The Embassy Wife

Am I My Refrigerator's Keeper??

The embassy wife — Tue, 15 Sep 2009 14:36:16 GMT

My house has become a breeding ground for rabid Costa Rican insects. My pantry is filled with fluttering gray moths which lay eggs that hatch into worms in the flour, oatmeal, pasta, beans, popcorn..... you name it. Then the worms spin themselves into little webby coccoons and hatch into More Moths. Remember the spider cave in Lord of the Rings? That's what parts of my pantry look like. Frodo had it easy.

Then, to add insult to injury, the ants have moved in -- I think they've discovered the tasty little webbed up worms -- and are swarming (there's no other word for it) on the ceiling. It's Just Plain Gross. We pick worms and moths out of our pasta and cereal, and I have to fight my way through a mass of webs just to find the oatmeal. Shudder. Yuck.

As I've mentioned before, I've been doing battle, so there are little gray (indelible) streaks on the ceilings and walls where the moths have met a just fate.

Did I mention it's GROSS???

And why do I have this menagerie in my house? The little beasties are feeding on the spelt flour and pasta which I have to keep stocked to feed my kids. Talk about a Catch-22.

But, I'm brighter than I look. I finally realized that for "medical reasons" the Embassy might just supply us with a second refrigerator for storing flour.

So I called the refrigerator guy, and I asked, and was met with a flat refusal: "Embassy policy is only one refrigerator per household." Sigh. So I hung up and moped. And 30 minutes the phone rang, it was the refrigerator guy at the embassy (my new best friend), who -- On His Own! -- had called the Embassy nurse and gotten a special permit for us to have a second refrigerator for "medical reasons." And then he said it would be delivered in just two days!

I was dancing with joy for those two days, telling everyone I met -- including complete strangers -- that I was going to get a new refrigerator!! Yippee!! Wahoo! And then I'd do a little jig as they backed slowly away from me, eyes wide with something like terror.

And then my refrigerator came, and I was still dancing and smiling as I wiped it down and repositioned it so it was in Exactly The Right Spot.

And then I stopped smiling when it exploded. Smoke, brief flames, scorch mark on the floor, I had it all. But what I did NOT have, was a refrigerator. It stopped running (and so did everything else in that part of the house). I stared at it aghast. I shook it. I burst into tears. Some part of the refrigerator's frame had, when I so lovingly repositioned it, cut into the power cord, causing it to short out and DIE. What was I going to do? How was I going to get it fixed? I envisioned a burned out motor and thousands of dollars worth of repairs. How was I going to break the news to my new best friend that I had blown up his refrigerator five minutes after it was delivered??

I called my husband and asked him to break the bad news, and then I left the house so no one could call me back.

But my husband is smarter than I am. He put in a work order -- an anonymous process which requires no lengthy explanations and assigns no blame -- and the next day an electrician came to fix the fridge. I arranged to be out of the house at the time and left the whole matter in my housekeeper's capable hands.

The electrician may have had a good laugh at my expense, but I don't know about it. And neither does my new best friend (unless he reads this blog!).

And now my new refrigerator is running marvelously, freezing to death thousands of unhatched wormlings and moths. And I'm dancing with joy again.

The lights inside it don't work, and I really do need my emergency lantern to see my way around inside it, but I'm so happy it doesn't even matter.

Battle Against the Insects: EW - 1, Beasties - 0.

New Lightbulbs!

The embassy wife — Mon, 14 Sep 2009 13:41:48 GMT

OK, I'm really not sure how a post about light bulbs in my bedroom closet generated 25 comments, Chippendale dancers and a movie contract :-), but with all that, I thought you might like a quick update.

I, apparently, contrary to my earlier comments, can NOT do anything I set my mind to. I could not, for example, change those fluorescent light bulbs. Not with a stool, not with a chair, not with a tool, not with some flair.

My lovely husband had to take them out of the sockets for me. He assures me he does this at work "all the time," and was even able to do it in the dark. I couldn't even do it with my emergency lantern on HIGH and a four-year-old whacking me on the legs with a plastic hangar while singing some mindless song about "Whack, whack, whack, whack, whack mom".

I did, however, find the right store to buy the light bulbs and I'm moderately confident I even got the right kind. However, after teetering on the brink of a near-fatal fall onto a hangar-wielding four-year-old while trying to install them, I decided I'd wait for my husband. It took him so little time and effort, it's not even worth mentioning. He must have some sort of innate electro-mechanical aura that I'm lacking.

And he was just in time; I need the emergency lantern for my new refrigerator. More later as soon as I dispose of the four-year-old.

Who is Supposed to Change My Light Bulbs??

The embassy wife — Wed, 26 Aug 2009 00:41:15 GMT

The fluorescent light in my bedroom closet is going out; most of the time when I turn on the light, a distant gray glimmer flickers uncertainly in the air around me. I've started using my emergency-in-case-the-electricity-goes-out lantern. But that's not entirely satisfactory either. Really, the light bulbs just need to be replaced.

