tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60693545111676467792024-02-20T06:01:50.721-05:00Recovered Third Culture KidMusings about an international life. http://kazakhstanii.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06243506639327162419noreply@blogger.comBlogger488125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069354511167646779.post-18040498652685264142022-09-01T13:16:00.001-04:002022-09-07T09:24:16.694-04:00The TCK Who Spread Her Wings, and Passed Them to her Daughter. <p> </p><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh-O1kWfy6pK6S0XJOTXLpCNKtLup56KcrhfF9WgVytgpLXSkaFMMtsyZ17ZbdKAUXUSwTRKyihS_9OEcND7SiO2Wwg9_zUci5GuKLIV2LNIatOYWR33qhyN-U9FxMjSl16JnQuMuyunDD5b6dRynXkpmzemriInkSPMAAB77uhuwLi_O4LmWzWBKSHA/s960/Mel%20Birthday%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="958" data-original-width="960" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh-O1kWfy6pK6S0XJOTXLpCNKtLup56KcrhfF9WgVytgpLXSkaFMMtsyZ17ZbdKAUXUSwTRKyihS_9OEcND7SiO2Wwg9_zUci5GuKLIV2LNIatOYWR33qhyN-U9FxMjSl16JnQuMuyunDD5b6dRynXkpmzemriInkSPMAAB77uhuwLi_O4LmWzWBKSHA/s320/Mel%20Birthday%202.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This morning, I took my youngest daughter, Melanie (Mel, Mel-Mel,
Mel Bell) age 20, to the airport.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is
flying to Hawaii to start a new life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She has a house with three roommates, and will work as a dental
assistant until January.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At that point
she will start classes at a community college, and eventually transfer to the
University of Hawaii.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m so excited for
her, but a little bit sad (perturbed?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>annoyed?)
because, believe me, there have been plenty of naysayers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are you going to let her do that?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aren’t you worried about her?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s so dangerous!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's so far away!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s not right!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s outrageous!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What a terrible mom you are!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Okay, no one actually said that last one,
but that is the vibe I’m getting).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What
the heck?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not Timbuktu for pete’s
sake, (which is really a place!) and it’s actually (news flash) a part of the
United States.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People do live there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A lot of them. (Okay, snarky rant is over).</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYMCu-bcM6_BOX_3uin_Dj6Se_eoYTPEwIToAy9rj1yShCZL8XuSiOUCLEWYCsSwwPPtXXTwucZmOYVwKWABtkWQch7aWNJW1AtugDZYCttTg31cJL0lIIirBYX0zQapKdESmKpZWp99UfKg7GGOwaGpoRkTGATqMQTZIQGJWP0wCDIW6Y_AWJGrlIUQ/s640/Mel%20Airport.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYMCu-bcM6_BOX_3uin_Dj6Se_eoYTPEwIToAy9rj1yShCZL8XuSiOUCLEWYCsSwwPPtXXTwucZmOYVwKWABtkWQch7aWNJW1AtugDZYCttTg31cJL0lIIirBYX0zQapKdESmKpZWp99UfKg7GGOwaGpoRkTGATqMQTZIQGJWP0wCDIW6Y_AWJGrlIUQ/s320/Mel%20Airport.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It must be that TCK thing – once again I am the outlier,
hitting my head against the social norms of my birth country, experiencing cultural
homelessness, and having that pesky three-dimensional view of the world. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is it so bad that I want my kid to experience another
culture?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At least she has the added
benefit of looking like a native Hawaiian (having been born in Kazakhstan). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She visited last summer with her boyfriend,
and many people thought she was <i>kanaka</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It surprised her at first, but then became a comfort.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It totally makes sense for her to long for inclusiveness,
to not be the odd one out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe she
inherited some of my TCK DNA.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I was 18 and
graduated from high school in Singapore, my mom put me on a plane, headed to
London, to go to summer school and nanny for a family there. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we waited at the gate (the old days before
TSA) mom noticed that there was a group of athletic looking guys milling
around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She found out somehow that they
were the Dutch National Soccer team (I was flying KLM) heading home to Holland
after a tournament (Hup Hup!)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was on full mom alert, thinking about how those handsome sporty fellows were going to be interested
in me and all that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Turns out none of
them spoke English, and there was no romantic escapade where I ran off to live the
WAG* life with a dreamy Dutch footballer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><sigh><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">After mom left me, there came an announcement that the flight
would be delayed until the next morning, and we would all be given hotel rooms
for the night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could have called mom,
but, hey, why not have a night at the fancy Hyatt Regency? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I got settled for the night, I tried to
call mom to tell her my whereabouts, but there was no answer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Again and again for a couple of hours, I
called, with no response.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I finally decided to call a family friend (actually the
husband of the woman I was going to be staying with in London) to go over and
see if mom was all right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We lived in a
5-story townhouse, and, after no response to the doorbell, he proceeded to
throw pebbles at the window.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mom was in
the den with the TV turned up, and was sort of surprised to see him there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Phone calls were made to London, and all was
well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was back at the airport via bus early
the next day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Off we (finally) went.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The long-haul flight took us to Bangkok, Sri Lanka,
Pakistan, and finally to Amsterdam. I remember peering out my plane window
marveling at all these exotic places, and wishing I could hop off to explore, but
I stayed put.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(They wouldn’t let us get
off anyway). <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We arrived in Amsterdam at 1 in the morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No flights until the next day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I decided to follow the crowd from the flight,
asking questions of my fellow travelers, and found that we were to be taken to
a hotel for the rest of the night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Again,
I had a (not so fancy this time) hotel room where I half-slept and half kept
one eye on the clock, afraid I would miss the wake up call.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Back to the airport we went, and I, weary and travel-worn, finally
arrived in London. All this was waaay
before cell phones and the internet were even a twinkle in someone's eye.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
had to make <gasp> long-distance calls, or maybe send a telex (google it, kids!) I may as well have been in a
covered wagon; a very fast, air conditioned one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUDr8c8Dh1mEkI-5Khyir2xGoG4UDixko6XAXrrAdHLUaeQDyfsPbLHM7_hVLyNgJv853VsHkCrj_QhjSJVd8fTEx2KqKdA2HFCnAA5qrwej6FFnG_Bf1zo69lZiAKUxn8GqqoK4rq9-UIir6LpToHVEgRyDy8e_zK4zyqBJEVOcfrQXwIQb-ipVQVVg/s615/telex%20machines.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="390" data-original-width="615" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUDr8c8Dh1mEkI-5Khyir2xGoG4UDixko6XAXrrAdHLUaeQDyfsPbLHM7_hVLyNgJv853VsHkCrj_QhjSJVd8fTEx2KqKdA2HFCnAA5qrwej6FFnG_Bf1zo69lZiAKUxn8GqqoK4rq9-UIir6LpToHVEgRyDy8e_zK4zyqBJEVOcfrQXwIQb-ipVQVVg/s320/telex%20machines.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stone Age Telex Machines<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>After a couple of jet-lagged days, I decided to figure out the
route to my school (Richmond College).
My friend Judith drove me to the underground/bus station, said “Bye!”
and drove off. No hand holding was
done. I just marched in, bought a bus pass,
and studied the map. After a fairly long
and involved bus/tube ride, I had to walk a ways up a steep hill to the
campus. It was a Harry Potter-ish
building, ornate and stately, and I marched in, registered for my class, and checked
out the lay of the land. I was in ENGLAND! I couldn’t believe it. There was even a PUB across the street. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFr_WHp_pezUQIUjDODt2qW_mfqmn74_mKbE7V9c8tQYGAPkcQKMUXWz_ReBqUl7-BBWFvEMvENIhuS_aGI7cEV4NIK7XAMA2P37iqV4mFtHovw7LfFaO9pJ1WY3q_MmyhfbpAANdaT6mwUGE1i0TEHb-418oK8dwM7mRJl8sgBNdsH_3S7-YF3fPtjQ/s1024/RichmondtheAmericanInternationalUniversityinLondon_img1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="555" data-original-width="1024" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFr_WHp_pezUQIUjDODt2qW_mfqmn74_mKbE7V9c8tQYGAPkcQKMUXWz_ReBqUl7-BBWFvEMvENIhuS_aGI7cEV4NIK7XAMA2P37iqV4mFtHovw7LfFaO9pJ1WY3q_MmyhfbpAANdaT6mwUGE1i0TEHb-418oK8dwM7mRJl8sgBNdsH_3S7-YF3fPtjQ/s320/RichmondtheAmericanInternationalUniversityinLondon_img1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Richmond College</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal">My motto ever since then has been “Worrying about The Thing
is far worse than the Actual Thing”. I
had worried about the trip and the adjustment for weeks beforehand. As the journey, with all its warts, was under
way, I realized that this was easy! I
had made it. What was the worst thing
that could have happened? Other than
being bumped to a hotel, twice. The eye
candy in the form of European soccer players didn’t hurt either. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Before long I was a pro at riding the double decker bus
through London, past Kew Gardens, to Richmond.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The ticket-seller and I became friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I took a Sociology class from an American
professor, with two other classmates, one being a member of the Bahraini royal
family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One day when I was only one to
show up, the professor told me that it was common for assassins to throw bombs
into the classroom of a target, sometimes royalty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thanks; I'm never coming back (but I did). <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The prince kept to himself, driving past me in the rain, in his tricked-out I-Roc Camaro, which was not at all out of place on the streets of London. (Sarcasm). I stood at the lowly bus stop as he hit a puddle and water sprayed all over me. He never said a word, or
even looked in my direction. Interesting guy. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In the afternoons, I would fetch the two children, Rupert and Clare, at their schools, walk them home and make lunch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We went to the neighborhood park, where I
taught them to make daisy chains.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
were sweet kids, and I really enjoyed taking care of them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The whole summer, before college, was an
eye-opening, exhilarating and insightful experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I may or may not have met a dishy British guy
named Patrick who swept me off my feet. Turned out the only good thing about
him was his accent, so lesson learned! <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I suppose when Melanie broached the idea of moving to Hawaii
I was, at first a little skeptical.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
as we spoke, I remembered my 18-year-old self, having had the opportunity to travel
literally half-way across the globe, alone, and learn to be an adult and do The
Thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most non-TCK people would be
skeptical or shocked that I would send my kid off across an ocean. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But to me, it was something that Mel needed to
do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She needed to experience The Thing herself, perhaps run into roadblocks and one-way streets, and learn how to navigate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Will it be hard?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Will we get teary phone calls?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
allowing her to spread those wings is the most important gift that I can give her,
just like the gift my parents gave me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those
wings I had were more valuable than gold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think they will look just perfect on my daughter.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Aloha, Melanie!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSmPJwo11Rm__UkXOLOYRzFZNS2Qi46LJkSsmMMWWwkt0HJ5h92ypHuMq5iB067ubkv1AAxfgsOIePGhdWEcN8VoKtVOz7LeYlqsdGxljdp2M4HZJl2ahvdK2mHcBXAl1axXsgCvC3R6lwZLxKLQZpozSMsuSthGXnECV4W_uJS61q1v4MBqAq5eZ__A/s800/beach-tropical-maui-hawaii-12058991.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="523" data-original-width="800" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSmPJwo11Rm__UkXOLOYRzFZNS2Qi46LJkSsmMMWWwkt0HJ5h92ypHuMq5iB067ubkv1AAxfgsOIePGhdWEcN8VoKtVOz7LeYlqsdGxljdp2M4HZJl2ahvdK2mHcBXAl1axXsgCvC3R6lwZLxKLQZpozSMsuSthGXnECV4W_uJS61q1v4MBqAq5eZ__A/s320/beach-tropical-maui-hawaii-12058991.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">*Wives and Girlfriends<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>http://kazakhstanii.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06243506639327162419noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069354511167646779.post-40998177133981143862022-06-28T09:33:00.003-04:002022-06-28T12:17:53.573-04:00The TCK and the Loss of a Friend<p> </p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnHH0UG0RnkP9oEze4VQLZH5MGCaY-DzTAgDQ4L6tNX7nQQnUvnljKf6nTYnG-t5pFnKCCy6-0DI1XM2OFviqhqfnMPHqJSVQojwCPWjfaTF5QUQ8jemvH3ivRpOXZ4XZvaGmr0qXrugw5Gz8BKuj4IoRD8P0gwePmwFdYP1R0NDgWCBwO6m3kMptHbA/s604/Mike%20Sellers.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="468" data-original-width="604" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnHH0UG0RnkP9oEze4VQLZH5MGCaY-DzTAgDQ4L6tNX7nQQnUvnljKf6nTYnG-t5pFnKCCy6-0DI1XM2OFviqhqfnMPHqJSVQojwCPWjfaTF5QUQ8jemvH3ivRpOXZ4XZvaGmr0qXrugw5Gz8BKuj4IoRD8P0gwePmwFdYP1R0NDgWCBwO6m3kMptHbA/s320/Mike%20Sellers.