Poor Ben. If he ever saves up enough money to fly all around the world to the US, all he wants to do is go to a chicken farm?

"Ben...cock fighting is illegal in the US."

"Aye no! Buhh...Ray Alexander, ee breed cocks, ship im to my contree, where cock fighting is NO illeeeegal! We lobbbb cock fighting!" Ben then goes on for several minutes about why cock fighting is such a sport to see. Finally I interrupt him.

"Ben. There are other reasons you could tell people why you want to go to Alabama. A good game of football, play on the famous golf course, eat good southern food."

"Tere goo foo aneewhere yoo go na wharld. Ray Alexander onlee in Al! A! Bama! Aye go see famos man! Cock Breeederrrr!"

There you have it folks. My home state can boast a Lynard Skynard classic, Scout Finch, War Eagle, the best sweet tea and fried green tomatoes you ever will find, and well...Ray Alexander, cock breeder extraordinaire.

Murphy's Law of International Elevators

• If you live in Europe, the elevator will only allow two women the size of Twiggy inside. If you are larger than that, take the stairs.
• If you live most anywhere in Asia (at least Central Asia), there is no such thing as an elevator. If there does happen to be an elevator, it doesn't work. Take the stairs.
• If you live in a metropolis (such as myself) in a building with double digit stories, when you press the call button, expect the following scenario. Two elevators, one on floor 4, the other on floor 27. You, on the ground floor, will have to wait while the closer elevator goes up, and the farther elevator comes down. Halfway through the process, someone somewhere in the building will press the call button, and the elevators will then change all directions, and eventually, the elevator that had started on floor 4, proceeded to floor 17, will return down to the ground floor and pick you up... All taking enough time for you to have taken the stairs to have arrived quicker than with the elevator.
• Living in a fancy building with a helipad on the roof does not mean you have escaped the madness that follows typical Central Asian protocol. The water tank on the penthouse floor can burst, spewing all its contents into the elevator and its occupants, and putting all elevators in the 31 story building out of order for several days. Yes, no matter how much you are paying for that panoramic view, you still have to take the stairs. Unless you can afford to land on the helipad. Otherwise, take the stairs.
• If you are allergic to perfume (as I am), you will inevitably have to ride with Arabic males who bath in cologne, to the extent that you must exit the elevator earlier than your floor of destination, just to avoid passing out. And then you take the stairs.
• Smoking, while not allowed anywhere in the building, and surely must be not good for elevators, is allowed, and in masse.
• If it's all men in the elevator, and you are a woman...take another elevator (or the stairs)...women's lib doesn't exist here.
• If its a mixed elevator, and appears full, the golden rule of Asia applies:
  THERE'S ALWAYS ROOM FOR ONE MORE!
• If you fear the beeping sound that ensues from the packed elevator, take the stairs. Waiting for another elevator will invoke aforementioned law.
• If you are out on a Friday, it doesn't matter how new the mall is. The elevators won't work until after the call to prayer. If you insist on being a pagan and eating at Chili's (which serves pagans), take the stairs. (Okay, I exaggerated that one. The elevators will work on the end of the mall where Chili's is located, but not the others, nor the escalators.)
• If your elevator should happen to stop working while you are in it, go ahead and panic. The emergency phone won't work, and even if it did, the watchman doesn't speak enough English to help you. And your cell phone won't have service in the elevator either. You should have taken the stairs.

Bad News Bears

Yesterday started out as a happy day. I was able to download email onto my computer at a friend's house. Later I went to open the computer, and it refused to boot up. I tried everything I knew to do, including calling my dad in frustration. He didn't know what to do about it either. Today...a Bad News Bears day.

Today at my language lesson, I was telling Holly about the problem. Her husband overhears, and says, "Did you get on the internet yesterday?"

"Yes."

"Oohh...that's not good. We have many more problems in the country with viruses than other countries do. The Sheik, he owns everything, so there is only one internet company. Because there is no competition, he does not run a filter for viruses. Every virus in the world can attack your computer. Even if you run and update antivirus daily...you will still get a virus."