But here's the deal: I don't know who is responsible for changing fluorescent light bulbs in this house in this country.

In Germany, we were responsible for all light bulbs EXCEPT the fluorescent ones: the Consulate desperately wanted the privilege of changing those. I have a feeling it had something to do with German labor laws. Or maybe disposal of the fluorescent bulbs. Or maybe because the Consulate owned the houses. I don't know.

So who changes my light bulbs here?

OK, so it's not such a big deal to go to the hardware store, find the fluorescent bulbs, buy two, bring them home, haul the ladder upstairs, realize I have the wrong bulbs, take them back to the store, try to figure out how to return them, get new bulbs..... But if the Embassy is going to save me all that trouble, I'll let them.

Instead, I just have to call the Embassy, find the right person to ask this question of, make an appointment for the workers to come over, wait two hours for them to show up only to have them cancel the appointment, reschedule..... Hmmm. Maybe it's not as simple as I thought.

So, I guess I'll just keep using my emergency lantern and wearing mismatched clothes until either I remember to make the call or I make it to the hardware store.

Hey, buddy, can you spare a light bulb?

Another Average Day

The embassy wife — Wed, 24 Jun 2009 03:13:26 GMT

I had this conversation with my six-year-old in the emergency room tonight:

“Let’s see, Timothy, you’ve had a busy day! You slept all morning; had a 103 fever all afternoon; slept some more; the electricity went out; you threw up all over Jeffrey (my babysitter’s son) in the car; went to the hospital; threw up all over the nurse; saw the doctor; almost threw up on him; got some medicine; and now we’re going home!”

Despite the prevalence of projectile vomiting during the day (for once, not on me!!!! Hallelujah!), his problem is actually a SEVERE ear and throat infection. Caused, we’re pretty sure, by snorting pool water on Saturday. We’ve noticed that every time we go swimming in the pool in our condominio, our two youngest kids get sick. Last time, it was 24 hours of 103 fever for each. This time, Benjamin was mildly sick for two days, and Timothy has had been seriously sick since yesterdy. Gag! We will NOT be swimming in that pool again until I can get the Embassy nurse to mediate a change of water and filtration systems! Maybe not even then!

Did I mention we’re supposed to get on a plane on Thursday? And Timothy’s supposed to be the opening act in the school play tomorrow?

This is normal: If we’re going to take a trip anywhere (the longer and more time zones involved, the better) SOMEbody is sure to come down with something horrible necessitating an emergency visit to the doctor. I can’t even count the number of trans-Atlantic flights I’ve made in a mild panic over whether or not the antibiotic liquid was staying cool enough. Timothy is the worst offender; I've been in emergency rooms with him in at least three separate countries (on three continents). Oh, and last year, three days before we moved from Zagreb, Benjamin knocked out his front tooth (emergency dentist visit) AND came down with a fever the day before we got on the plane (emergency pediatrician visit).

The upside to all this? Well, believe it or not, it is actually easier to go to the doctor here than it would be in the States; even in my parents’ hometown where we actually have a pediatrician. Length of emergency room wait in CIMA private hospital here: Five minutes. Cost of emergency room visit: $58. Level of care received: World class.

The Afterlife

The embassy wife — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 02:42:15 GMT

My Israeli friend Anita has a theory about death which I have often found useful: She says that she imagines death rather like... just...leaving. Leaving the dishes unwashed in the sink; leaving the laundry unwashed and unfolded; leaving the living room untidied. Going into death, for Anita, means that "it" (whatever "it" may be) is not her problem anymore. I like this.

In my own life, I feel this way about going on a long trip (which I am about to do on Thursday): there are still moving boxes in my house to unpack. Not my problem. There are nooks and crannies and drawers and baskets and shelves which desperately need uncluttering and tidying. Not my problem. There is dirty laundry that needs to be washed. Not my problem: there's a washer in Texas.

Anita's view of death doesn't really encompass the idea of an active afterlife. But me, I have a well developed view of paradise, both in my cosmology and for this particular trip: I will be going to a land of eternal sunshine, to be reunited with loved ones I haven't seen in far too long. The problems which plagued me here in Costa Rica will be no more, and I will live a bug- and rooster-free existence. At least until August. And what is more, I will shop at grocery stores which are guaranteed to have hamburger meat. Every week! And there will be gluten-free cookies and milk-free sorbet, and all manner of wonderful things to drink. And English will be spoken. And there will be joy.

Don't mistake me; Costa Rica is great, and I'm sure I'll be ready to come back when the end of the summer rolls around (really, I'm sure I will!). But at the moment, my friends are boarding planes in droves; my social circles will be completely devoid of life forms for the next six weeks; my living room is starting to mold again; and my boys are ready to run in the pasture. I think it's time to get outta Dodge.