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />I received the very sad news that a dear old friend from high school died this morning. I knew he was very ill for a while; nevertheless, the news of his passing was a shock. I reached out to other friends to express my sadness, but I still need a way to express how special he was to me. Not in a romantic way, but in a way that I will always remember as a close friendship with a kind, funny, friendly guy who always radiated happiness and positivity. He had a million friends in high school, so I don't claim to be anyone special, but he was special to me. <p></p><p>It was a long, long time go that I first met Mike. The chronology is a little fuzzy, but I believe it was sophomore year. He was a year behind me, but we ended up in a Science Fiction class together, Miss Ambrosio was our teacher (the tiny details your brain hangs onto!) Somehow we paired up to do a project. The subject I can't remember, but it involved a slide show and a tape recorder; a "science-y" story or script of a radio play. There was an image of sun-dappled water in a swimming pool. Mike used to come to my house, or we'd sometimes meet at his, where we would brainstorm ideas until we had a pretty good result, we thought. </p><p>My house was in Forbes, his in Urdaneta, (for those who remember) and he used to walk me home from his house, or at least accompany me to the main road catch a cab (some things I don't remember). One time he invited me to a youth group get-together, sponsored by Union Church. My family belonged to a different church, but I looked forward to the meeting. His lovely mom welcomed me into the house, and was so cheery and sweet, welcoming me warmly to the group. I can remember her face so clearly. We played a game, where we held a piece of newspaper behind our backs and tried to tear out the shape of a muscial note. I must be pretty dexterous, because I "won" the game. </p><p>Later on, maybe my junior year, I tried out for the spring musical, "Hello Dolly". I met this really cute guy during tryouts, and we dated for a while. He was one of the leads, and I was in the chorus. It was a heady time for me, as he was pretty popular, and teen-idol cute. Right before the play's production, he broke up with me; terrible timing. Mike was part of the stage crew and he knew what was going on. I was clearly sad and mopey, sitting alone in the dark auditorium during breaks in the rehearsals. He would come sit by me and offer a shoulder. </p><p>One evening after play practice at the theater, we walked to the highway together (EDSA, for those who were there) to catch cabs to go home. As we waited, a car with one headlight approached, and Mike said "PERDIDDLE!" and gave me a peck on the cheek. I had never heard of this little game .. how fun!</p><p>My family was moving out of the country after Christmas. I went to the Winter Formal with Mike's best friend. In the meantime, Mike had fallen hard for the beautiful girl who eventually became his wife. I was trying to get Mike's attention to say good bye, but he was completely focused on his new girlfriend. It was a sad evening for me, to be leaving all my friends and the school I had come to love, but I tried to be a good sport for my date. I hope I wasn't bad company.</p><p>Many, many years later, I ran into Mike at a reunion in San Jose. I was so happy to see him so happy with his high school sweetheart (and with 6 children!) He still remembered my blue eyes (full disclosure, they were blue contacts all along!) He was still the funny, friends-with-everyone guy of my memories.</p><p>I can't put into words the grief and the sense of loss we have for classmates from our TCK lives who have left this world. For some reason the bonds we share with these friends are stronger and more intense than most. Probably because of the unusual circumstances in which we lived, and our having been immersed in the vibrant and exotic cultural antithesis of the all-American teenager. The In Memoriam list from IS Manila has grown far, far too long, and even though I know these losses will happen more and more as time marches on, it helps to know that we can share our sorrow with our barkada*. We once again gather together (albeit digitally) to mourn and reflect, and remember. We will never forget. </p><p>Fair winds and following seas, Mike ... Thanks for the special memories that I will always cherish. You were unique in so many ways, and completely unforgettable. My heart breaks for the ones you left behind; I wish for them peace, and that they will find some comfort in their memories of you, a great man. </p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4r63K8Lu-ps0Y_83DDXNU4xOyCrFMNQvajeV02uZYmU2a9g9VxedZNMF8IuUaePldsZip8mvcmBVkcFeHZyBdURj0G6OhfLhFRklXdO6WzTxKL4P-RXD2adnEfDGWUtEybpn2lo1jc6bXf1xg-f1HVCVQwNvMAfCCSX8q_xiipXZGfXO2lUqLlrXzvQ/s764/Mike%20Metamorphosis.PNG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="764" data-original-width="604" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4r63K8Lu-ps0Y_83DDXNU4xOyCrFMNQvajeV02uZYmU2a9g9VxedZNMF8IuUaePldsZip8mvcmBVkcFeHZyBdURj0G6OhfLhFRklXdO6WzTxKL4P-RXD2adnEfDGWUtEybpn2lo1jc6bXf1xg-f1HVCVQwNvMAfCCSX8q_xiipXZGfXO2lUqLlrXzvQ/s320/Mike%20Metamorphosis.PNG" width="253" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We kinda had the same weird sense of humor. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>*group of friends</p>http://kazakhstanii.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06243506639327162419noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069354511167646779.post-68720495820049173492022-01-19T10:27:00.002-05:002022-01-19T10:28:19.986-05:00An Oldie But a Goodie<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Just moseying through my blog, and found this one from 2011 that I never published. Enjoy!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgq5mesPP56CLqEqVKHloj72iuewYNY-sh8NE5v3jlzHdDRcI9DdACyat62V_1igZzzTfjR0AKqhR-w2h-rR1VkR0JkyQ-_uhlGlh4F-1oYfGz9ZPrPccQV51DTpaN5LV5_EP5I7nL8RWMi2pblYnd_tmo9KOb2pD1yoyniWSr_Cja9EErY-M835M-FQw=s604" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="604" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgq5mesPP56CLqEqVKHloj72iuewYNY-sh8NE5v3jlzHdDRcI9DdACyat62V_1igZzzTfjR0AKqhR-w2h-rR1VkR0JkyQ-_uhlGlh4F-1oYfGz9ZPrPccQV51DTpaN5LV5_EP5I7nL8RWMi2pblYnd_tmo9KOb2pD1yoyniWSr_Cja9EErY-M835M-FQw=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br />Let's see, when we last met our intrepid heroine, (am I a heroine?) she was sitting in an empty apartment, movers poised to scoop up her stuff and send her off to points west. (Go west young woman!) After a <i>very</i> long several days of driving, she arrived at her destination in the land of tumbleweeds, cowboy boots and armadillos, as did her household goods (after a few hiccups). Presently she headed even further west for her pre-honeymoon in Hawaii, after which she and her beloved headed to Wyoming where they tied the ceremonial knot and are now betrothed for all time. And here she sits.<div><br />
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</div><div>I am a frequent reader of several message boards for Third Culture Kids, and I'm always on the lookout for a blog topic. Yesterday was the move-in day for freshman at Trinity University, where I matriculated all those years ago. It made me think about my feelings on that day in 1978, when my parents loaded up my two suitcases and the thousand pounds of Sears Roebuck purchases (bed sheets, clip-on reading lamp, etc.) into a borrowed Suburban and dropped me off. I tried not to think about mom and dad returning very soon to Singapore, which may as well have been on another planet. In one way I was excited about shedding the parental rules and regulations that had been such a big part of my life up until then, but on the other hand I was still a little girl inside, needing my parents to just "be there" for me, even though I didn't want them to "be there" too much. One day after cavorting all over campus attending one orientation function or another, I returned to my dorm room to find that mom and dad had been by to see me, and had left a note. I knelt down on the floor next to my bed and sobbed my heart out that I had missed them. I knew the days were short that they were in my immediate vicinity and I was bereft. It was a one time thing, though ... soon enough I was immersed in social activities. My suitemate, Sarah, and I went walking around one evening, looking for a card game. We met a couple of guys from the dorm across the way, and ended up playing blackjack in their room. They had all the latest music playing, Foreigner, Boston, Aerosmith. They laughed at me when I said I had never heard of these groups. And laughed again when I told them I had no drivers' license. "What kind of rube are you?" they were thinking, I'm sure! </div><div><br />
</div><div>One of the guys was from Staten Island. He was as much a fish out of water in Texas as I was. He was a nice Jewish boy, going to a Presbyterian college far away from home. For some reason, we both felt (I found out later) that we had met before. It was an instant friendship, and quickly became an instant romance. We were joined at the hip, going on a tubing trip down the Comal River, and eating lunch and dinner in the refectory. When he feigned ignorance about doing laundry ("how much water do you put in the machine?") I offered to help, but I was just as helpless as he was. I managed to turn all his underwear pink. (Well jeez, I always had a "lavanderia" do all my laundry!)</div><div><br />
</div><div>We went to a football game one night, we we sat an discussed our future plans. He told me he was pre-med, and I took his hands and told him they were surgeon's hands. (Cheesy much?) He tried to teach me how to drive in his enormous green Cadillac, but gave up pretty quickly. He took me to concerts (Boston and Aerosmith) and tried to educate me on all that I had missed living overseas. He made me play "Double Vision" over and over and taught me to love Foreigner and Joe Jackson. ("He's so ugly!") We ate at McDonald's and Wendy's and my indoctrination into the life of an American teenager was complete. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Every Sunday my roommate got a call from her parents in Illinois. My phone calls were once a month, if that. I had to learn to do things on my own, like make a doctor's appointment, make plane reservations to go home at Christmas, shop for groceries. I had to budget the $50.00 per month that was my allowance. It was complete immersion, and boy did I learn a lot. </div><div><br />
</div><div>I will tell you the end of the story: that boy from Staten Island, who held my hand as I swam through the early months of "re-entry" to the states, and held me when I cried with homesickness (where was home really?) is now my husband ... a small miracle for this Third Culture Kid. How did we get here? How did this happen? You can't make up this stuff!</div><div><br />
</div><div>So to all you new freshman, TCK or not, good luck on your new journey. College is an easing-in stage of life. You will learn not only academics, but the ways of the world. Sometimes the world hurts you, a lot, but sometimes you will want to embrace it and jump for joy! You are so lucky that you can now Skype with mom or dad or whomever, even if they are on the other side of the world. At any rate, enjoy! and take life by the tail!</div><div><br />
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</div></div></div>http://kazakhstanii.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06243506639327162419noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069354511167646779.post-75857268770352644942020-07-01T11:48:00.000-04:002020-07-01T11:48:22.588-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQNDdkhyaE2w1vBa2GAPsxlmyC-P0CQU2c24efoSQIDSZgcmRzhKr92I6tPzg7_ZRP873Kswz7918TFaW-FZk3X8vtmgwiPfmDrTmbsaDdsld4l8Cv6py7ReoX0pvXiT5tzOMZI97uKJGt/s1600/COVID+image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQNDdkhyaE2w1vBa2GAPsxlmyC-P0CQU2c24efoSQIDSZgcmRzhKr92I6tPzg7_ZRP873Kswz7918TFaW-FZk3X8vtmgwiPfmDrTmbsaDdsld4l8Cv6py7ReoX0pvXiT5tzOMZI97uKJGt/s320/COVID+image.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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July 1, 2020 ... what ride it has been. I began working from home on March 13 ... and it is already July. At first I was counting the weeks, but I've let that slide; they all seem to blur together. It was a novelty, working from my study; I could get out of bed at 8:25 and be at my computer by 8:30 (in my pajamas!) All the jokes about my car getting a month to the gallon .. ha .. all the memes about the virus have started to get very stale and unfunny. I'm tired of these words: <div>
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<i>COVID-19, coronavirus, flattening the curve (or in my case, FATTENING the curve! I miss those stairs at the office!) facemasks, stay at home, front line (on which two of my children are working: grocery store and Starbucks), wash your hands, social distancing, PPP loans, CARES act ... quarantine, lockdown, hand sanitizer. </i></div>
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In February, when it looked like there was a possibility we would be working at home, one of the attorneys for whom I work asked me about some type of software to put on their laptops. She said, "If we are quarantined, we probably will need to have that". I thought, at the time, "Really? Quarantine? I don't think so." That idea was so absurd and outside any wheelhouse of which I have ever been a part. Denial is not just a river in Egypt. </div>
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Word has it that people in countries that mandate the BCG vaccination (against tuberculosis) have generally seen smaller numbers of COVID. (Footnote: It also has a fancy French name: <span style="background-color: white; color: #202122; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Bacillus Calmette–Guérin</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #202122; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">). </span>It's good to know that both daughters from Kazakhstan had the shot. (Of course, not verified by any science). Melanie was offered a 30 day LOA from Starbucks, but chose to stay on. Knock on wood, she's been healthy the whole time. Takes me back to the early days at home with her, when her TB test was positive, and she had to have a chest x-ray (ever seen how they x-ray babies?) and then a 9 month course of isoniazid. I knew that she had antibodies that caused the positivity, but the health department had to err on the side of caution. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxOIv9ezegd9NXTeA9b6oHYmiTE2iGF9qG2_K01yqJGgyD8Iwd2Yr9KFvRYLh9uBNrXsKVVrVs0lV1HUDwBsru7S64MwGtE2WIFCFREvClW8N3rRdXMW91nJcBKD5W-DKArt4EMF_rR7EC/s1600/baby+xray.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="476" data-original-width="480" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxOIv9ezegd9NXTeA9b6oHYmiTE2iGF9qG2_K01yqJGgyD8Iwd2Yr9KFvRYLh9uBNrXsKVVrVs0lV1HUDwBsru7S64MwGtE2WIFCFREvClW8N3rRdXMW91nJcBKD5W-DKArt4EMF_rR7EC/s320/baby+xray.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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My sister was very ill early in March, after a trip to Houston. Things broke out there right after her trip, and her illness had all the earmarks of COVID. She is looking at getting tested for antibodies. Every time I have a slight cough or a headache, I wonder if "this is it". </div>
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Some days I feel pretty good about things; counting my blessings. I have a house, I have food to eat, I have a job and can pay the bills. I am completely aware of how fortunate I am. I grieve for those in the service industries, for those who can't pay the rent, who are out of a job, who are hopeless and have real fears for the future. I wish I could open my house to everyone who is in trouble. It is astounding and tragic what is happening to my country, to my world. This isn't just us Americans .. it's the entire planet. My husband always said the end of the world would probably come in the form of a virus. Don't think I haven't battled dark thoughts on a regular basis, probably like most of us. </div>
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Other days I feel anxious and caged. My mom has had some health issues ... her 90 year old heart finally said, "I'm tired! I can't go on any more!" A trio of medications and a procedure have worked together to keep her ticker behaving, but my sister and I are at the precipice of losing our mother. I don't mean to be morbid, but we all are going to die someday; it's not something you can avoid. On the way to the hospital the first time (there have been three admissions in a month) she was telling me who to give her stuff to. Not now, mom, not now. </div>