Like I said, Bad News Bears.

So we drove over to a computer shop, and they took a look at the good ole laptop.

"Did you use internet yesterday?"

"Yes."

"Yesterday, April 26th?"

At that point I wanted to be sarastic and say, "No...yesterday January 14." But I held my tongue.

"You see, there was an ugly virus that hit only yesterday, April 26. If you had just skipped internet you would have been fine. They call it Cherinoble...because it destroys everything."

They are all smiles that they have now figured out the reason my computer won't boot up. I'm near tears as they inform me that my entire hard drive has been wiped clean. Everything is gone.

Very Bad News Bears.

I guess it doesn't matter anymore that I don't have internet access...I don't have a computer to use it on anyway.

Numbers

2: Weeks until the internet company begins installing internet to all of us on the wait list
80: How many of us there are on the wait list
Unknown: What number I am on the 80 person wait list
2.33: Dollars I spent on a taxi to find out about the internet
4: Bandaids I've gone through in 36 hours since I cut my finger washing dishes
98: Degrees outside
22: Emails in my mail box since I last was able to download mail
0: Emails that I wanted to read because all my friends' lives are crazier than mine currently
6: Approximately how many books I've read since moving in my apartment with no internet
1: Book I'm working on writing because I have no internet in my apartment
Unknown: Brain cells that died writing this post...

Beam me up Scotty!

Holly was explaining various ways for me to pronounce the ghein sound.
Holly was explaining various reasons why I cannot write whatever word the way I did.
Holly was explaining various homonymal sounds in her alphabet.
Holly was explaining various rules concerning pronouns.

Holly was putting my to sleep.

Or maybe, I was asleep already. She rattled on and on, sometimes in English, sometimes not. It was one of those days I was having difficulty decifering any language.

I started intently at her, agreeing "uh-huh" every few seconds. Meanwhile, my brain was elsewhere.

Swimming laps in a pool.
Curled up in my reading chair with a good book.
Watching a football game with a friend.
Cooking for five very fun teenage giggling girl friends of mine.
Anywhere, but there in that classroom.

"Salaam? Hello? Say 'oo' not 'oi'."

"oo."

Where are those Star Trek body transporters when you need them?

Milestones

Milestones are nice, aren't they? They make you feel like you've accomplished something--and perhaps you may have! At times they can bring me such a feeling of victory that I want to build a little pile of stones in rememberance right there at the proverbial finished line of victory.

My milestones this week? I was watching tv with a friend, and all of a sudden the subtitles were not scribbled lines in a jumbled mess in my brain. They were letters of an alphabet, and I could recognize them! I had no idea what they said, but I could differentiate between them, and that, my friends--is a milestone!

Then, I was sitting in Starbucks, studying those very letters, when someone looks across at me and says hello. One of the Fatimah's that I'd met last week was there, and she recognized me. It was the first time I'd run into someone I "knew" while out and about. I guess I've been here long enough to bump into people in Starbucks!

Not exactly a milestone--but a stone, none the less was the other major event of my week. I tried to shimmy my way over a rather large stone blocking my way (actually, a car was blocking my way, hence why I attempted to climb over the stone), and my not-made-for-rock-climbing flip flops gave way. I crashed hard on my left side. After two days of wishing I had a chiropractor and moving around like a very old lady, my bruises are just now pushing to the surface. Coordinated I am not. Blue (literally) I am.

The final milestone (or lack of one...)--Tuesday will be one month ago I applied for internet, of which I am still being denied. I think the guy at the internet cafe fancies me a bit... maybe he's worked out a deal with the internet company so that I have to keep coming to his shop...

Exchange Rate for Laughter

It all started when Sabrina made quotation mark motions with her hands and asked me what that meant. She then beat her chest with her fist, made a sideways peace sign, and said, "What up, dog." I laughed and told her she COULD NOT pull that off...she'll never be ghetto enough with her accent and coloring for it. But the quotation marks, she could learn how to use those.