My plan is to keep posting over the summer, but my parents' internet connection is not much better than ours has been the past two weeks (note how frequently I've been on PNN lately?? NOT VERY!), and two of those weeks we'll be traveling the wilds of Colorado. Maybe I'll post from a KOA, if they have wireless. (I love the modern wilds, don't you?)

In the meantime, I'll be at the Texas Writers' League conference in Austin from 26-28 June; if you're going to be there, let me know and we'll hook up!

Piglet Flu

The embassy wife — Wed, 17 Jun 2009 02:35:26 GMT

It's definitely not the swine flu; don't panic. But at least three members of my family are down with what I can only describe as Piglet Flu. We have no fever. We have no particular aches and pains. We are not, in even the broadest sense of the word, sick.

We are blah: I spent the first half of the day in bed and the second half sitting around and staring at the wall because anything else required too much energy.

We are tired: Benjamin fell asleep this evening at 6:20 p.m. while watching a thrilling episode of Animal Planet and hasn't stirred since I put him in his bed.

We are not hungry: my growing nine year old who often eats his own weight and that of his two brothers in food, was content with ten noodles tonight.

We (read: Timothy) complain constantly that we're going to throw up. But never do (thank goodness).

So, I pronounce this the Piglet Flu. It is pandemic in our home, and I'm thinking of applying to the CDC for funding to develop a vaccine.

But, on second thought, that sounds like too much work. Maybe I could just go to bed early instead.

Snore.

Confession: The Dark Side, Part II

The embassy wife — Thu, 04 Jun 2009 09:59:07 GMT

PayPal was apparently only the beginning. There were three additional incidents which sent me around the bend today.

Today wasn't an especially bad day, it was rather normal, actually. And these things weren't so unusual or even, on a good day, particularly annoying. Under normal circumstances, in fact, I would, under no condition ever be tempted to roll down my car window and scream "You idiot!!" at the top of my lungs in public to a complete stranger.

And that's the point: the dark side of expat life is that, at times, what passes for "everyday life" in a strange new place wears away at you like sandpaper until all of the normal masks and manners and social graces that one wears in public are worn away and all that is left is, well, it's not pretty. And that's when your true self comes out. My true self is, apparently, not someone you'd want to bring home to show the parents.

Unless you are super-expat, this sort of thing happens to everyone at some point. I've met some people who hit this point about the time they reach customs upon arrival at the airport. Some people don't lose it until, for the sixth week in a row, there are no potatoes in the grocery store. Usually, this doesn't happen to me until we're just a few months away from leaving. I seem to be on the fast track this time around.

Episode I: The plumber came to my house today to put sealant around the faucet on our kitchen sink. He brought everything with him -- except the sealant. He had to call someone to bring it. While we were waiting, he followed me around my house, trying to carry on a conversation with me in Spanish. Except he is to speaking Spanish what Mario Andretti is to driving a car. After several blank stares from me, intervention from my housekeeper (who also couldn't understand him), and five or six frustrated-and-near-tears "I don't understand what you're saying's" from me, he would just change subjects and plow at light speed into some other topic. I finally just had to leave the house or risk passing too near the knife drawer, in my futile efforts to evade him, for his health. When I returned, it was to find he'd done the job incorrectly and apparently put sealant everywhere except where it was needed. I may be peeling silicone sealant off my sink for the next two years.

Episode II: I went to a friend's house today to have lunch and bid her farewell before she returns to the States on Friday. Part of our luncheon ritual is that I pick up Happy Meals for the kids and she orders pizza (forbidden fruit at our house) for the moms. So, I went to McDonald's. At lunchtime. To a place of business where, frequently, it is necessary to make change for the customer. I paid in cash. And after rattling around futilely in the cash drawer for several minutes, the employee finally handed me six pounds of coins for the $8 in change I needed. "I'm sorry, senora, we don't have any bills." And it's indicative of my state of mind that I found myself, much to my surprise, waving my arms and shouting at the windshield after I had driven off, "Well, why the heck don't you have any bills? What, you couldn't walk across the street to the bank???!"

Episode III: We have no milk, no eggs, no shampoo. Benjamin and I tried to go to the grocery store today. I was approaching the entrance to the parking lot (eager to get my parking thingy!), and had slowed down, put on my blinker, checked for oncoming traffic, and had already begun to turn left, when the guy behind me decided I was going too slowly and zoomed around to pass me on my left! And then -- when it became obvious that we were going to collide -- rather than slow down, he HONKED at me!

It was at that point that I started screaming, "You idiot!! What are you doing??" And then realizing he couldn't hear me, I rolled down my window, and screamed -- literally screamed, I am still hoarse -- "You idiot!!! What are you doing???!!" As if he would understand me. He just chuckled at me as he continued to pull around me and drove off. We still have no milk, no eggs, no shampoo. I just couldn't face the grocery store after that. We went back home, with Benjamin in the back seat singing "You idiot!" all the way. What a lovely example I am to my children.