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On the bright side: my daughter Lisa got married! Even in the middle of all "this". The virus curve flattened just enough for her to have a small wedding in North Carolina, before it un-flattened again right afterwards. It was beyond emotional for me to see how she has blossomed into a beautiful woman. How far she has come since 2001, when we crossed oceans to meet her and make her a part of our family. She also graduated from college (such as it was .. no ceremony of course) and starts the new season of her life as a Mrs. They are still so very young and have a lot of life experience to face together, but I am confident they will be fine. Saying that I'm proud is a massive understatement. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcfbCOXhMaD3oKDaONz4pXMnZ1IJB59aqUm4KnUKkykeCOPr_480OopfpdsawMGdzULCnxWVqTzdM6O4WfqnGjbIpQ6hgxW_nLeuwH88v-4hwlzLT-9OPkdB-32mSVuEN3HF3C3syES0gi/s1600/Christian+Mom+Wedding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="1169" height="147" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcfbCOXhMaD3oKDaONz4pXMnZ1IJB59aqUm4KnUKkykeCOPr_480OopfpdsawMGdzULCnxWVqTzdM6O4WfqnGjbIpQ6hgxW_nLeuwH88v-4hwlzLT-9OPkdB-32mSVuEN3HF3C3syES0gi/s320/Christian+Mom+Wedding.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMqbwlbnkOVRFkdAWPPbl5UCahrF9Co2VW3oYUVZRj_XO6ZO_D13znR43cwZYIgCwWIq4nUv_8dh6-Ky3wAjwoGSEx9Mxmx1zWcQpKtDzDzqJlYwGqSeeI6xt2y0ZyQRuxl3rXDySc2A2U/s1600/Lisa+Wddding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="527" data-original-width="526" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMqbwlbnkOVRFkdAWPPbl5UCahrF9Co2VW3oYUVZRj_XO6ZO_D13znR43cwZYIgCwWIq4nUv_8dh6-Ky3wAjwoGSEx9Mxmx1zWcQpKtDzDzqJlYwGqSeeI6xt2y0ZyQRuxl3rXDySc2A2U/s320/Lisa+Wddding.jpg" width="319" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I've never seen two people more excited to be married!<br /><br /></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitSivyzNp8IT4cdM0v_9HzRQb1TLxqHLbthxfysCUlXhJzyfhBY8O0Ntn5YTMg2rspZfSWypcMCNcCymhZnlxl1x_72vN8ySv9nWWF7RRlMr0E-MPuoedmHbH-95_qNsPGloCdIR_Vd4Zr/s1600/Lisa+Preston+Engagement.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitSivyzNp8IT4cdM0v_9HzRQb1TLxqHLbthxfysCUlXhJzyfhBY8O0Ntn5YTMg2rspZfSWypcMCNcCymhZnlxl1x_72vN8ySv9nWWF7RRlMr0E-MPuoedmHbH-95_qNsPGloCdIR_Vd4Zr/s320/Lisa+Preston+Engagement.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Engagement party!</td></tr>
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The next big event is Melanie's 18th birthday! We are trying to find something special to do for her, but things look pretty dour. Some day I want to take her back to Kazakhstan, and I always earmarked it for after she turned 18. Not this year ... but she WILL be celebrated in some fashion or another. </div>
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There have been many other difficult family issues that I won't hang out with the laundry for the world to see. Everything is magnified because of the virus and the current lockdown. I am usually able to keep my depression demons at bay, but they seem to be more and more insistent on letting themselves in. It is a daily struggle to pull myself up by the proverbial boot straps, and put one foot in front of the other. I know I'm not alone in this. I am an eternal optimist, on the whole, but "this" is a real life suck. On the other hand, our four dogs think that everything is great! Our people are here all the time! Awesome. Ah, to live life like a dog. To love unconditionally, and to be ecstatic and tail-wagging at the mere sound of the door opening and the people you adore walking in the door. </div>
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It seems a lifetime since I was in the Philippines. I shudder when I think about the virus knocking on the door while I was there. Mother Nature was like, "Volcano, shmolcano. I'll show you a natural disaster!" News from Manila paints a dark picture of containing the virus there; the density of the city is a giant petri dish of transmission. The news is bad, bad, bad.</div>
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Bottom line ... My TCK barkada has been able to stay connected through social media; we look at pictures from January, and marvel at how long ago that seems. Every post or reach-out by one of my friends is a tiny beacon of hope. It's good to know our third culture is robust and connected. We are all so different, but so much the same. It is comforting to have a "place" where we belong, belonging being something that was so elusive to us when we were young. </div>
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http://kazakhstanii.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06243506639327162419noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069354511167646779.post-30565748108196827702020-02-15T19:46:00.000-05:002020-04-28T21:37:55.231-04:00A Trip To Manila ... and Finding My Home<div class="MsoNormal">
NOTE: most of the photos here are my own, others were shamelessly borrowed from friends, or attributed to the owner when possible.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcVMZA6I7CcTluQOJzWQmQgtxMg0ESpkkSuVIVmwjHqheSug-es1b8N84Esa-9N4roYnaE5pvdOyu9mAj3A1cRpcRpvK2LuqRyLw4XE-SOinNBrS9ywwi7hu7_UaFkIDL3h5wH9Brke1hR/s1600/NAIA.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1375" data-original-width="1488" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcVMZA6I7CcTluQOJzWQmQgtxMg0ESpkkSuVIVmwjHqheSug-es1b8N84Esa-9N4roYnaE5pvdOyu9mAj3A1cRpcRpvK2LuqRyLw4XE-SOinNBrS9ywwi7hu7_UaFkIDL3h5wH9Brke1hR/s320/NAIA.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Welcome to Manila!!</td></tr>
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So, Liz, your “Recovered Third Culture Kid” fans are waiting
with bated breath to hear about your trip!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’m sure your jet lag has passed by now; what the heck is taking you so
long?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
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I’m glad you asked! Yes, the dragon-like,
multi-horned and scaly, hideous beast that is jet lag has been permanently
exorcised from my brain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t
remember it being quite the soporific, coma-inducing incubus that it was before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No amount of sleeping potions would make me
sleep at night; but oh boy would I sleep during the day! It finally, finally
left the night before I was to return to work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A reparative, delicious slumber. <o:p></o:p><br />
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How to begin?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My dear
husband unfortunately had to stay behind due to illness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I missed him so much, and longed to share my
feelings and reactions to being in the Philippines with him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were able to stay in touch due to modern
technology: a wonder of telecommunications called Viber.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Somewhere over the North Pole (or Russia)</td></tr>
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On the 3<sup>rd</sup> of January, I flew from Austin to
Detroit, Detroit to Seoul, and Seoul to Manila.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Let me tell ya, those Koreans have made life so much easier for
long-haul travelers. I don’t know about you, but there’s something about a
14-hour flight that makes you want to de-louse when you touch down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is it the pressurized air that you
breathe?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The exhalations of strangers
around you that cause the accumulation of that unnamed, insidious muck that
covers you when you arrive?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What is
it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had heard that there were showers
at Incheon Airport … and I was on a heat-seeking mission to find them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I did!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Up in the transit lounge, you walk in, grab a towel and find an empty
shower room (hopefully the person in the occupied ones remembered to lock the
door!) and … glorious, cleansing, steaming water to wash away your travel
sludge. Every damn airport in the world should have them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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As we were landing in Manila, I was riveted to the window,
watching the night city sparkle nearer and nearer, and wowed to myself at the
lights floating on Manila Bay. By that time I was so tired, and ready to be
there, but the adrenaline was doing its thing, and I was giddy with anticip …</div>
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<o:p></o:p>... ation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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My dear classmate Norbie had volunteered to do the airport
retrieval for lots of us; thank you so much for making my arrival so
painless!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Manila Peninsula is still
there; it was where my parents and I stayed in 1978, when we flew back from
Singapore for my graduation from IS Manila. I saw the balcony above the lobby
where my boyfriend and I had said a sad goodbye.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Truth: he was a blind date a friend had set
me up with for the senior prom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had a
very fast (less than a week!) and intense relationship!)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
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The next morning, I met up with the four Mulcahy sisters – I
had been friends with Mary, and when Mitch was unable to come, I asked if I
could be a Mulcahy for the week, and they happily “adopted” me!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Thank you sissies! </span>We went on a walk to a small open-air market
with a group, led by our fearless leader, Rick Velayo, the Kissing Bandit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You may ask .. WTH? I’ll tell you! Rick has
created this persona that has lasted through the years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He told me once that long ago, someone was
taking a picture of him and a classmate, and as the count went down, three,
two, one, he suddenly shifted and kissed her on the cheek, making a photograph
that lives in infamy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He gives you a
kiss on the cheek and you win a button!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> T</span>he KB lives on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I personally have accumulated two or three
buttons over the years at reunions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s
all aboveboard, get your mind out of the gutter. We all love Rick. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And now he’s famous! <o:p></o:p><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI9cQ1Ao0KSRcnTmgh2gFMliuK2rD5bROWGOja26XwBsQih-W3ygxj62JEu0WUR1Kl6ESGT4Pa_GccZLtyYT5YQmaCaPaFGMzbjpEzInaPIMC7S5eWTqo-buWKSMkXioUmmE8eOoC0VZHB/s1600/Karaoke+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1600" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI9cQ1Ao0KSRcnTmgh2gFMliuK2rD5bROWGOja26XwBsQih-W3ygxj62JEu0WUR1Kl6ESGT4Pa_GccZLtyYT5YQmaCaPaFGMzbjpEzInaPIMC7S5eWTqo-buWKSMkXioUmmE8eOoC0VZHB/s320/Karaoke+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With the Kissing Bandit, and old friend Russell S.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I can’t remember every single thing we did; my brain was in
a whirl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember shopping at
Greenhills (north of Manila) and going a party at a friend’s house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another friend was happy to lend me his
driver (I know, I know, only a TCK would think that was normal!) to drive by my
old house on Cambridge Circle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not the
same house any more, sadly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like I said
before, a slight tropical breeze would have knocked it over back when we were
living there; no surprise it’s been replaced.</div>
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There was lots of sitting in the lobby meeting up with old
friends and new ones; chismis-ing (chatting in Tagalog) and just enjoying being
there. The conversations easily flowed like silk, smooth and comfortable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was an eclectic mixup of all the hundreds
of people from Facebook that I had only known in pictures, and the ones I did
know, either from school or reunions. There were squeals and hugs and Oh my
god!s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The peninsula became chismis
central … a meeting place, a drinking place, a remember when place, all serenaded
by the tinkling of the keys from a piano on the mezzanine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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On Sunday there was merienda at the lovely home of our
guidance counselor, Vicky SyCip Herrera.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What can I say about Vicky?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
has been the glue of our school; she taught us Composition and later became a
counselor. There was something about her that I’ve never seen in a guidance
office here in the states.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She and her
crew knew how to deal with us TCKs and all of our issues.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One friend I ran into told me the story of
how when he first moved to Manila, he was apathetic, depressed, and not eager
to go to school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He would be dropped off
in the morning and then hightail it over to a little bistro near campus and
just sit and drink beer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a few
weeks of his truancy, the school (and his parents) caught on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rather than punishing him or expelling him,
Vicky and the headmaster said, okay, we’re going to help you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’re going to get you caught up with your
classes, and encourage you, and be there for you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My friend felt that he mattered, that someone
cared about him and he responded to that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He was able to start going to classes and excelled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could say that the US could learn something
from this, but that’s too big a hole to jump into.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIr74VTnGs8sNXQYu4A45vpLiYsTgbwUuhKhrwVB5DqEAJlI-W0v_ijHZvmdoN7a998gMIGQzQcOkqc2dvPGeQ9J4nu-gVEhPeqaTWjzU9wW2AQF9CCiES3fC8OwCzeOJ9X3NSOeUPi-N4/s1600/Vicky+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="841" data-original-width="1600" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIr74VTnGs8sNXQYu4A45vpLiYsTgbwUuhKhrwVB5DqEAJlI-W0v_ijHZvmdoN7a998gMIGQzQcOkqc2dvPGeQ9J4nu-gVEhPeqaTWjzU9wW2AQF9CCiES3fC8OwCzeOJ9X3NSOeUPi-N4/s320/Vicky+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The iconic Vicky Sycip Herrera</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyyMhl1p_vVDlzXmQ4Or1ZnvteVR-tzQ12dCo1UlnbiyM7qnjEuxU1LgFWfqltN9G8K-Lhp5kZJdMpLKysOXa6alrXEMerxv9Dd0NyUxUbY682AREyQFbXPoXnVPLQ7o-E_5h7YjmP6_ih/s1600/IMG_1961.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="748" data-original-width="960" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyyMhl1p_vVDlzXmQ4Or1ZnvteVR-tzQ12dCo1UlnbiyM7qnjEuxU1LgFWfqltN9G8K-Lhp5kZJdMpLKysOXa6alrXEMerxv9Dd0NyUxUbY682AREyQFbXPoXnVPLQ7o-E_5h7YjmP6_ih/s320/IMG_1961.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I brought Vicky a copy of my book; after all I got my writing chops from her Freshman Composition class!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Vicky has a room in her house that is covered, floor to
ceiling, with pictures of her past students.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We all had fun finding ourselves (some of us – me – were horrified!) and
reminiscing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>At the end of the
afternoon, I met up with Clenia Dimanche, the widow of the priest at our
Episcopal church in Makati. The church was a short walk from Vicky’s house, and
Clenia and I meandered over there, hand in hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is one of the sweetest, most elegant
Filipina ladies that I know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The story
is that her husband, Gaby, was a Belgian Jesuit priest (Catholic) sent to teach
in a school in the Philippines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One his
students was young Clenia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They fell in
love, and he left the church to become an Episcopalian priest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had three beautiful children,
and both had a long career as the leaders of Holy Trinity church in Forbes Park
(in addition to Gaby’s career on the Board of Directors at ISManila, and at the
Brent School.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My parents and I were