So every time I see her now, she gets this shy grin and asks if I'll teach her more English. Her English is great, don't get me wrong, but she wants it to be AMERICAN and not second language. Yesterday was over the top, though.

She pulled out her homework, and asked me what all the high-lighted words meant. I asked her if she had a dictionary, and she said, "Yeah--you!" So we went through the article she had to read for her research class.

Words like 'cadaveric,' 'neurodeteriating' and 'incongruous.'

Then she said her assignment was to paraphrase another article she'd read. I asked if she had a thesaurus. Her response? "Yeah--you!"

Her mom brought us a plate of corn on the cob to snack on while we went through her homework. I asked if they had any butter. Sabrina responded with, "Yeah, but why?"

"You can't eat corn on the cob without butter!" She didn't know it was called corn on the cob, that Americans knew how to eat it, or that we ate it with butter. She happily slopped the artery clogging juice all over her cob and dug in with big smiles...she was eating in American style. Once she finished, she got that look in her eye--there was something else she wanted to learn from me.

"When you came over that first time, you had your hair braided on the inside. How'd you do that?" I questioned what she meant by "braided on the inside," and we finally determined that she meant FRENCH braided. She'd never known anyone who could braid like that, and of course--she wanted to learn. So I proceeded to teach her how to french braid her hair.

I'd brought the card game Phase 10 with me, so I taught her to play that. Remember, one of the few words I know in her language from my experience with Joel is "CHEATER." It got thrown around several times by both of us. You may wonder, how does one cheat at Phase 10, but ohh...it's always possible to cheat! She taught me a hand motion that I haven't figured out yet if it's rude or not, but I wasn't sure I liked her making it at me every time I played well!

Somewhere during the evening, it came out that I speak much slower and clearer when I am with people who do not speak English as their first language. Sabrina insisted that I speak at full speed with her, so she can improve her listening skills. I asked her if she understands everything she hears in the movies, and she said no. I then asked her if she speaks faster in her language than the people do in their movies and on their television. "Yes, of course." I looked at her for a moment, and then she realized what I was getting at--if she doesn't understand even what is said on the telly, how will she understand me speaking at full speed. She still insisted that I give it a go, so she could try to improve.

So...the exchange rate for my getting to practice the few words I know in her language with her?

--a dictionary, thesaurus, slang, eating habits, beauty tips, entertainment, and listening comprehension.

But I laugh more with Sabrina than I have with anyone else in this country, and that makes it all worth it.

Banana Bread

Yesterday was the Prophet's birthday, so I decided to bake something as a gift for my neighbors.

As I poured the batter for a banana bread into a loaf pan, my thoughts ventured back to six years ago in Portugal. I had been baking my first ever attempt at a carrot cake, and put too much in the pan. As every overseas oven I've ever had takes twice as long to bake anything, I grew concerned when the bread had begun to rise higher than the pan after an hour, and was still not quite finished...

I slammed the oven button into the off position, grabbed my keys, and stomped off to the beach. I sat on a wall next to the beach--pouting too intensely to actually walk onto the sand and enjoy myself--and cried for a good thirty minutes.

It wasn't the failed carrot cake that upset me. It was that nothing seemed to be going right, and my stupid oven didn't work to boot on top of everything going wrong. That's what culture shock does to you--makes you cry over carrot cake.

I went home, turned the oven back on, chopped the inflated top off the cake, cooked it for another 30 minutes or so, and all was resolved.

Why did I think about my failed carrot cake of six years ago last night? Because if that banana bread didn't come out right, I probably would have responded in the same way last night. I like to look back at my two years in Portugal and think it was the perfect overseas cultural experience and nothing ever went wrong. That I never had much culture shock. And that now, with a masters degree in intercultural studies, I will certainly be even more above culture shock.