I am not proud of myself today. Today, I was the Ugly American. Tomorrow, I'm planning an intervention for myself in the morning: no kids at home, no housekeeper, no plumbers, no one trying to make change. I'm unplugging the phone, not answering the doorbell, and, for good measure, I may also hide in the closet.

So don't call tomorrow; the Ugly American is out. But, I am hoping that the socially acceptable me will make an appearance in the afternoon.

Confession: The Dark Side of Expat Life

The embassy wife — Wed, 03 Jun 2009 23:04:13 GMT

I will confess that I had an absolute meltdown this morning, complete with tears and uncontrollable sobbing.

Want to guess what set me off? What horrible thing drove me around the bend one block closer to a nervous breakdown? Was it news of another early-morning shooting nearby? My kids having still more problems at school? Yet another incomprehensible conversation in Spanish?

Answer D: None of the above. I was trying to update my PayPal account.

My account has been "limited" since 2002 when we moved to Indonesia and I had to change my address with PayPal. Somehow, PayPal learned that the APO address I gave them was in Indonesia; they flipped, certain that the money in the account was being hijacked for nefarious purposes, and -- for my safety, I'm sure -- placed the limitations on my account.

And now they won't lift the limitations until I can provide all the information they need. Simple things: photo ID with name and address; cell phone bill with name and address; bank statement with name and address; credit card statement with name and address.

I have all of these documents; they all have my name and address on them.

The catch? The address on every single on is different. Photo ID has my parents' address in Texas; cell phone bill has my local Costa Rican address (which reads something like 100 m norte y 150 m del sur del centro); bank statement has our APO address; credit card statement has our pouch address (which is a street address in Virginia). PayPal thinks I live at the pouch address, so the only useful thing for them is the credit card bill.

I feel like I'm caught in a "Fun House" with no exit.

In frustration, and in an attempt to commit a defiant act, I even tried to close the account. I'm informed I cannot do so until all the "limitations" are removed (i.e. I send in copies of the requested documents with my name and address). I tried to call PayPal about this once, and customer service got snippy with me. And I got snippy back. I don't think we're on speaking terms any more.

And so there it hangs, in the background of my life, doomed to irresolution until I can figure out how to get them what they want, and I feel like bursting into tears every time I think about it. And every time I visit the website, huge headlines and helpful text boxes reassure me how wonderful, simple, and easy PayPal is to set up, maintain, and use. This makes me want to shoot the computer.

Such a small thing. Such a silly thing, and all for the want of a home address.

Five Weeks, Four Days, Two Hours and Ten Minutes

The embassy wife — Mon, 18 May 2009 10:11:29 GMT

But who's counting??

That's how long it is until I get on a plane to go home to the States for the summer.

Usually, I am not like this. Usually, I love living wherever we are, accepting little bumps in the road (like: no electricity on Wednesday. Cheddar cheese at $16 per pound.) with a chuckle and an eager glance to see what other adventures might be coming my way.

This year, I'm facing each day with gritted teeth and often-closed eyes: lately, I just don't care to see what's coming around the corner. I spend a large part of each day fantasizing about moving back to the States and being able to buy rubber bands. I also find myself jotting down plans for a garden and looking at paint samples: just in case I ever need to paint my OWN house (chocolate purple, it will NOT be!). And some days it's all I can do to muster the energy to get dressed AND cook supper (and it's those days that blogging goes out the window! You'll notice there have been a lot of "those days" lately!).

My husband has also been sending me real estate listings for the place we hope to move, which I look at with wide-eyed passion. At least I know I'm not the only one in this boat! But he says he "only" thinks about moving back approximately twice an hour. Ha. He's an amateur at that compared to me.

In 15 years of living overseas, I've never experienced anything quite like this before. I love Costa Rica: the people are lovely (well, until they get behind the wheel of a car); they pretend to enjoy hearing me speak Spanish; the scenery is unparalleled; and in just a two hour drive we have our choice of either beach or volcano. This is absolutely THE most perfect place for us to do a final overseas tour (well, final for a while, anyway!). We have a great house, fabulous neighborhood, unparalleled friends, and Cheetos. What more could we want? Why am I so depressed all the time? Why am I even counting the weeks until I get on the plane, much less the days, hours, and minutes???

I'm not really sure myself. I think it may have something to do with that "15 years" figure. Fifteen years is a long time to be out of your comfort zone, fighting on the front lines of day-to-day survival, every day. A Very Long Time. So that's certainly part of it.

I think I had a sort of epiphany today about the rest of it: I haven't really had any time off (read: Relaxing Time at Home) since Summer 2007. We went to the States then and had a relaxing summer spending time with family and watching the kids run barefoot through the pasture.

We also went home Summer 2008, to the tune of: all-day medical appointments during the first part of the summer followed by unbelievably fun travel across the entire North American continent with three small children to spend time with family in Washington State during a 100-degree heat wave with no A/C (I love my family there. Why do they always have a heat wave when we arrive??) followed by knee surgery and convalescence followed by moving to a foreign country. While still convalescing from knee surgery. With no car. In a country where I don't speak the language and am STILL not sure what to do with most of the stuff in the vegetable section of the grocery store.