faithful congregants of the church all the years we were there (okay, I was
somewhat reluctant – I was a teenager, for Pete’s sake).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was the first female acolyte there, part of
the youth group, and taught Sunday school to the little kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For all the changes in Manila, Holy Trinity
remains the same, a tiny microcosm amidst the Big City.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My father had been a part of the committee
that built a columbarium behind the sanctuary, and I was proud to see his work
still standing after all this time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
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After that visit down memory lane, I was driven by yet another friend's driver to the Urdaneta
apartments to join a party thrown by siblings who are the third generation of
their family to live in Manila.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of
the sisters still lives there and is a family physician; another sister had
been in my French class … their brother I had met when he visited Austin
once.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were so generous to host a
get-together for us; the pool-side area was chock-a-block with people dancing
and mingling with their barkada, new and old.<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I fell, exhausted, into bed as soon as I got back to the
Peninsula; the next day marked the beginning of the official school
events.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Buses took us to the new campus
in Bonifacio Global City (or for the hip people in Manila, “BGC”) where we
wandered agog at the state-of-the-art building that resembled a highly endowed
university.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seriously. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tennis courts on the roof!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two (or maybe three) swimming pools.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Robotics lab … little theater that could have
competed with Carnegie Hall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We listened
to a lecture about the Battle of Corregidor, and ate lunch in the cafeteria,
which could pass as a millennial urban bistro. Former school sports stars reunited on the playing fields and basketball courts to see if they still had
their mojo. <o:p></o:p><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXHmG_uO_DULuX4DPE6wqMjerQgjVBOHS6IkcZNabqksTgfaGoKfSRyehwlCAH8SvafbVAMmommiAY-NswbBYWA5Rlu9A6g2dC-spRqR2YctmKXstQk62-fFoUTxsdExTMCZaB2zVdPz16/s1600/81250115_10157128677624865_986520177908645888_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXHmG_uO_DULuX4DPE6wqMjerQgjVBOHS6IkcZNabqksTgfaGoKfSRyehwlCAH8SvafbVAMmommiAY-NswbBYWA5Rlu9A6g2dC-spRqR2YctmKXstQk62-fFoUTxsdExTMCZaB2zVdPz16/s320/81250115_10157128677624865_986520177908645888_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigO_00WB3U1KjTJy9TJcY7qdx7GPuLzpL_zcv39hbnxWoSKX_g2oN6Exgwfkzlf-7wtOWoBMQdS4uKrjyJRzqlSh73FTN2-9JQX58RnhpJ6nNC0AG2h0h4fwzIlIq69XdSjuWDiekR3GoZ/s1600/81489715_10157128677759865_7731043735273734144_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigO_00WB3U1KjTJy9TJcY7qdx7GPuLzpL_zcv39hbnxWoSKX_g2oN6Exgwfkzlf-7wtOWoBMQdS4uKrjyJRzqlSh73FTN2-9JQX58RnhpJ6nNC0AG2h0h4fwzIlIq69XdSjuWDiekR3GoZ/s320/81489715_10157128677759865_7731043735273734144_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI7XFNYvtRO9jjCWOOWPaobeudk9IQPuRm0dcV7_ntPE2alcykqbyQvPE3NYNA4kzAYDRP4kcrcX09LWpPSSEWhifqHAVGVkDapiAO2SYMxFJ9xkhF24RmW2mO1uCYkLWSheBx3FtBTU07/s1600/81513958_10157128678099865_3722806669248299008_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI7XFNYvtRO9jjCWOOWPaobeudk9IQPuRm0dcV7_ntPE2alcykqbyQvPE3NYNA4kzAYDRP4kcrcX09LWpPSSEWhifqHAVGVkDapiAO2SYMxFJ9xkhF24RmW2mO1uCYkLWSheBx3FtBTU07/s320/81513958_10157128678099865_3722806669248299008_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt4xcheGajybXxFMEvtsd_0oP3X-3NheR1OgnNIh0SC7IJjPnXXzUr5ahN3UppL0FksWcNfiQYCb94ov3dTsQVuVKhFbBRb6f9sLQMjey6w3FK1w5nF-UKjdfAx3eMU0HL1fXRO5gClXc3/s1600/81630264_10157138794479865_5527242435979116544_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt4xcheGajybXxFMEvtsd_0oP3X-3NheR1OgnNIh0SC7IJjPnXXzUr5ahN3UppL0FksWcNfiQYCb94ov3dTsQVuVKhFbBRb6f9sLQMjey6w3FK1w5nF-UKjdfAx3eMU0HL1fXRO5gClXc3/s320/81630264_10157138794479865_5527242435979116544_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaLojlILUsh8TLkMc6JPEjA6MZLxISQKu_SDeN4hswXLNt4TbS-EGR4Ev6lwxbx8OrXZNdxsrkvoY3FLbuAgBJuqIbTLFM6ou-hJLpIvqCVW8-LeSFeNG_wgcU21KQG9Z9L5KR1OqE2HL7/s1600/81906204_10157128677879865_7582494779443773440_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaLojlILUsh8TLkMc6JPEjA6MZLxISQKu_SDeN4hswXLNt4TbS-EGR4Ev6lwxbx8OrXZNdxsrkvoY3FLbuAgBJuqIbTLFM6ou-hJLpIvqCVW8-LeSFeNG_wgcU21KQG9Z9L5KR1OqE2HL7/s320/81906204_10157128677879865_7582494779443773440_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Well loved by so many!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That night was a cocktail reception in the ballroom of the
Peninsula.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There had to be 600+ people
in there, and it was more chismis-ing and mingling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Surprisingly, every event meant meeting more
people that I had missed at the other functions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The vibe in the room was electric … so many
familiar faces, so many more hugs and cries of recognition and bear hugs. While
we “old folks” were there in masse, we could pick out the young ‘uns who
graduated more recently; they were just as ecstatic to be there as we were.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After that (if you are tired just reading
about this, imagine how I felt!) we went to another hotel in Manila for a
karaoke party!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or should I say “Rockeoke”
party.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let me tell you, there are some extremely
talented people who went to my school!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was not the “bad” singing that you usually encounter at karaoke;
there were some Broadway stars there! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Any talent scouts there would have taken home
a treasure trove.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXcsIVLr2ojBqoXjJGshj1e7rM5URBfciCmYdXgT7q7x0hweNUF9UQjN6MxPZ_0KsaCgCI8MQPk_2D3LFJRWKAN0QSPJr0J0r3B4skqbpmRIG51D46yV4wlsIp7sNPbKVeYIZ8GVycQpop/s1600/Vicky+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXcsIVLr2ojBqoXjJGshj1e7rM5URBfciCmYdXgT7q7x0hweNUF9UQjN6MxPZ_0KsaCgCI8MQPk_2D3LFJRWKAN0QSPJr0J0r3B4skqbpmRIG51D46yV4wlsIp7sNPbKVeYIZ8GVycQpop/s320/Vicky+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just a few of our closest friends.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLeOETsyHvg1bwIyZvdfZNpHlovYLYOTiYoFbeaPh6-Gob0MmILRjB4Hs9L8-Lwsk-anwJeGb6FSpsL6prq4tf8Crhjk4QMLYMBMkzGjaEyEM45BwXlBYV3d-v63CJTyBahbiZEoyWhi4f/s1600/82274035_10157148711854865_8334747052818825216_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="664" data-original-width="960" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLeOETsyHvg1bwIyZvdfZNpHlovYLYOTiYoFbeaPh6-Gob0MmILRjB4Hs9L8-Lwsk-anwJeGb6FSpsL6prq4tf8Crhjk4QMLYMBMkzGjaEyEM45BwXlBYV3d-v63CJTyBahbiZEoyWhi4f/s320/82274035_10157148711854865_8334747052818825216_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photobombing!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTWkMIaOiM-lEJEaQoXO5Ff7DumDK0H7Y0NevrC8DY8RuHIze-464eaTNN9zzfU4K61rPrZ5qtzChLs9JCpQblenTXVscaKjJIUjrDPwcbQekumslF-oQ7Yi8Sjw-JzF8iGdj3YfogiSW3/s1600/82649726_10222196106916720_1023583160102813696_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="752" data-original-width="960" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTWkMIaOiM-lEJEaQoXO5Ff7DumDK0H7Y0NevrC8DY8RuHIze-464eaTNN9zzfU4K61rPrZ5qtzChLs9JCpQblenTXVscaKjJIUjrDPwcbQekumslF-oQ7Yi8Sjw-JzF8iGdj3YfogiSW3/s320/82649726_10222196106916720_1023583160102813696_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
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Tuesday morning my body said, when presented with idea of
getting up, said Nope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I listened to it,
and ordered room service, taking my time to reenergize and recharge my
batteries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It had been a lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And there was more to come. My constitution
is a little less lively these days, and I was pushing it to the limit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ordered room service, “Filipino breakfast
please!” that included rice and eggs and beef and mango and calamansi juice (of
which I had a lot while I was there). It was divine. There’s just something
about eating garlic for breakfast that is quintessentially Filipino!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Love it.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUvdQnedk4D21XmfMsiRVmIVPNedKrDTZRKgEp5AbUQHKcei7Eb0ozes18txXCPnZZjPPAmGzuWLRKYKquxe74ry1WWAYoph7DiLrRWYihmZ6Th6f6pnAQEMbc9fsGR0exbAlFHVC2-1Zx/s1600/81711194_10157130845369865_5599285001926475776_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUvdQnedk4D21XmfMsiRVmIVPNedKrDTZRKgEp5AbUQHKcei7Eb0ozes18txXCPnZZjPPAmGzuWLRKYKquxe74ry1WWAYoph7DiLrRWYihmZ6Th6f6pnAQEMbc9fsGR0exbAlFHVC2-1Zx/s320/81711194_10157130845369865_5599285001926475776_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Filipino breakfast!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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That afternoon was a bus tour of Makati and environs,
including BCG.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We found the place where
Our Old School had stood, now Century Mall, next to Trump Tower.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We did find the famous plaque which memorializes
the old IS Manila … but it was disorienting to find ourselves surrounded by
concrete monoliths.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one could really
envision where the school had been.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Which way was up?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That part was
very sad for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I get that big cities
make progress, and progress involves replacing the past, and improving on
infrastructure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Manila I knew was
gone, with flashes of familiarity here and there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Far fewer open spaces with lush green landscapes
and palm trees (though there are some!)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Heavy
sigh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
We drove to the American Cemetery,
which I remembered being not far from our house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Having made the dive into genealogy recently,
I found that a cousin of my mom’s had been a pilot during the war.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was flying wounded soldiers from somewhere
in Australia to somewhere else, and his plane was shot down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There, among the names of soldiers,
Marines and sailors whose bodies were never found was the name of
William P. Ragsdale, Jr., along with 30,000 (yes, thousand) others, (Americans, and Filipinos) who were lost during World War II. There are too many names, carved on curving marble walls. The heroes whose bodies were found are buried
in immaculate concentric circles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That
part of Manila is the same, and will never change.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju0Dmu74JByd-tvIeJYV1CwSR73-5va8CKBTsWLCaTv_Mg35y6swglFL5JXvMCoF3kb5upQsrqHE3Y0GtmFAMQ1Hgr-o7XYuEUwz1QXqpibrKz0F8g5YrsPfqCM_8XGePb63nng-sKp3G6/s1600/82110239_10222111408440007_8977207090091130880_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju0Dmu74JByd-tvIeJYV1CwSR73-5va8CKBTsWLCaTv_Mg35y6swglFL5JXvMCoF3kb5upQsrqHE3Y0GtmFAMQ1Hgr-o7XYuEUwz1QXqpibrKz0F8g5YrsPfqCM_8XGePb63nng-sKp3G6/s320/82110239_10222111408440007_8977207090091130880_o.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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We ended up again at the school … there was to be a huge
variety show in the Little Theater and we settled in for skits and music. Much
to many of our surprise, the Kissing Bandit performed the song <a href="https://youtu.be/edDqX_hHYp0">“Manila” </a>by Hotdog, surrounded
by a crowd of dancing girls. We recognized the oldest alum attending the
reunion, who was from the 1940’s, and the lovely Ming Ramos, the wife of the
former President Fidel Ramos, who never quit her job at the school, and told us
that since the President’s wife didn’t get a salary, she had to work!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We heard about how President Quezon had helped 1100 Jews escape the
holocaust.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> We saw how many of our classmates who dated in school actually married each other. We laughed, we cried. It was the show of shows. </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
From the theater, we were serenaded by a marching band as we made our way to
the “Barrio Fiesta” that was set up on the school grounds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dancers in native garb lined the way to the
dinner, and a band played traditional music all the while.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wednesday began with a Filipino cooking class for our class,
1978.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thanks to Jos Ortega, Grace Jong
and Bong Bernas (who did I leave out?) for putting this together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were kitted out in special shirts and
aprons, and learned to make Chicken Adobo, and Leche Flan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Afterward the restaurant served up a 6-course meal!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oof, the food just kept
coming and coming!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lots of fun visiting
with our smaller group. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWSIDYhXqbs58m1VuzLTjqMSiRgqxPH94k8UQhfq_lsjrOYv3JDbiXZB48pj3vR1Sbmd68lrANBPaXVuU1RCrXIpv7kclKPzgve4G8hxoV02bhOSBYqVJzKmq-wuKEt4hRPVSV1YdiufVK/s1600/Flame+12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1201" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWSIDYhXqbs58m1VuzLTjqMSiRgqxPH94k8UQhfq_lsjrOYv3JDbiXZB48pj3vR1Sbmd68lrANBPaXVuU1RCrXIpv7kclKPzgve4G8hxoV02bhOSBYqVJzKmq-wuKEt4hRPVSV1YdiufVK/s320/Flame+12.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There's always room for dessert! (Chris Cabe Photo)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLyOI3-fBeSKH0EENOlRVsSyyzJTXnBxpJK6crmgAMSwlobsa4VtLuRIY75yTCQcoVrwLwc-32AGkt9SYFNyEGix05-kRTUyHAoINzvgjT3Ifo00iZ9aJVd5U7LBlAnMLC66Dk_Lo0tsw5/s1600/83095864_2789647257794014_5303314407512604672_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLyOI3-fBeSKH0EENOlRVsSyyzJTXnBxpJK6crmgAMSwlobsa4VtLuRIY75yTCQcoVrwLwc-32AGkt9SYFNyEGix05-kRTUyHAoINzvgjT3Ifo00iZ9aJVd5U7LBlAnMLC66Dk_Lo0tsw5/s320/83095864_2789647257794014_5303314407512604672_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chris Cabe Photo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvdefnqZzNnTw1ofa_Ar9e3E69wfQIFVABu4D_yE3kMz6jCQ-mo47QtrI8J6hkqTf-9RTICq0HxYMgQdc0lq1dmBdpugaKEL-vb5Q8wSQlq0nL5fLU-CIBCAaHAQKXC8qNkwHZ-WdhqXUd/s1600/Flame+6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1066" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvdefnqZzNnTw1ofa_Ar9e3E69wfQIFVABu4D_yE3kMz6jCQ-mo47QtrI8J6hkqTf-9RTICq0HxYMgQdc0lq1dmBdpugaKEL-vb5Q8wSQlq0nL5fLU-CIBCAaHAQKXC8qNkwHZ-WdhqXUd/s320/Flame+6.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chris Cabe Photo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wednesday night was a big to-do at the Manila Polo
Club.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My parents hadn’t been members,
but I had plenty of friends whose families were, so I spent a great deal of
time there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember sitting
in the middle of the polo field at night (we may or may not have been smoking
or drinking something), looking at the stars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We had a school Sadie Hawkins party there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lots of my friends were seriously into
horseback riding, and that was where they spent many an afternoon after school.