The only thing that is different now that I am more experienced and educated is that I can RECOGNIZE culture shock when it hits. I can't avoid it. I can't snap out of it. You'd think that I would at least know how to deal with it, but I'm not sure that I do. I just take life one day at a time...same as I did six years ago.

My banana bread took two hours to bake, but it came out fine. Happy Prophet's birthday!

Learning the Alphabet all over again

All that money I paid for my masters degree felt like it paid off on Saturday. I was sitting in my first language lesson, learning how to say the alphabet. As always, there are new sounds to create that I never learned in English. (Thankfully, one carried over from Portuguese, so that was one less to conquer).

Holly would say the sound, and I would say "G."

"Not G. Ghein."

"Gain."

"Not Gain. Ghein."

Holly told me if I said "Gain" and not "Ghein" I would sound like I have a Turkish accent, much like the people from the Calormene region. I thought to myself, "Isn't that ironic? I've been living in Turkey, and I'm working on a project with the Calormene. Why bother learning this sound? I should have a Turkish accent! It beats an American accent, doesn't it?" But I pressed on... "Gain."

Then, I remembered the few minutes Dr. Jayne had taken in a Language and Culture class (or was it Intercultural Communication?) to teach us the basics of phonetics. I asked Holly where her tongue was located at the back of her throat, and was she breathing out when she said "Ghein." She explained it, then told me it was alot like gargling and speaking at the same time. I did what she said, and out came "Ghein."

Thank you Dr. Jayne!

P.S. Sorry for my culture shock rantings in my last post. Mom wrote and told me it was good I didn't yell shut up at the next door mosque, and I felt bad. I'll do as she said and say a praise everytime the call to prayer pushes me near the edge...

My Momma taught me not to say 'shut up'...so I won't...but I want to!

My parents are from Alabama, and down there the phrase "a church on every corner" is about as common as "inshallah" is here. A friend from Afghanistan commented the other day that there is a "mosque on every corner" there. She obviously hasn't looked around here. From my apartment I can visibly see four from the living room, and uncountable from the kitchen. (Next time I'm bored, I'll count for you...)

It is the mosque I cannot see from my apartment that has been pushing my culture shock buttons to the level of insanity.

You know how in the states, some young man with great intentions and a gift for public speaking decides to open a new church (since the other 124 churches in his town aren't getting the job done)? He's the new ticket in town and everyone starts going there leaving Pastor Joe confused about why his numbers are down? I don't think a mosque is any different. You're rich? Go to the big rich people's mosque. You're hungry to learn from the Koran? Go to the new kid's mosque.

The new kid's mosque happens to be two buildings over. You know he's young because he doesn't have the money to build a big building with domes and minarets, and well, concrete. He bought a trailer mobile home, and spent the rest of his money on the loudest speakers known to man. How do I know he's gung ho on preaching? His call to prayer last night lasted 30 minutes.

I walked by the new trailer mosque the other night during prayer time, and it was packed out. Men were doing their ritual washing out of buckets on the street. I wondered if it was wrong for me, a female, to be staring as blatantly as I was. What drew them to this humble mosque when there is such a bigger (and surely air conditioned) mosque just two blocks over? Must be the preaching.

It's so loud when you're right there next to it you might bust an ear drum. So loud that if I could see the mosque from my balcony I would've pitched something at it after 20 minutes of utter noise. So loud that you might read a headline about American girl going postal during call to prayer in a trailer mosque.

I love living in a Muslim country where modesty is appreciated. Where men leave me alone, and the women are so much fun to talk to. (I met two girls, both named Fatimah, at Starbucks the other day and they kept me entertained talking about their culture for hours). Where I get to have my job that wouldn't be half as interesting in the US. Where I get to be where God intended for me to be.

But this week, I don't love the super excited mullah preacher man at the trailer mosque two buildings over. I'm culture shocking, and I might just take it out on him...in my blog anyway.

Somebody call Guinness!