I was listening to some well-adjusted-to-Costa Rica friends talk this evening; both mentioned recent, lengthy, relaxing trips home. And it hit me: that's what I'm missing. Relaxing time at home. I really DO need to get on that plane! And I think I'll be a different person in September.

Five weeks, four days, one hour, and fifty-five minutes. I think I'll make it.

Hi, I'm Johann, Part II

The embassy wife — Sun, 17 May 2009 02:47:38 GMT

For some reason, this post keeps getting truncated!! You can read the first part of this here.

.....And for a long time we stood on the front walk, our mouths hanging open in rank amazement. A cheerful Johann was carting boxes out to the curb. In response to our dropped jaws, he jerked his head up towards the attic window – from which billowed a cloud of dust and several small objects deemed ‘trash’ – and chuckled. “She thinks I have too much stuff,” he said. “She’s cleaning house!” And he trotted off to deposit his load and return for another.

In speechless wonder Gary and I climbed the stairs. At the top we found a sturdy and very-competent 30-something woman somehow simultaneously stripping beds, washing curtains, unpacking a large suitcase of English-language books, and flirting with Johann.

“Hi, we’re friends of Johann.” We managed, our eyeballs bugging slightly out of our heads.

“Hello! I’m Svetlana, and I’m helping Johann clean house. Ha ha!”

Johann grinned like a schoolboy. “She thinks I have too much stuff!” He chuckled, picked up another load, and trotted down three flights of stairs.

Gary and I weren’t too communicative, being in absolute shock, but Svetlana didn’t mind. She chatted cheerfully and energetically to us about working as a professor of English literature somewhere near St. Petersburg, and how much she was looking forward to living in Germany – never pausing in her work except to smile at Johann and tell him what needed to be taken out next.

Johann just beamed. “She thinks I have too much stuff!” Floated up behind him as he galumphed down the stairs.

“Ha ha!” Chuckled Svetlana, and then she told us about wedding plans and plans for getting a work visa and for making Johann’s apartment a home.

By this time, Gary and I were drooling on the carpet because our mouths had been continually open in astonishment since we arrived.

Johann returned and stood beaming beside Svetlana. “She thinks I have too much stuff. She’s cleaning house!” He announced proudly. He was usually much more talkative than this. Apparently, he was in as much shock as we were.

“Ha ha!” Said Svetlana, and put her arm around Johann’s shoulders and looked at him with something that resembled genuine affection.

“Ha ha!” Said Johann, and smiled.

Gary and I smiled back; somehow made polite conversation for a bit; and felt our way slowly down the stairs and back in to our car where we sat, still in wide-eyed, slack-jawed amazement as Johann carted yet another load of “too much stuff” out to the curb. We never saw Johann again; we moved out of Germany just a week or two later. We heard once that they were expecting a child, but we never checked up in person. I think we didn’t want to take the chance of spoiling that last image we’d had of Johann: deliriously happy and, for once, not lonely.

Hi, I'm Johann....

The embassy wife — Sun, 17 May 2009 02:38:33 GMT

On the Living channel last week (or was it the week before??), in response to the "5 Questions...." section, comments about "Hi, I'm Johann and I'm still potent," came up. Some of you have expressed an interest in hearing about Johann and the episode of the mail order bride from Chernobyl, so here goes!!

It started in church.

Johann went to our small Baptist church in Frankfurt. He was completely harmless, but newcomers often didn't realize this. He was in his 70s; a former German submariner who had spent time in a Russian POW camp; slightly brain damaged from injuries received in a chemical plant explosion; and, when upset, worried, or angry about something, had a tendency to goose-step around the church with his right hand up in the classic “Heil” gesture, shouting thankfully-incomprehensible things in Russian, Polish, German, and occasionally English. When he was really upset, he’d grab the nearest person by the lapel and gesture violently while shouting into the middle distance.

This frightened some people.

He was also very lonely, and not quite crazy enough to escape this knowledge. He had been married at one time, but his wife had left him after the accident at the plant, claiming he was no longer potent. This had wounded him deeply. Whenever he’d meet a pretty young thing (apparently I qualified too), he’d introduce himself: “I’m Johann, and I’m still potent.” I’ve seen young ladies reduced to tears in the face of this approach.

Johann lived by himself in a small attic apartment, colored his hair and eyebrows by the simple expedient of rubbing them with carbon paper (which smeared), and kept the radiators on full blast, even in the middle of summer, so as not to catch a chill. For his age, he was quite spry: once he painted the wooden steps off his landing with something akin to turpentine. I could tell he’d been meticulously thorough, because the paint was bubbling up and peeling off absolutely uniformly on all the steps. He was, as you can imagine, not popular with the landlady. Or the neighbors, whom, he was sure, were French Huguenot spies out to torment him. He said he was working with the police to get their phones tapped.