There was a huge pool and a duck pin bowling alley. (Google it). Back in the day
I thought it was pretty chi-chi, and for sure it is even more so today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The party was in the ballroom and extended
outside to the edge of the polo field, with the backdrop of BCG skyscrapers and
their cascade of lights. Unfortunately for me, all my binging on Filipino food
had caught up with me; the dress I brought specifically for this function would
not fit on my well-fed body. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ended up
in a lesser and more casual version of the original … I’m sure everyone noticed
(not).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was music, there were class
pictures, and just … being there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
so, the celebration was over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
official part, anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCnVKMSUoD6C3Gzc82fmBPdqqIeNQtC82LnJxG2mYSsZenSLvF_AyChU8v8ayHyB1IrY0Srq5-HnnFBBuKh9XbDbBEz7EVViNoyZQDU93Z07wLbI8ayNkT62Wacs2mWVLA1VTTdoXOOpvj/s1600/IMG_1959.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCnVKMSUoD6C3Gzc82fmBPdqqIeNQtC82LnJxG2mYSsZenSLvF_AyChU8v8ayHyB1IrY0Srq5-HnnFBBuKh9XbDbBEz7EVViNoyZQDU93Z07wLbI8ayNkT62Wacs2mWVLA1VTTdoXOOpvj/s1600/IMG_1959.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Polo Fields with BGC </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6BM68Cv2BZyLHneLMCS8auOKJ5zg4CJMaJacFdQ1p0HrO_fhNNXYkey9fzxae0L5KyiVrp-zMY6Azt-8P9X0W-V7YrAWF5h0Ysor5yHxUSlBR1yVcP_Z4myApqAif_1CqtFI7QUPl-GOy/s1600/IMG_1960.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6BM68Cv2BZyLHneLMCS8auOKJ5zg4CJMaJacFdQ1p0HrO_fhNNXYkey9fzxae0L5KyiVrp-zMY6Azt-8P9X0W-V7YrAWF5h0Ysor5yHxUSlBR1yVcP_Z4myApqAif_1CqtFI7QUPl-GOy/s1600/IMG_1960.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhds-pfcG61Xb2BRvNMtWRnxnVJLonRFVSbV43U-LZi9hlS5g4hsxX2jzwJH_rk-VOyy9DvcV42Fj_XVOJ3J-dGvgiwew2Jm9QAj8NaYNJu1Ycm1dgM7BLKYPkBjYDQo3qL7sF5aheUUw9A/s1600/Polo+Club.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhds-pfcG61Xb2BRvNMtWRnxnVJLonRFVSbV43U-LZi9hlS5g4hsxX2jzwJH_rk-VOyy9DvcV42Fj_XVOJ3J-dGvgiwew2Jm9QAj8NaYNJu1Ycm1dgM7BLKYPkBjYDQo3qL7sF5aheUUw9A/s1600/Polo+Club.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thursday, we drove in a caravan of minibuses 3 hours south
of Manila to Calatagan, where Vicky’s resort, Stilts, was waiting for us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After seeing it in pictures, we could only
gasp at how much more beautiful it is in person.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We all shared cabanas (excuse me, floating cottages
over the water) so it was like a big pajama party. The next day, after lounging
around the pool, we joined up for a sunset cocktail party and then a dinner
under the stars that could have rivalled any wedding reception I had ever been
to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fire dancers, live music, buffet of
Filipino delicacies … it was outstanding in every way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5G0h1YHX6quipTVMc8O8BWynK8jGp-Ogknc2icMa1OFn5YErmF4ZttwHp2LK9XCQJ2qrkop7d3LHXzF8kDQ_fubH0qn_6of-6rkndi8vZVj-4neL3e5Z9HHyn0vw6hU8LMt-BubR5q67B/s1600/IMG_1962.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5G0h1YHX6quipTVMc8O8BWynK8jGp-Ogknc2icMa1OFn5YErmF4ZttwHp2LK9XCQJ2qrkop7d3LHXzF8kDQ_fubH0qn_6of-6rkndi8vZVj-4neL3e5Z9HHyn0vw6hU8LMt-BubR5q67B/s1600/IMG_1962.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tagaytay, overlooking Taal Volcano</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifGm-qMx1cxhHw6NCxhh1JrsZQIQBn1kiuMzzpfPDX6HLoIINaMMlWNakIXdjYfDr7gtFI2XHMeOCJK3TFSMORklARM5irjh5belJrsHQ7xxUv8YfBJIyOX0D0cKtamfjWDHezN7MgwatM/s1600/IMG_1963.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifGm-qMx1cxhHw6NCxhh1JrsZQIQBn1kiuMzzpfPDX6HLoIINaMMlWNakIXdjYfDr7gtFI2XHMeOCJK3TFSMORklARM5irjh5belJrsHQ7xxUv8YfBJIyOX0D0cKtamfjWDHezN7MgwatM/s1600/IMG_1963.jpg" /></a></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzKt8vicFYhqHzEkOpkdmknXJV6W-42mnpJYxYL1xMl9g1iWX3lwtX03C6jiy7n9yAZMdT4Bci5JjuHoXkemWDRWzinuc3LrIGYd1cygQxczEsEc_3_b_OPYm6JBmCH0na7icaW2GSY9Nc/s1600/IMG_1964.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzKt8vicFYhqHzEkOpkdmknXJV6W-42mnpJYxYL1xMl9g1iWX3lwtX03C6jiy7n9yAZMdT4Bci5JjuHoXkemWDRWzinuc3LrIGYd1cygQxczEsEc_3_b_OPYm6JBmCH0na7icaW2GSY9Nc/s1600/IMG_1964.jpg" /></a></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOW2lhnObGD4bFR8F68coxRX3wj0XcrUhdxoQaQuOlE_0a1bWhHl3BdwvpOgHoCF2gIPw2nFMTxJF7da5_ain72CDYoIP9fiv5RbFgREJ59RvXR0rqtLU0pvz_nSwnm230xkzmtjNdZnLt/s1600/IMG_1965.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOW2lhnObGD4bFR8F68coxRX3wj0XcrUhdxoQaQuOlE_0a1bWhHl3BdwvpOgHoCF2gIPw2nFMTxJF7da5_ain72CDYoIP9fiv5RbFgREJ59RvXR0rqtLU0pvz_nSwnm230xkzmtjNdZnLt/s1600/IMG_1965.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg71EaEwQAl71Xq5bFe3rvOADbgb8lMJZHVyq6yZxzt_DYpXy4WnkbRJ36lbqsEClBM22tULilvYEUojo9dJ2ox4MQbZg-DNLEKmziqfdfBzU-AEUALwi9JL9IDT4Aizb4F8WqfCN55Rb8e/s1600/81854513_10157148723299865_3490947730266652672_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="960" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg71EaEwQAl71Xq5bFe3rvOADbgb8lMJZHVyq6yZxzt_DYpXy4WnkbRJ36lbqsEClBM22tULilvYEUojo9dJ2ox4MQbZg-DNLEKmziqfdfBzU-AEUALwi9JL9IDT4Aizb4F8WqfCN55Rb8e/s320/81854513_10157148723299865_3490947730266652672_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Like celebrities arriving at Stilits.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjbem5rHziqUBauDg12tVo32etDq9ICS7wku6U4Lxh2h2ns2EztKbmSmFkyYViflKbPiPCkjthRYhyphenhyphenqN-jGyC4CK5qYLOmymOV2BoQrfv10kf3lvlS8ENwGvS7cdLNLl-6bBbdv_8qfXze/s1600/Beach+Photo+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="866" data-original-width="1600" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjbem5rHziqUBauDg12tVo32etDq9ICS7wku6U4Lxh2h2ns2EztKbmSmFkyYViflKbPiPCkjthRYhyphenhyphenqN-jGyC4CK5qYLOmymOV2BoQrfv10kf3lvlS8ENwGvS7cdLNLl-6bBbdv_8qfXze/s320/Beach+Photo+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipBU8TX7A_FTb05MovtTS5_vnEZ8yCQjPqF5twbN-AnFPMfhj16iyDaJI8q97cp_nzd4G3oADmvd3zk-3PbD4_5veQ2YgKqaxC59wzzGD8RNROCQ38xabFJ2v9SAjsb4DEYnfiuSjDvqbD/s1600/Beach+Photo+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1112" data-original-width="1600" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipBU8TX7A_FTb05MovtTS5_vnEZ8yCQjPqF5twbN-AnFPMfhj16iyDaJI8q97cp_nzd4G3oADmvd3zk-3PbD4_5veQ2YgKqaxC59wzzGD8RNROCQ38xabFJ2v9SAjsb4DEYnfiuSjDvqbD/s320/Beach+Photo+4.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqreXYZuHfalGR6wZSdsEBkJKQM0U6RADyig_yRnpXEBs4OsiD3wKSCtXtw0BIaOtfyjwyuUNEHF_6zpLqhxasD6tkmDG3qT33LQo52BiiZiLVqzEUmHudxW3W6mB4sNqbqb4ZB2yrF0Uu/s1600/82187799_10157136756684865_4036686680286035968_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqreXYZuHfalGR6wZSdsEBkJKQM0U6RADyig_yRnpXEBs4OsiD3wKSCtXtw0BIaOtfyjwyuUNEHF_6zpLqhxasD6tkmDG3qT33LQo52BiiZiLVqzEUmHudxW3W6mB4sNqbqb4ZB2yrF0Uu/s320/82187799_10157136756684865_4036686680286035968_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvr7F0dFHpO8K_Bwo2i9TiCAhateq71VjZiAtWxNS46LqebCdkW0Gc7B2ssCDRiH3UtXqi_-atabhPyO9slBGVSX38dKbInZwJ8hNNmITTzXL8U4Jo2HjlxiH8crTcuafrehOVUW_y0gs0/s1600/81837658_2761362483927313_6869707809500430336_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="916" data-original-width="1600" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvr7F0dFHpO8K_Bwo2i9TiCAhateq71VjZiAtWxNS46LqebCdkW0Gc7B2ssCDRiH3UtXqi_-atabhPyO9slBGVSX38dKbInZwJ8hNNmITTzXL8U4Jo2HjlxiH8crTcuafrehOVUW_y0gs0/s320/81837658_2761362483927313_6869707809500430336_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDYmysD4FCILnxg-dhBlWP3RgC9PNiQUQ4O0-WMtU9NauF46cUAVVseyRPxkRQTb01KQ67vtzaRETiHSrzz2b3SVtlPD8kCzcw5QxjvjFI387ISmxy1vu6sn8-4lMDV-UzBMtvaqc9xvRe/s1600/83176134_3478423328866145_3123958425684279296_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDYmysD4FCILnxg-dhBlWP3RgC9PNiQUQ4O0-WMtU9NauF46cUAVVseyRPxkRQTb01KQ67vtzaRETiHSrzz2b3SVtlPD8kCzcw5QxjvjFI387ISmxy1vu6sn8-4lMDV-UzBMtvaqc9xvRe/s320/83176134_3478423328866145_3123958425684279296_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEXBSgkW18twn99BCPAfRWVHOSvDoo9tGW7gHAZPX5__msdmVkUH-D9Szv664DEprEjVCIKsZA-jhhmlrbJDXwwqdzVWRW8HFCNP_E8fXExAhwF18c7J9ofNYN_bderlTUopXPX9ZEbXhU/s1600/82466144_10157148716794865_1879101097407152128_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEXBSgkW18twn99BCPAfRWVHOSvDoo9tGW7gHAZPX5__msdmVkUH-D9Szv664DEprEjVCIKsZA-jhhmlrbJDXwwqdzVWRW8HFCNP_E8fXExAhwF18c7J9ofNYN_bderlTUopXPX9ZEbXhU/s320/82466144_10157148716794865_1879101097407152128_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A cheerful fellow, in spite of his job!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
The next day was a visit to a special ed
school that had been built with the generosity of the Mulcahy family (including my "sissies", their brothers John and Bill, and all of the Mulcahy grand and great-grandchildren) in memory
of their mom, who had volunteered in special ed school when they lived in
Manila.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Vicky’s late father’s foundation
also helped make the dream a reality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There are so few special ed resources in the area, and this was a very
important contribution to the people of the area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was emotional for the sisters, and after
the official ribbon cutting and blessing of the building, we were regaled with
the children dancing and singing, and lots of speeches of gratitude. It was
moving beyond words.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7KhSGct280IfW1sFsSbO7MBDR6DnNn6CJDj82FgpaGwiFRr36HVqT4Dyxq0_HJw-H6CbhJs_KAOkN4d6FwCnzGbAtdALyb_EA2QAzXc6ALe3FyMoJz6_tZ4pUGurXBE5uA-nBmsNvqu2v/s1600/82255733_10157760266939223_6401987584657981440_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="425" data-original-width="960" height="141" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7KhSGct280IfW1sFsSbO7MBDR6DnNn6CJDj82FgpaGwiFRr36HVqT4Dyxq0_HJw-H6CbhJs_KAOkN4d6FwCnzGbAtdALyb_EA2QAzXc6ALe3FyMoJz6_tZ4pUGurXBE5uA-nBmsNvqu2v/s320/82255733_10157760266939223_6401987584657981440_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The beautiful SpecialEd building</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn8n0m-lke1h8Bqr1PBBNv-wqwNCkD7eZnF_6VD3aIkxCy5EknY0EyHZL4jhf9j82V_PzGskg-zLw-qCW2YUx8tzH94t6w0jXnd8kLm37TEmiEG2bM-szGE6OneRU1CezDmvJ6kZ8SXQyp/s1600/82038233_10157772795399223_8794601749433286656_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn8n0m-lke1h8Bqr1PBBNv-wqwNCkD7eZnF_6VD3aIkxCy5EknY0EyHZL4jhf9j82V_PzGskg-zLw-qCW2YUx8tzH94t6w0jXnd8kLm37TEmiEG2bM-szGE6OneRU1CezDmvJ6kZ8SXQyp/s320/82038233_10157772795399223_8794601749433286656_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Mulcahy ladies: four "sissies" who kindly adopted me!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Saturday included a barbecue at one of my classmates’ home
near Calatagan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ricky was the “it” guy
in our class, very suave and debonair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He later became a professional polo player; now he is, among other