I noticed the crowd before I noticed the man. Sure, mall's are crowded on Friday nights, but this crowd was gathered to see something. Then I noticed him. The next logical reasoning I had was that he was standing on a box, and giving a speech of some sort to draw attention. As I walked closer, I realized he wasn't standing on a box, and therefore didn't need to say anything at all.

He was 8 feet tall--at least.

Lest you think I am exaggerating (as I am known to do)--grown men of about 6 feet came up to his belly button. Phones were everywhere, not to call and tell about the world's tallest man standing on the corner of the mall, but to take pictures of him and send to anyone who doubted. Wish I had one of those phones to send yall a picture.

I wondered what his life is like. Surely he has to have everything specially made: clothes, bed, car (how far back from the steering wheel does he have to sit?), chairs. I wonder what shoe size he wears? Was he always extra tall, or did he have 14 growth spurts? Does it affect how he thinks about himself?

I didn't stay in the crowd to stare at the tallest man I'd ever seen--I didn't want to be that kind of person. But I sure have thought about him alot.

Bulimic Cat?

I think one of the cats I am watching has an eating disorder.

I've seen the signs in humans before, but am not sure to what intellectual level a cat can worry about the image in the mirror.

His hair is falling out and his teeth are yellow (side effects from throwing up on a routine basis).
Constant grooming to the point of obsession.
Overeating and then going to the bathroom (litter box) immediately afterwards.
I already mentioned the vomit I discovered on my kitchen floor yesterday--evidence left at the scene of the crime.

Then today, the dead give away sign. Tiger tried to jump on the counter, and due to his obesity, could not make it and fell back on the floor. In his embarrassment, he turned to his kibble bowl for comfort. Eating to compensate for his insufficiencies in other areas.

Should I tell his owners upon their return, or maintain catsitter confidentiality?
Should I regulate his diet?
Should I speak encouraging words about how the cats on the covers of Pet magazines are computer generated and he's just as special as Cuddles, his thin brother?
Should I tell him that because he's not a dog, all the Muslims around here will love him no matter what he looks like?

Or should I get out of my apartment more instead of staring at one fat cat?

Typical girl, but with FAB hair!

I'm such a typical female it's not even funny.

I found out yesterday that the local Internet company has no idea when my net will be connected in my apartment (have I ever mentioned the Inshallah Mentality?)
I woke up this morning to find that the cats I am watching had thrown up on my floor.
I got in an arguement with the postman today over a stamp--he tried to charge me way too much and make it look like I had a language barrier (basically he took my money and then refused to give me change).

By 9am, I was near tears. Then I went to a beauty salon and spent two hours having my hair colored, cut, and blow dried straight.

And all is well with the world. See? Typical girl.

I'd write more, but the keys at this internet cafe stick something fierce, and we don't want that to negate the salon high.

My God Complex

The Inshallah Mentality might be what sends me over the edge.

It's all fine and dandy for them to not install my internet for three or four weeks (even though I've paid for those weeks), to be late delivering furniture, to not confirm any kind of plans for a weekend. But my taxi driver last night made me think I'd developed a God complex, and that's not okay!

I heard him talking on the phone saying he was driving from point A to point B, "inshallah." I thought to myself, "It better not be 'inshallah,' it better be that I end up at point B--my house!" As we came into my town, I explained that he needed to go around the round-a-bout, because I lived on the other side of the street. His response?

"Inshallah."

NO! No inshallah! I wanted to scream. Just say, "Okay!" I'm paying you to drive my taxi from here to there, and "If God wills" has nothing to do with it. It's a simple business exchange. If God wills for us to get in an accident, to die, and never end up at point B, then sure...that's His perogative. But we don't need to bet on that every time I give directions. At that point in time I saw it as having very little to do with God, and very much to do with me getting home. Call it a God complex, call it culture shock, call it what you will. But I was fed up with "inshallah." I had to bite my tongue from shouting, "No inshallah!"