All in all, though, I liked Johann. In truth, he was a perfect gentleman, even when he was at his most crazy. His greatest problem was simple loneliness and the pain of his wife’s desertion which constantly rankled his soul.

But, in typical Johann fashion, he had a plan to deal with that as well: he’d get a mail-order bride. And, as he explained to my husband and me one afternoon in his apartment, to make sure he hooked a good one, he was going to send her a really nice picture of himself. And he did: dated about 1939 when he’d enlisted in the German navy. I could almost recognize the Johann I knew in the black and white passport-sized photo of an 18-year-old submariner. And boy, had he ever been good looking! I was afraid the girls would be lining up in droves.

Not droves, exactly, but one did come. At Christmas. From Chernobyl.

We knew she was coming, and we were worried, so we called that day to see how things were going. Johann was in a towering rage, shouting Nazi slogans and Russian swear words and completely unintelligible things in English. Every so often he’d put the phone down and we could hear him marching up and down the room, still shouting at us on the phone. This was even worse than we’d feared.

My parents and brother were visiting. Had just arrived an hour before, as a matter of fact. Gary and I got off the phone, hurriedly explained to my bewildered and slightly miffed family that there was an emergency, and rushed off to Johann’s house in our little red VW Golf. When we got there, the girl was crying, Johann was still shouting, and the phone was still off the hook. My husband did his best to calm Johann, and I and my German-Russian dictionary did our best to calm the girl, who was probably about 20, and we pieced together the inevitable. She had expected the Johann in the photo. He had expected her to be delighted to see him. He wasn’t and she wasn’t.

Between my dictionary and three semesters of college Russian (she only spoke Russian), I learned that she just wanted to go home. She’d only wanted a vacation someplace nice. Someplace that wasn’t Chernobyl. And she’d gotten Johann. We didn’t know what to do. All the beds in our small apartment were taken, and we were leaving on a trip the next day with my family. So we drove to the train station and checked her return trains: she could either go in one hour (she’d just spent three days on a train) or in one week. What a rotten choice.

Gary took a miserable, weeping Johann back home. I fed the girl lunch and gave her all the money I had on me, about $35, and made sure she got on the right train. Almost the last thing she said was, “I didn’t even get to take a shower.”

But Johann didn’t stop trying. By the late spring, he informed us that yet another woman had answered his advertisements and was coming to see him in early summer. We made note of the date, and dropped by, just to check.

And for a long time we stood on the front walk, our mouths hanging open in rank amazement. A cheerful Johann was carting boxes out to the curb. In response to our dropped jaws, he jerked his head up towards the attic window – from which billowed a cloud of dust and several small objects deemed ‘trash’ – and chuckled. “She thinks I have too much stuff,” he said. (This blog continued in a later

My Mug Arrived!!

The embassy wife — Mon, 04 May 2009 10:00:22 GMT

It's here! It's here! She finally arrived! My mug is here! She's even prettier than I thought she would be.

It took a bit longer than anticipated, because apparently she did some sightseeing through the Costa Rican countryside before she came to my house. But it's so beautiful here, who can blame her?

She hiked through the jungle and climbed a few trees.

It looks like she even got a bit flirtatious, and met up with some new friends at a bar.

There seem to be young fellows from (roughly left to right) Germany, Hungary, Israel, Poland, and the Czech Republic, as well as two burly Americans: one from the Embassy in Cairo, and one from the Secret Service, toasting her in this picture.

I'm sorry to say she drank a bit more horchata than was good for her, but a nice matronly Costa Rican pitcher made sure she got home safely and fixed her up with a really respectable bag of coffee. And we've been inseparable ever since.

Here's to you, PNN! Cheers!

Chocolate Purple

The embassy wife — Thu, 23 Apr 2009 10:10:38 GMT

In comments to a recent post suzannehailey and writing both commented on how many times they've moved in their lives: 30 and counting for suzannehailey; 8 times since 2000 for writing.

Ladies, you are my soulmates! Since 2001, I've moved seven times myself, plus another half-dozen international moves before that. Suzannehailey, I don't even want to be in your league!!

People used to ask me incredulously how I managed moving internationally so much, and I'd just stare at them blankly: "How do I do it? I... just.... do it." I mean really, it's only an international move!

I've had an epiphany in the last year or so, and now, when people ask me incredulously how I manage, I look at them with madness brimming in my eyes, clutch my hair, and run, screaming into the distance: "Aaaaaagggghhhhh!!!"

So, that's how things are going this year.

Like Suzannehailey, I'm always buying stuff with an eye to either 1) how well it will hold up for the next 15 moves or 2) how easy will it be to toss when we're at the limit of our weight allowance.

And, like Writing, I have long dreamed of painting the walls in my home something besides either hospital white or butter yellow (the current selection and not nearly so nice as one might imagine).

With this move, I realized I just could not take muddy handprints on butter yellow walls for the next three years. I've always hesitated to paint before now because the State Department rules are you have to return everything to its original color before you leave. Like I want to do that while packing out, selling a car, getting my children's school records and wondering if the movers have packed up our passports the last few weeks that we're in country.