things, an artist and a politician … he carves wood into charming objets d’art
that festoon his house and grounds. There was lechon to eat, (turn away vegetarians!) and paella …
delicious in so many ways.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIkhDBLyUJ6hniQb5-c3EH22avJ5peXKWWL-rrzlZGGqq4nHZD8wkSdsC11CJtyJhgfP3JgnimY2tVpb9UY_Ii8C9eev-EfN0U-Xo8vpFnQTav4h0ql8YUpcfcMJ_PoP09-Yf_BKyhH4A_/s1600/82831023_10222152772274077_2906663231177097216_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIkhDBLyUJ6hniQb5-c3EH22avJ5peXKWWL-rrzlZGGqq4nHZD8wkSdsC11CJtyJhgfP3JgnimY2tVpb9UY_Ii8C9eev-EfN0U-Xo8vpFnQTav4h0ql8YUpcfcMJ_PoP09-Yf_BKyhH4A_/s320/82831023_10222152772274077_2906663231177097216_o.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6edyP-ovQkGmrvfZ1XpVmv52zcQL9j_-ZPO4t1YQyWbedbk4finwGrrTeFCigP_KviUGvqVleVA90xcyomcV2y0D-RBwnfDiCumIuVpT0Ap9foUgJur2DXxlsu7heSaL2L3Mflr_8-eLw/s1600/83677100_10222152783234351_4851756801735000064_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6edyP-ovQkGmrvfZ1XpVmv52zcQL9j_-ZPO4t1YQyWbedbk4finwGrrTeFCigP_KviUGvqVleVA90xcyomcV2y0D-RBwnfDiCumIuVpT0Ap9foUgJur2DXxlsu7heSaL2L3Mflr_8-eLw/s320/83677100_10222152783234351_4851756801735000064_o.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view from Ricky's House, with Mindoro in the distance</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In the distance beyond Ricky’s hilltop house was the ocean and the
island of Mindoro, across the Verde Islands Passage, where my dad used to scuba
dive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My family would drive to Batangas
and negotiate with a local banca owner to ferry us across the sea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One time a storm was brewing, but we set out
anyway, only to turn around when the banca was nearly swamped by a rogue wave that nearly killed the sputtering engine. Maybe that’s why I have a phobia of
the ocean.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I thought I was going to get some rest at the beach … forget
that!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were more and more “meet me
at the pool” and snorkeling trips, and “join us for sunset watching” parties. Each
and every sunset was unique in its own way. I had forgotten how awe-inspiring
they were in the Philippines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are
colors on the horizon surrounding the setting sun that I’ve never seen on the
spectrum. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, and lest I forget to mention the volcano … <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One evening, I appeared at the Mulcahy sisters’ cabin for a
“finish the liquor” party the night before we left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Beth (one of my “sissies”) grabbed me and
pointed off into the distance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“LOOK!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>LOOK!” she said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, I have a pretty long bucket list, but I
can state emphatically that seeing a volcano erupt is NOT and never has been on
that list.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am a lover of nature and
its extremes, including tornadoes and hurricanes, but I never want to see one
of those extremes in person. That includes volcanoes. Everyone on the lanai was
watching it spew ash in an otherworldly display; almost like a nuclear mushroom
cloud.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As it got darker, the lightning
in the plume began to flash in earnest, and there were lots of oohs and aahs,
as if we were watching a fireworks display.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>No one seemed very worried, and even though inside I was terrified, I
kept it to myself. I figured if they weren’t worried, why should I be?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Once I realized my personal safety wasn't at risk, t</span>he second thought I had was to remember the Icelandic
volcano back in 2010, where people in Europe were stranded for weeks after the
European airspace was closed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t
imagine a better place to be stranded than in the Philippines, but having just
started a new job, I was afraid that I wouldn’t have one if I was delayed
further.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3wl5Vs_3C2jBhShS20wnVtgwCJtRJHLcZB1Su9K7fZ_Ipb06if73TxgRuA397pTVvhlZuWd51KQ1NyhCkrLR_8nCPAZfpJewaYet78Kl8NAyudXWpLGnIlsrksMSZMFPx8vWYoeLrO2tk/s1600/Batangas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3wl5Vs_3C2jBhShS20wnVtgwCJtRJHLcZB1Su9K7fZ_Ipb06if73TxgRuA397pTVvhlZuWd51KQ1NyhCkrLR_8nCPAZfpJewaYet78Kl8NAyudXWpLGnIlsrksMSZMFPx8vWYoeLrO2tk/s320/Batangas.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My third thought was about all the people who lived around the volcano, and how their lives had most likely been affected by this. We had drive through dozens of tiny barrios and towns on the way to Stilts and I imagined that they were covered in ash and people were evacuating to points north. I thought about the beautiful Tagaytay, with its resorts overlooking the lake in which the volcano sat, with scenic views and manicured gardens ... what would be left of them?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhNwjMNCod48HLTQeNrOkTXi2A0oPsYWt4gmUcbcOy3SXmaIzj_LlmTZPG6CDhzO9pFqPkMllU3emxyZFeG7MkjsnZNZ-TrFP3WBTJ0HlX1SCADu-3wHSe2KUxyUNUajmdxv6SFSu-lQor/s1600/81749664_10157144370944865_1376334759768096768_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhNwjMNCod48HLTQeNrOkTXi2A0oPsYWt4gmUcbcOy3SXmaIzj_LlmTZPG6CDhzO9pFqPkMllU3emxyZFeG7MkjsnZNZ-TrFP3WBTJ0HlX1SCADu-3wHSe2KUxyUNUajmdxv6SFSu-lQor/s320/81749664_10157144370944865_1376334759768096768_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_3d7xg5hfpgppFKMWT9UFbLBM2XkC93f82DL4OFJ9RuK5qkThpwlm5ho0iPKAYZkuwZX1y4-oy9e_zPx785yRWEBYtKgkpPkDgzXmnPJt48hFK7iin_Y2nHypAiRdilQArNbcivyhjcui/s1600/82214976_10157148715429865_3187274210791653376_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_3d7xg5hfpgppFKMWT9UFbLBM2XkC93f82DL4OFJ9RuK5qkThpwlm5ho0iPKAYZkuwZX1y4-oy9e_zPx785yRWEBYtKgkpPkDgzXmnPJt48hFK7iin_Y2nHypAiRdilQArNbcivyhjcui/s320/82214976_10157148715429865_3187274210791653376_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Area of ashfall, with our location circled</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf9ORQkYz1oV5auui-jycs59QKisbzpHGwzO9AE_0LtBW_ZBP5FQX0nCsmvK9RdUGip7F46L6XgxB6oVjHPXtQa18pZaxqsZBxTgOc4oUPpE9Fmtm4ueIovq7u4INWW_E7erKTENG-y_kI/s1600/82283499_10157146419744865_4092323617918943232_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="696" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf9ORQkYz1oV5auui-jycs59QKisbzpHGwzO9AE_0LtBW_ZBP5FQX0nCsmvK9RdUGip7F46L6XgxB6oVjHPXtQa18pZaxqsZBxTgOc4oUPpE9Fmtm4ueIovq7u4INWW_E7erKTENG-y_kI/s320/82283499_10157146419744865_4092323617918943232_n.jpg" width="232" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not my picture ... </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Early that evening, we heard that we were going to leave
first thing in the morning to go back to Manila.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seemed a little counterintuitive to me to
head towards the ashfall (which miraculously missed the tiny promontory on
which we sat) rather than away from it, but it was the way to get nearer to the
airport.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had booked a room at the NAIA
Hilton (Ninoy Aquino International Airport) so I resolved that I would end up
there, stranded or not. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We drove right
past the volcano on the way back, which had calmed down a bit, but that was still
looking angry and volatile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The roads
were covered in ash, and we all wore facemasks. The ash from a volcano can
contain tiny shards of glass from the molten lava: not a good thing for lungs.
We stopped at every Mercury Drug store to stock up on extra masks, but they
were all sold out. “Walang Facemasks” became the theme of our journey, “out ob
stock”. The airport was shut down for the immediate future, “until further
notice” so there were a lot of unknowns ahead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd6ZuEZ72O6CtfX7b4fLkXe4cSQ4r8ywm2WWjgCM84TqsfF6ZOL6KDD2slOVnwMOjs-6M5Z2CDXU9KHNJtGGezC8PojQGPDDr1XMB4z2h8SkAsBBYCINQvUWPSCafHSZDInafx3QJZCp6D/s1600/82047439_10157146450419865_4517516446690967552_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd6ZuEZ72O6CtfX7b4fLkXe4cSQ4r8ywm2WWjgCM84TqsfF6ZOL6KDD2slOVnwMOjs-6M5Z2CDXU9KHNJtGGezC8PojQGPDDr1XMB4z2h8SkAsBBYCINQvUWPSCafHSZDInafx3QJZCp6D/s320/82047439_10157146450419865_4517516446690967552_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The volcano as we drove by on the way back to Manila</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhicWDLETITgtnEGN1C7MWZFb583Kv-XWq5WKL74-IXL_k2w6FM3OdC_2nrod9YMhGKHqryBVrL98EWgKym0FjR_hLtFwKH5RF18BvxmVgvC0nk_XIrrUC04_D0eNH08tv9IznXX-EUExl-/s1600/81489715_10157128677759865_7731043735273734144_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhicWDLETITgtnEGN1C7MWZFb583Kv-XWq5WKL74-IXL_k2w6FM3OdC_2nrod9YMhGKHqryBVrL98EWgKym0FjR_hLtFwKH5RF18BvxmVgvC0nk_XIrrUC04_D0eNH08tv9IznXX-EUExl-/s320/81489715_10157128677759865_7731043735273734144_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cavite Police on duty</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEginD3C4-2KILANtqVDiP9Motvm3EnIQE9j1DkuBCch0u1TiLNSU7UFWo_ib3V208SrJijgMNoObSACXQNrBaAzFcFE02brcEQNK8lHralKQthYQePNBBvLEPZmkfIIIvfD3XLUYd206KfO/s1600/82634362_10157146762154865_2963506981605736448_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEginD3C4-2KILANtqVDiP9Motvm3EnIQE9j1DkuBCch0u1TiLNSU7UFWo_ib3V208SrJijgMNoObSACXQNrBaAzFcFE02brcEQNK8lHralKQthYQePNBBvLEPZmkfIIIvfD3XLUYd206KfO/s320/82634362_10157146762154865_2963506981605736448_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ash covers Manila</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We made it without incident and checked into the
oh-so-opulent Hilton.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The pool and patio
were closed due to the ashfall, but I didn’t care about anything other than
taking a nap and checking the Delta app to make sure my flight was going to
leave the next morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We all met up
once again for dinner (I groggily tore myself out of bed one more time) and
said our goodbyes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Miracle of miracles, the runways were cleared of ash
overnight, and the airport was open.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
volcano had settled down to a dull roar, and everything looked good for an on-time
departure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t have much trouble
checking in (and clearing out the souvenir shop near my gate) and we even took
off a little earlier for Narita.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Quick
stop in Japan, and it was off to Detroit, then home to sleep for a week (see above).