And from asking him to turn off his Michael Jackson cassette. If the Inshallah Mentality won't drive me over the edge, 45 minutes in a taxi listening to "Dangerous" will!

To Pay or Not to Pay?

Since no one seems to have mailing addresses, I've begun to wonder just how will my bills arrive for me to pay them each month? (Can you imagine the poor mail man, walking around in 120 degree heat, trying to find the green and white building three blocks from the crooked palm tree?) Yes, there are post office boxes, but this is a fairly new thing, and most people don't have them. So again--how do bills arrive?

I walked into my building yesterday to find an interesting thing posted by the watchman's desk. An old dot-matrix printout with about 20 apartment numbers listed. I walked up to the list, scanned it, and did not find my name on the list. Hmmm... I read through the whole list, and finally found (about half way through the list) that it read "Electricity and water DISCONNECTION list." Glad my names not on that list!

But wait--a good 20 apartments in my building are going to be disconnected? Must be that I'm not the only one who doesn't know how to pay my bill...

The Inshallah Mentality

"Inshallah." If God wills.

It's more than a saying, it's an entire mentality.

"See you tomorrow!" "Inshallah," is the response.
"I'm flying to Turkey next week." "Inshallah..." my friend says.
"Your furniture will be delivered on Thursday, inshallah," the Homes R Us salesman says to me.

Well, does that mean it IS coming on Thursday or isn't? And forget setting a time. Just sit in your apartment and wait. And wait. And wait.

The furniture all came. However, the internet connection, which was going to be turned on in "7-10 days, inshallah" is still waiting to be turned on after two weeks. Perhaps this week I will be able to return to posting on a more regular basis.

Inshallah.

Sadness

In the land o plenty, I have discovered what is missing.

Cornmeal. Corn muffin mix. The two different items I can make my yummy cornbread casserole with. Now how am I supposed to introduce my friend Sabrina to good ole' American cookin without cornbread?

So for all of you who have been asking what can you mail to me, there you have it! Small boxes of Jiffy's corn muffin mix.

Getting a workout looking for a place to work out

Thankfully it isn't 200 degrees outside today.

P1 dropped me off in front of the gym. The gym that I had noticed the big sign that said, "Ladies Fitness and Beauty Salon." Since all the hair dressing places all say only "beauty saloon," (yes, salOOn), I figured 'fitness' must mean gym. Silly me. I went up to inquire about their prices, only to find out they are closed from 1-4pm. Most businesses are closed from 1-4, so this wasn't a surprise. But since it was 3pm, I had to figure out what to do for an hour.

I knew a Starbucks was somewhere in the neighborhood, so I went wandering around looking for it. Luckily I found it, or I would have been stuck wandering for an hour in the heat. I sat there for an hour, then meandered back to the "Ladies Fitness and Beauty Salon." I went inside and asked about the fitness center.

"No fitness. Only salon."

"Oh. But your sign said Fitness."

"No fitness. Only salon. Gym in apartment building."

"But wouldn't that only be for people who live in the apartment building?"

"Yes. Only for them. Gym there."

Well...I don't live in that building. Most apartment buildings here have a gym and pool included for the tenants...mine is one of the few that doesn't. Hence my search. So I went back out to the street and started walking again. I noticed a sign that said, "Gents and Ladies Royal Sports Gym." Surely THAT isn't a salon!

I went inside, and sure enough, it was a gym! I checked it out, found out the prices, and left rather quickly (it wasn't ladies hour, so I wasn't supposed to be there then). Then I walked all the way back across town. I have now thoroughly searched one side of the lagoon for a gym, and found one. Now begins the search on the other side of the lagoon. Hopefully it won't get too hot before my search is through.

Open Mouth, Insert Foot

Absolute mortification.

It was the kind of thing you feel dumb for saying in America. But add to the fact that I'm not in America, saying it made me feel so much worse. This comment is probably one of the reasons the world thinks Americans, on average, are just plain dumb.