But now, here we are in Costa Rica, home of $2 per hour labor. Maybe, just maybe, I could afford to get at least a few walls painted. And then unpainted in a few years.

I even got my friend who's an artist to help me pick out a wonderful summery green for the living room (to coordinate with the State-Department-provided furniture) and a distant gentle blue for the kitchen (to coordinate both with the living room next door and the tiles on the wall in the kitchen).

It was going to be beautiful. We went to the highest-end paint shop in town, showed them exactly what we wanted (a stock color from their list), and happily took home the cans of paint they mixed for us.

I didn't think to check the color ahead of time; it was a stock color. What could go wrong? Well, only one minor detail, really: they forgot to mix in the black.

This doesn't sound like much; how much black can there be in a summer green or distant blue? Plenty, that's how much. Try leaving the salt out next time you cook and you'll have an idea.

My house looked like an Easter egg explosion: penetrating fluorescent spring green in the living room (which did NOT coordinate with the furniture) and flaming in-your-face baby blue in the kitchen. Which coordinated with even less than the green. And they both look awful with the butter yellow that’s everywhere else. A preschool would not have put up with this color scheme.

But I did, have, do. Sigh. My Spanish was bad enough I couldn't even tell the painters to stop or go to the store and fix it. Yet another incentive to learn Spanish.

After about a week, I couldn't take it any more and decided to pick out my own color of paint at HiperMas, the local version of Wal-Mart. I reasoned that it couldn’t possibly be any worse.

Ha. The only problem is that color is to me what music is to a person who’s tone-deaf. Somehow, I thought that chocolate purple would blend well with the fluorescent spring green which was afflicting my living room (and which, due to time constraints, was there to stay).

That’s right, chocolate purple. Not chocolate brown, or eggplant purple; a marriage of the two. Not a happy marriage either. I’m just waiting to see which one gets custody of the green.

And this color covers acres and acres and acres of my home: front entry hall; guest bathroom; the vast, uncharted regions of the walls in my kitchen (which are large enough to make many movie houses salivate); and the stairway. It’s everywhere. In a generous light, it reminds me a bit of painted New Mexican adobe. A bit. OK, not really. And by the time I got everything painted twice, my household effects had arrived and there was no way I was going to repaint and unpack at the same time. So spring green and chocolate purple are here to stay.

I guess it’s good I tried this little experiment here, where paint and labor are cheap, and I’ll only be living for two more years (and 2 months, but who’s counting?). I’ve learned some valuable lessons about painting from this: never, never, never buy anything but shiny latex if your children are under the age of 35; and always, always, always use the Ralph Lauren color schemes. Don’t get creative.

In the meantime, the chocolate purple hides handprints admirably (bike tire prints still show up. Don’t ask), and I’m working frantically to cover the walls of the kitchen with my kids’ artwork. In another couple of years, I shouldn’t even be able to see the color.

Of course by then it’ll be time to repaint. Butter yellow, here I come!

My Children in Encounters with World Leaders

The embassy wife — Wed, 01 Apr 2009 06:15:56 GMT

Actually, there have been only two encounters, and for the safety of the free world, I think we’re all glad. I read an account once of a homeschooled child who’d intrigued former-President Clinton enough with his questions that Clinton had spent fifteen minutes discussing world affairs with him. You know it wasn’t like that for us.

Our first encounter was last spring in Zagreb when President Bush passed through. He and Secretary of State Rice graciously agreed to host a “meet-and-greet” for Embassy employees and family members: they would come out, President Bush would make a few remarks, take some pictures with the Embassy children, and then shake hands and visit briefly (across a security line, of course!) with the rest of us.

Well, to start with, my middle one came down with an ear infection the day before. When this one gets sick, well, you sort of wish it were the end of the world: lying on the ground, screaming uncontrollably, wailing, whining…… See how happy he is in the picture? This was before we learned not to feed him wheat and milk too, so it was really bad. And I, wise mother that I am, decided to take him along anyway. Really, I wasn’t missing this for the world and I didn’t have a babysitter. I did feel very sorry for him, but honestly thought we could make it through the morning. Ha and double ha.

So, I crammed him full of antibiotics, we all got up around 4:30 a.m. so we could get to the hotel by 6:00 for an 8 a.m. meet-and-greet. You can already imagine how much fun we’re having. My husband was working, and had been all night, so I was on my own with a toddler, a sick Kindergartener, and a 7-year-old.

Of course we were running late, so I ended up sprinting about a half mile down Zagreb’s cobblestoned streets, in heels, pushing a one-child stroller containing two children so we could catch the shuttle bus. I later found out that that’s when I tore the cartilage in my right knee. That was the best part of the day.