<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOe5cOxudDIUPc0YKUrkP1tmQSEidmx1Dl0lpPu7-xLM64YAxWX4ql6g34A_ihPs1HWIE3ztUUMjv_FLlkKSNVKQV5ikouDQIVxhSD3bxVcD7XN5Zbku5Go0gQhqY9RK7FyVQ01_cHBCbc/s1600/liz+on+delta.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOe5cOxudDIUPc0YKUrkP1tmQSEidmx1Dl0lpPu7-xLM64YAxWX4ql6g34A_ihPs1HWIE3ztUUMjv_FLlkKSNVKQV5ikouDQIVxhSD3bxVcD7XN5Zbku5Go0gQhqY9RK7FyVQ01_cHBCbc/s320/liz+on+delta.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Are we there yet? (and yes I busted out the sheckels for an upgrade - cheaper when bought last-minute!)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As it is oh-too-common with these grand events that are
planned and anticipated for a long time, it was all over too quickly, and
coming down from the high was difficult.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Looking back, I realized that there were times during the celebrations when
I felt a little of the high school ennui creep back into my consciousness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Occasionally </span>I found myself alone, separated from
the ones I knew, with that same fear of “damn, who will I sit with” only to
hook back up with the friends shortly thereafter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I found out that some people had done things
that I would have liked to have done and had missed the boat, because there
simply wasn’t time to do everything. I felt anxious, and the clock was running
out too quickly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I realized that I would
probably not return to the Philippines any time in the near future, if ever. I
guess the sense of closure, while emotionally healthy, was on some level sad
beyond measure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I like the word “ennui”
because it’s really not something you can put a finger on, other than calling
it “cognitive dissonance”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s unexplainable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s “saudade”, the untranslatable Portuguese word that I have tattooed on my arm, a feeling of
longing, melancholy or nostalgia; a feeling that has no cure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is no place to go to satisfy or lessen
those feelings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is no “home”. Going
back to a place is not the solution; we can’t escape carrying our longings with
us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And most of the time we don’t know
what we are longing for. Our house was gone, the Intercontinental Hotel, where
most of us stayed before our furniture arrived, was gone, the school was gone, our
TCK infrastructure was just .. gone. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP-9ohzzEkrrovFZNSsdCJBw-fp_7oOHLAEu2twg0t1nqQK_a8DEB8KT0IAKTxtg3QOGS5mfnvy9_jsnib9dudYr2CejSEMGM8ZJexTMOBe_ERP76sNMplUcb1hMTH42xVhpr8oEgONIi3/s1600/81645694_10157128673964865_1565710300324298752_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="351" data-original-width="500" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP-9ohzzEkrrovFZNSsdCJBw-fp_7oOHLAEu2twg0t1nqQK_a8DEB8KT0IAKTxtg3QOGS5mfnvy9_jsnib9dudYr2CejSEMGM8ZJexTMOBe_ERP76sNMplUcb1hMTH42xVhpr8oEgONIi3/s320/81645694_10157128673964865_1565710300324298752_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The "Intercon" as we knew it</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oy vey, drowning in my existential ennui (there it is
again!) here. For us, “home” is not a physical place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But then I think about non-TCKs, and how they
grieve when their childhood home is sold. That place may have been solid ground
for them, but the “home” that they are grieving is what happened in that place,
and the people who lived in it, not the building itself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(My mom gets furious when realtors talk about
‘new homes’ because they aren’t homes, they are houses!)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Home” for me was and is the corporate body
of people who attended the Centennial Celebration at IS Manila with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That whole group of 1000+ people, all the way
from the 1940s students to the 2000s, they were home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
During the “variety show” the head of the Board of Directors
of the school spoke about how we, when we return to Manila, slip into speaking
in a Filipino accent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In some cases that
could be seen as disrespectful or racist, but for us, it is a loving tribute to
the Philippines and its people and reminds us of how we bloomed and grew in
that place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We love and honor our common
history and the third culture that we formed when we lived there. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br /></div>
http://kazakhstanii.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06243506639327162419noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069354511167646779.post-53659000845031641712019-12-07T12:26:00.001-05:002019-12-07T12:39:30.374-05:00Let's Do the Time Warp Again<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdjEaYBLzsjZLbbeOCbZS2WUkeSdopLqoQg7LsFWVjQQMMwePdNq27q4Q8OHhUA6vNfuZsv5zy7yKXe2obXywCqH8CEokVXmMGl99RwxFXCUo3Uo_56YY4glBExYh75sJfXQiy5rjUj8uF/s1600/tdy_rockyhorror2_151006.760%253B428%253B7%253B70%253B5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="428" data-original-width="760" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdjEaYBLzsjZLbbeOCbZS2WUkeSdopLqoQg7LsFWVjQQMMwePdNq27q4Q8OHhUA6vNfuZsv5zy7yKXe2obXywCqH8CEokVXmMGl99RwxFXCUo3Uo_56YY4glBExYh75sJfXQiy5rjUj8uF/s320/tdy_rockyhorror2_151006.760%253B428%253B7%253B70%253B5.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
Well, hello there! Been a long time, right? Here's the short version of the past 6 years:<br />
<br />
1. Worked at a public library outside of Austin, Texas for 6 years, as a cataloger and technical services librarian. I'm just as tired now as my last post, which was about being tired. I'm so tired of talking about being tired and actually being tired. <br />
<br />
2. Went back to school (will I ever stop?) and got a brand-new sparkling Paralegal Certificate, which resulted in my changing jobs. I'm now a law librarian (fancy name: Information Services Manager (ahem!)) and really enjoying it. Still tired.<br />
<br />
3. Kids have moved back in, and some have moved out, and back in. I actually love having them; they are amazing adults, and they just need a helping hand to find their place in the world. New definition of tired. <br />
<br />
4. Got a husky ... got another husky ... first husky died ... now we have four dogs, including two huskies (added a new one) and a schnauzer and a Doberman. We woke up one morning and said what the heck happened? More tired. <br />
<br />
5. Going back to Manila in three weeks. (You think you're tired now? Ha!)<br />
<br />
Wait ... what? <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdMYBMvv1hM_xou9IK-piFsFOBiAM56iHPKhsidnuIiKg4BGg_dnSnbH0fFSF8qjICHVfBO_1Vwy9PeIxdLV0FRqMGa8LpdXnw3gpRXyg1G5CBo80_g2JZwNrh1vdYsE16ros-WDtExsnw/s1600/55491768_163785961205179_1501454209436876800_o-1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1132" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdMYBMvv1hM_xou9IK-piFsFOBiAM56iHPKhsidnuIiKg4BGg_dnSnbH0fFSF8qjICHVfBO_1Vwy9PeIxdLV0FRqMGa8LpdXnw3gpRXyg1G5CBo80_g2JZwNrh1vdYsE16ros-WDtExsnw/s320/55491768_163785961205179_1501454209436876800_o-1.png" width="226" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
You mean, after so many years of writing about, thinking about, wishing, hoping, reminiscing, longing for, Manila, you are actually going back? That would be a big, resounding YES. How did this happen, you may ask. Well, I will tell you! Get some coffee and put on your slippers. <br />
<br />
"Established in 1920, International School Manila (ISM) is the oldest international school in Manila and the first to offer the IB Diploma program in Asia. The school currently stands on a 7-hectare site in Bonifacio global City with a purpose-built, state-of-the-art campus. ISM utilizes an international curriculum and offers a vast array of programs and co-curricular activities. ISM's student body embraces true diversity and its faculty members are just as diverse, with over 100 countries represented. With a growing international community, ISM is celebrating 100 years of service in 2020. " (is manila.org).<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5PBc_SaY29wV_Wdo00xmIHfyMXsXMP8loy9nSEhU87cRmJOVHYbjb2sVBV96IUBjJJdPoex0amwWUIhRie3sl3dTGGoR5H6OxLIg80GFX3yeIbJiqaJn6IVNCuh0jxJs814uaseffdG_S/s1600/unnamed.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="387" data-original-width="472" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5PBc_SaY29wV_Wdo00xmIHfyMXsXMP8loy9nSEhU87cRmJOVHYbjb2sVBV96IUBjJJdPoex0amwWUIhRie3sl3dTGGoR5H6OxLIg80GFX3yeIbJiqaJn6IVNCuh0jxJs814uaseffdG_S/s320/unnamed.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image shamelessly stolen from ismanila.org</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
If there was ever a good time to go back, this is certainly it. Several of us on Facebook started planning and buying tickets and making reservations in January of last year. At that time, it seemed way off in the future. But time, as it often does, flew by (seems to fly supersonic the older I get) and now I'm at the stage of planning my wardrobe and how to make it all fit in one suitcase that won't require a pallet jack to get around. Last summer I thought, jeez, I need to start dieting so I'm not as big as a whale when I "reunionate" with some of my old barkada, but months flew by again, and I'm still the same size that I am. Then I thought, why am I so hung up on that? I'm not 18 any more; I yam what I yam, (Popeye). Now I'm trying to explain to Mitch what a Barong Tagalog is, and that it's not a puffy shirt, and it is designed for the tropics, and he NEEDS to get one. I think he's on board now. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxg4xowIhHN0ouHkJu7irv6ZXocHpqF1IOZAISRbUU75LWEL8gF2nESHx4y1O5TY2ZHT6fDW-e9UiYYo-y-Pp8fn5eQe52clTL3XaTfHjtesWVgUQJ7bfc20OSSF-aq_b3PcfbE_ZjWVzS/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="275" data-original-width="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxg4xowIhHN0ouHkJu7irv6ZXocHpqF1IOZAISRbUU75LWEL8gF2nESHx4y1O5TY2ZHT6fDW-e9UiYYo-y-Pp8fn5eQe52clTL3XaTfHjtesWVgUQJ7bfc20OSSF-aq_b3PcfbE_ZjWVzS/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
And yes, I know, you can't go back. Nothing is the same. (And yes, the TRAFFIC). Someone who went back last year said it was so disorienting, that none of the same landmarks were there, and she couldn't tell which end was up. I get it. Even our old school building isn't there any more; it's now the site of a Trump property (no politics in this blog, please). I guess we'll have to go visit the building, which I hear has a very nice bar, and an actual plaque memorializing our school.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOIZPI2aoI7p_7EFBwPxfpuUACXb9ZMVWNi69pGKJ00-jE9wRKP8CWg6yP5x9hyphenhyphenqY0Wm5h7Z6uHZRVX6mDa2paMii5IYtchTQhzz4siLQO6SEdEVdRNdvlljH1F3cJSbJngNyCJFaf-38m/s1600/unnamed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOIZPI2aoI7p_7EFBwPxfpuUACXb9ZMVWNi69pGKJ00-jE9wRKP8CWg6yP5x9hyphenhyphenqY0Wm5h7Z6uHZRVX6mDa2paMii5IYtchTQhzz4siLQO6SEdEVdRNdvlljH1F3cJSbJngNyCJFaf-38m/s1600/unnamed.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The old school near BelAir (also stolen shamelessly from ISManila.org</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It doesn't matter. The physical things are different, but many of the folks will be there, albeit with a little more gray and a few extra wrinkles. The fact is, I will be in the midst of my people .. TCKs like me, who GET IT. They know my soul, and I theirs. I can't imagine how Mitch will take all this in; he has met some other husbands who will be there to observe the festivities, and they can huddle in the corner and scratch their heads together. I know what it's like to be a spouse at a high school reunion. I apologize in advance, sweetheart. <br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
After the actual "gala" (how DO you pronounce that?) we are hiking down to Tagaytay to a resort owned by our former guidance counselor called "Stilts". Complete with nipa hut on stilts (get it?) over the water, I will be able to show Mitch the ridiculous and awe-inspiring beauty of the Philippines. And a bunch of other alums will be there, so I think it will be one long happy beach party. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Excited? Yes. Terrified? A little. Flying to Asia is not a trip for the weak-kneed. I remember how hard it was as a kid; it will practically kill me as an adult. It will require lots of fortitude and biting of tongues. Some people (me) get cranky when they travel; we will grit our teeth and hiss "I really love you, I really love you" when things get stressful. But in the end, we'll have some amazing memories that no one can take from us. Maybe we'll look at retirement homes. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZcXEdYnG2opOSOSWJ1TsQHPVnK6I3XGL7eT6Wl7AUJkvKmJ_6Pm_ogxJfJm9R3YE4nr4p-YJ7yNgvR_rrhf_AIkps2fVZAqKucmUbirZgR0nvGayxekhR_K25LyVNrB_N4tAQjkTD8hxU/s1600/1934925_75763169864_1689839_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="604" data-original-width="478" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZcXEdYnG2opOSOSWJ1TsQHPVnK6I3XGL7eT6Wl7AUJkvKmJ_6Pm_ogxJfJm9R3YE4nr4p-YJ7yNgvR_rrhf_AIkps2fVZAqKucmUbirZgR0nvGayxekhR_K25LyVNrB_N4tAQjkTD8hxU/s320/1934925_75763169864_1689839_n.jpg" width="253" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The last time I was in Manila. <br />
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