I'm in the elevator with a couple, the husband is holding their sleeping baby. The baby is wrapped in a blue blanket. I ask, "How old is your baby?"

"7 months."

"Oh! He's a big boy for seven months."

The mother gawks for a minute, and then says, "No. It's a girl. And she's just right for seven months."

How to recover from that? I can't even remember what I said next, something about her having pretty hair. I'd like to blame my stupid comment on cultural differences, and that maybe in their country blue blankets are for girls, but really, let's just face it. I insulted this woman and her daughter. Let's hope I don't share an elevator with them for awhile!

As I said, absolute mortification.

It's the little things

Living overseas you deal with all sorts of major things that can stress you into a semi-catatonic state. (Or at least turn my curls straight...)

• Not understanding people speaking their language
• Not understanding people speaking your own language
• Traffic
• Near death expriences in traffic
• Not being able to cross through traffic
• Not knowing where to go even if you could get through traffic
• Being given opposite directions to go to the same place
• Having to go to four stores just to get the ingredients for supper

But these are the types of things I expect to happen overseas, and they tend to be what create the stories I write on my blog for your enjoyment. I've found that it's the little things that frustrate me to no end, and make me want to scream out the window for my neighbors' enjoyment.

• Instead of being given correct change at the Post Office, I'm given a useless stamp.
• The paint above my kitchen window cracks and breaks off into my sink in chunks early in the morning.
• My bathtub floods my floor when I take a shower, and I find out from other expatriates that this is completely normal for bathrooms here.
• I can light the pilot on my oven, but it doesn't heat the oven up.
• Some company thought it would be funny to superglue my baking pans together so they wouldn't come out of the box that was taped shut in the first place, and I had to work every muscle in my arms to unglue each pan from each other.
• Sticky tack here doesn't stick to fridgerators.

But, I have access to the following things, which makes it all better (at least today)...

• Peanut butter
• All ingredients for chocolate chip cookies
• Balsamic vinegar
• Hagan Daas ice cream
• Internationally flavored soups
• Cheddar cheese

Baskin Robbins, Chili's, Dunkin Donuts, Starbucks, Subway, and so much more

outside! outside!

Going to the Post Office in a foreign country can always be interesting. Lucky for me, the local Post Office is right in my building! So I don't have to journey far for the experience. I just recently opened a PO box (since having mail delivered to my house is not an option in this country), and got to enter some contest. My supervisor reminded me to check to see if I'd won, so I decided to mail some letters, check my box, and see if I'd won this contest.

Inside the post office, I handed the mailman my stack of letters. He asked if they were all going to within our country. "No. All to the USA."

"USA! USA!" He exclaims. He hands me a stack of stamps that have to be licked for application. (Oh...the days of living in the US when stamps are self-adhesive! Licking is better than India, where you have to use this wooden stick to apply the GLUE to the stamp!) So I stand there licking my stamps and applying them to my envelopes. Then I ask where do I go to check my mailbox.

"It not work!?" The man exclaims."No, it works fine. I just don't know where to go." (This is a small room with no obvious mail box room).

"Outside! Outside! Other door! Other door!" (Why he felt the need to exclaim every time and twice is beyond me.)
Then I asked, "Do you take the letters or do I place them somewhere?"
"Outside! Outside!" By this point he is obviously annoyed with me. I hold up my contest ticket to ask about that, and he just points to the door. If everything is "outside! outside!" then what do they DO in this post office...?

I look at a list on the door, and realize I have not won a Mercedes. I go outside! outside! and allow my young (13 year old) friend to place mail in a mail box for the first time in her life (ah, the joys of being friends with Third Culture Kids), and then we go around to another door to find where the post office boxes are. She'd never seen this either, so I got to explain how it all worked. We opened my box, and reminiscent of college days, felt the dejection of an empty box. Maybe another day. (Those of you who have that box number...get that mail acoming!)

Then we went back outside! outside! and on our merry way... without a mercedes or mail.