I will draw a veil over that two hour wait, except to say that an hour before Bush was scheduled to come out, all the children were lined up on the bleachers behind the security cordon where the picture with Bush would be taken. Did you get that? AN HOUR! Sixty wiggly kids, aged 10 to 1 year. My middle one, of course, was lying on the floor next to the bleachers, wailing, and my youngest was wandering around at will behind the security line. I couldn’t get to them, of course, and the Secret Service guys looked alternately annoyed and like they were going to arrest my kids.

I don’t THINK it was my littlest who was rolling on the floor in front of the podium during the President’s speech, but I wasn’t close enough to know for sure. I do know it was my middle one who was crying the whole time. In the end, only the oldest made it in the picture, and as soon as the kids were released from the bleachers and Bush started shaking hands, the middle one started crying at a level designed to split living rock. I, of course, ignored him completely because I was getting such great pictures of the President.

Bush, apparently has either more compassion or less tolerance for screaming than I do. In the picture is the President looking for the source of that unholy noise -- my son. He took my middle one by the hand, said, “Oh, poor thing. Where’s your mama?” Mama is still ignoring him, but pulls herself together enough to push up to the front of the security cordon to retrieve her small child – who by this time has, she suspects, wiped his nose on the President’s sleeve. Bush handed him up to me, patted him on the back and tried to comfort him, and I tried really hard to look clever and intelligent while I shook his hand, balanced a screaming child on my hip, surreptitiously looked for snot stains on his suit, and wondered if the President were going to catch whatever it was Timothy had.

Later, I got a lovely picture of Secretary Rice talking to my friend Trish. But the most interesting part of this picture is the background. See that yellow-headed kid pelting along and being body blocked by three different Secret Service agents? Yup, that’s my boy! And I didn’t take any more pictures of the littlest one because he’d taken off most of his clothes and was running around in his underwear.

Definitely a day to remember.

Fast forward to Vice President Biden’s visit yesterday. In comparison to last year, this was very heaven. I still, insanely enough, wore heels – maybe I was hoping for a matched set of torn cartilage?

Again, I was on my own with three kids because my husband was working. But this time, we only had to wait an hour and a half. We were also at the Very Front, as in, my kids kept knocking over the supports for the security cordon. Yes, this made the Secret Service Very Happy. During most of Biden’s speech, the middle one, once again, lay down on the ground – not sick, just ran out of Wheaties and I ran out of snacks. Unfortunately, this is a common occurrence for him. At least there was no screaming this time. Unfortunately, I couldn’t do much about him because the littlest one was either sitting on the ground trying to pull my pants off (and almost succeeding because I only had an elastic waistband!) or insisting, loudly, that he be held.

When Biden came around to shake hands, my oldest was so polite, remembered to hold out the correct hand, and I think even remembered to look Biden in the eye. The middle one had managed to sit up, but wasn’t even giving out name, rank, and serial number. When Biden politely asked his name, he just looked at the ground. I’m still powerless because I’m holding a three-year-old, and we haven’t yet worked up to the level of obeying voice commands. So Biden cheerfully said, “Well, if you won’t look up here, I’ll just come down here,” and then crouched down and carried on a pleasant conversation with Timothy.

Wheels Up Party!!

The embassy wife — Tue, 31 Mar 2009 08:50:31 GMT

The Embassy's been busy lately -- for a month or so -- getting ready for Vice-President Biden's visit. He arrived yesterday and left today. I don't even know how to estimate the number of overtime hours put in at the Embassy (and at his hotel) preparing for his visit: the Embassy is not only the primary liaison between his staff and the host government, it's also the primary back-up plan for everything from communications to medical needs to, well, everything.

Some Embassy Wives haven't seen their spouses basically since the visit was announced about a month ago.

But the nice thing about his visit was that he and Dr. Biden offered to do a "meet-and-greet" with Embassy employees and family members at the Embassy this morning. His schedule only allowed for 30 minutes, but he and his wife spent close to an hour with us, shaking hands, taking pictures, signing baseballs, and making sure that every kid who wanted one got an autograph.

He also gave a lovely speech that made every one of us in the crowd feel not just proud to be in government service (ask any military wife: it ain't just the working spouses that are in government service!); he made us feel warmly appreciated for our talents and dedication, and he singled out the military folks and peace corps volunteers among us for special recognition. And, I think he won my vote forever more when he thanked us Embassy Wives -- from the Ambassador's wife on down -- for what we do. He spoke about how, as difficult as the diplomat's job can be, the wives and stay-at-home spouses sometimes have an even more difficult job in making a home in often difficult situations overseas.

I don't know what your political leanings are, but you can know this about Vice President Biden: he is a really, genuinely nice guy. Much nicer than even an expert politician needs to be. I saw it for myself, and my husband reports that everyone who worked with Biden here (whether they came from Washington or were working here) says the same thing: Vice President and Dr. Biden are just nice.

All that said, I just have to also add that, given the amount of work that went in to preparing for this visit, I have strong reason to believe there are wheels-up parties going on all over San Jose tonight.

I'd be throwing one myself if I weren't so tired.