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http://kazakhstanii.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06243506639327162419noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069354511167646779.post-89798723895232854352016-02-13T10:27:00.004-05:002016-02-13T10:27:56.896-05:00Midnight in Broad Daylight, by Pamela Rotner Sakamoto<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitdAXUh0HYpUyW0A46hsUrdvks_0IBYDc2H-fldLA6yHYG79pBlNkKW6BadUyY9NWeL3AZpzJt5PjKnsvoOSkOnccRbW75Ne0LKBlIGGfC_XEKiotwC2gXikpqRKSuXQLkixzvFvZt1IXP/s1600/51kZ8VBcYjL._SY344_BO1%252C204%252C203%252C200_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitdAXUh0HYpUyW0A46hsUrdvks_0IBYDc2H-fldLA6yHYG79pBlNkKW6BadUyY9NWeL3AZpzJt5PjKnsvoOSkOnccRbW75Ne0LKBlIGGfC_XEKiotwC2gXikpqRKSuXQLkixzvFvZt1IXP/s400/51kZ8VBcYjL._SY344_BO1%252C204%252C203%252C200_.jpg" width="270" /></a></div>
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<br />
I am still reeling from the power and the beauty of this book. I am hopeful that many of us have heard of Sulu from "Star Trek," George Takei's story about being a Nisei (second generation Japanese) in the US, and the internment of several hundred thousand Americans of Japanese descent at the onset of World War II. He has even produced a play on Broadway, "Allegiance," about his memories of his family's internship. It was a shameful (understatement) period in our history, and the xenophobia didn't start there. It began in the late 1800's when Asians came to help us build the railroad. This book will give a reader an even deeper view into how this country treated the Japanese Nisei (and the immigrant parents, the Issei). <br />Harry Fukuhara was born in the US of Japanese immigrants in the Pacific Northwest. He grew up a typical American kid, hanging out with friends, eating hot dogs. His older brother and sister had been sent back to Japan at a young age, to live with relatives, in order to learn about their heritage; their younger siblings barely new them. Harry’s sister Mary, feeling abandoned by her mother, lived a life filled with resentment and contempt because of this.<br />As a teenager, the family relocated back to Japan, where Harry found himself a fish out of water. He was “too American” to fit in at his Japanese high school. As soon as he turned 18, he returned to the US. Unfortunately, a lot had changed while he was gone. Looking up his old chums, he was met with cold shoulders and closed doors. He found his way south, to California to scratch out a living as a houseboy and a greengrocer. It was all he could find due to the blatant discrimination towards Asians.<br /> The prejudice, especially on the West coast, was pervasive. When the war started, Harry and his sister (who had since moved back to the US) were sent to a miserable prison camp in Arizona, pursuant to a decree of the U.S. Government . His only escape from the misery of the internment camp was being asked to join the U.S. Army as a Japanese linguist. Frank trained in Minnesota before he was sent to the South Pacific, interrogating prisoners (rare, since Japanese soldiers were told to die rather than surrender) and translating documents recovered from Japanese casualties. The Japanese linguists had to have Caucasian bodyguards (so that a soldier wouldn’t think they were the enemy) and were treated poorly by fellow troops. Regardless of their seniority, none of the linguists were promoted or allowed R&R, unlike those who were Caucasian, and lower in rank. Harry and a fellow Nisei had to argue their case before a sympathetic superior before they were recognized. <br />Meanwhile, back in Japan, Harry’s father had died, and his mother and three brothers lived in fear of being recognized as Nisei, or of being “too American”, by the local Japanese. Frank, the youngest son, enrolled in a prestigious military school, but endured years of hazing and physical abuse by the older students. He kept his head down and did what he had to do to get through. He stayed in school as long as he could to avoid being drafted in the Imperial Army. He and his mother struggled to find black market food in light of stricter and stricter rationing by the government. Eventually, though, Frank was conscripted, as the Japanese effort became hopelessly lost, and the government made a last, desperate attempt to fight back. <br />The book comes to a terrible climax when the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima. The details of what happened to the populace are difficult to read. Harry’s cousin was only a half-mile from the impact, and was blinded and badly burned; she died shortly thereafter. His brother Victor was badly burned. Harry arrives in Japan after the surrender, and manages to find his way to Hiroshima, to find his mother at their old house. It was a bittersweet reunion, as his mother didn’t even recognize him. All he could say was, “Mother, it is I, Fukuhara. I have come home.” <br />I lived in Japan from 1965 until 1968. Only twenty years after the end of the war, the country was largely rebuilt. The people we met couldn’t have been nicer, more dignified, welcoming and proud. There was not much talk about the war, and I wonder if they felt a degree of shame for what the government had done in the people’s name. Part of me can understand the knee-jerk reaction of Americans on the west coast; how could they know if the Japanese in their midst were friendly or not? But to put them all in what were essentially concentration camps? To take away their homes and their livelihoods, even after it was all over? The degree of persecution is unfathomable. This is a story of ongoing hardship and tragedy, but also a story of hope. The Japanese term “shikata ga nai” (it can’t be helped) is a theme woven intricately into the fabric of the story. Harry and his mother and brothers plod on through the extreme difficulties of their lives, knocked down time after time, only to emerge with their dignity and their pride. This is a book not soon forgotten, as it should not be.<br />
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http://kazakhstanii.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06243506639327162419noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069354511167646779.post-89738164228977286132014-03-07T20:31:00.001-05:002014-03-07T20:31:16.017-05:00What Languages Sound Like To Foreigners<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/ybcvlxivscw" width="480"></iframe>http://kazakhstanii.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06243506639327162419noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069354511167646779.post-76891500864554751832014-01-29T08:15:00.001-05:002014-01-29T08:15:36.914-05:00Give Me A Sign
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzjw1elzGf5CRKe3am-vVy2klPWFarw9lA04wgq2Dc4IfF-pIGtPwsimcPCDNftKIEovHOJOig9V7R44CwjGl11e0o47a9t0d4igta9LtxOSTaGC8ZyG3M9cNqBWP1z-sbdxngZOTxThbb/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzjw1elzGf5CRKe3am-vVy2klPWFarw9lA04wgq2Dc4IfF-pIGtPwsimcPCDNftKIEovHOJOig9V7R44CwjGl11e0o47a9t0d4igta9LtxOSTaGC8ZyG3M9cNqBWP1z-sbdxngZOTxThbb/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a></div>
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My husband always teases me about the fact that I use my
hands when I talk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s almost as if I use a variety of
American Sign Language to communicate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’ve always done it, and been teased about it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will say that my husband doesn’t tease me in a negative
way; he thinks it’s adorable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
other evening we were talking about penguins (due to an upcoming trip to Antarctica with his mother) and I told the story about the
book “<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Tango-Makes-Three-Justin-Richardson/dp/0689878451">And Tango Makes Three</a>”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> It's one of the most challenged books in libraries in the country due to the so-called "gay" theme. (Don't get me started .. they're PENGUINS for crying out loud; furthermore, the story really happened. But I digress ... ) Mitch</span> challenged me to sit on my hands, which I did, but when it came
around to the part where the daddy penguin sits on the egg, I did a little hip
wiggle in a fashion that I suppose penguins do when they settle down over their
egg. My little sashay resulted in uproarious laughter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> "You see! You just can't talk without gesturing!" he roared. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9UydO_FdnnKXmQNQhYrS0zdSE-CRl5ovTewOxWilvovaR_NsXfG-A04MZBEz5XAnlERD5bzd2A4dfjd0bn0FGC8ohyMhpGY5bu7r1ZLSZWDzBi-CLVWa19sKuwnOzOXov_j9yuNkx3WSJ/s1600/images-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9UydO_FdnnKXmQNQhYrS0zdSE-CRl5ovTewOxWilvovaR_NsXfG-A04MZBEz5XAnlERD5bzd2A4dfjd0bn0FGC8ohyMhpGY5bu7r1ZLSZWDzBi-CLVWa19sKuwnOzOXov_j9yuNkx3WSJ/s1600/images-1.jpeg" /></a></div>
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This morning I told my mom I was off to take a shower, and
made the universal “taking a shower” gesture, waggling my fingers over my
head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It hit me: what do we do
when we travel to a foreign country where we don’t know the language?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sign language.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mom said, “Even if I wasn’t an English
speaker, I would know that you were going to take a shower."</div>
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I spent the larger part of my early life living in countries
where most people didn’t speak English.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Japan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Belgium.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Singapore. When you’re overseas, facing
a local shop attendant, and the words just aren’t coming, what do you do?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Make pictures with your hands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Ufc4A1MKoHaqDPIZ0mu2UHX_EtOqpsC0oABt7L9fwZcNH5ANKR730tyjQXnp03-1R3R7hNkqlPPB06PFUZ4BlzRrLHSRk0Hy7wSZb1H_fNFZ_5UJUMV8kJPVhTHGLwlwVcB1AMOheOhU/s1600/mimic-gesture.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4Ufc4A1MKoHaqDPIZ0mu2UHX_EtOqpsC0oABt7L9fwZcNH5ANKR730tyjQXnp03-1R3R7hNkqlPPB06PFUZ4BlzRrLHSRk0Hy7wSZb1H_fNFZ_5UJUMV8kJPVhTHGLwlwVcB1AMOheOhU/s1600/mimic-gesture.jpg" height="320" width="273" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bond ... James Bond.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Although sometimes it can be futile: on
a school sponsored trip to Russia after I graduated from college (I guess it
was still the USSR back then), one of the professors brought along her elderly
father.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was a true curmudgeon;
I still wonder why he even bothered to go on the trip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was the epitome of annoyed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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At breakfast the first morning we were there, I sat nearby
as the old man got into a heated argument with the waiter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I want some tea!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>TEA!!” he yelled in frustration, making
the sign of the letter “t” with his fingers, shaking it angrily in the face of
the poor guy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Too bad the word for
tea in Russian is “chai” … the waiter stood, looking blankly in his face and
slowly shaking his head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could
tell this was a dead end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFw_TXz7lU-GO8h4uxbe2hJZfwc8rp5ASF2fk5FbUTOo6ZvB9T7Ya08s-yqv7PrjI3dx-Vh4kIPrEHVF95H0RHOBWmohYoWTYZTKTDSkoIdvHaVNnbvPHdzadv6PPP68slI22Z8t0ajijK/s1600/6a00d83452a98069e2017ee4438826970d-500wi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFw_TXz7lU-GO8h4uxbe2hJZfwc8rp5ASF2fk5FbUTOo6ZvB9T7Ya08s-yqv7PrjI3dx-Vh4kIPrEHVF95H0RHOBWmohYoWTYZTKTDSkoIdvHaVNnbvPHdzadv6PPP68slI22Z8t0ajijK/s1600/6a00d83452a98069e2017ee4438826970d-500wi.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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My dad would always ask for the check in a restaurant by
making a squiggly writing motion in the air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No waiter ever misunderstood that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> You can point to your wrist in just about every spot on the globe and ask for the time. I guess it could be difficult to ask where the toilet is. (Which brings me to another issue: in this country, "toilet" seems to be a bad word ... we have to euphemistically call it the "rest room" or the "powder room," which in a foreign country will get you nowhere. It is what it is ... but I digress again). Think about all the differences around the world for people to tell people where to get off. There's the right hand in the bent elbow of the other arm, the thumb flicked off the front teeth. Of course there's the elusive bird. There's always a way to curse across the language spectrum.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnno74zcMalQVZKRZnKeYi6ozql5A-EaHkiqYVSUfhVWGd8q7_t0z29B9VRuV-qd9kctwYQEtJUPtPpHear0jp-pVL1ix6IlqWwFJvjmIyrnonOjG55hulAfQkRDXkdvuvaXNGKk8DosRJ/s1600/gestures.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnno74zcMalQVZKRZnKeYi6ozql5A-EaHkiqYVSUfhVWGd8q7_t0z29B9VRuV-qd9kctwYQEtJUPtPpHear0jp-pVL1ix6IlqWwFJvjmIyrnonOjG55hulAfQkRDXkdvuvaXNGKk8DosRJ/s1600/gestures.jpg" height="320" width="212" /></a></div>
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Is it not out of the realm of possibility that this is where
I got my “gesture-itis?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps
this is a remnant of my life overseas; a sign (pun intended) of my Third
Culture Kid-ness. My husband says it's because in spite of the fact that my (very large) head is so full of adjectives, I run out sometimes; my hands are my way of adding to my stash. They are my <i>adjunct</i> adjectives. I think it's because there must be some Italian in my DNA. </div>
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<!--EndFragment-->http://kazakhstanii.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06243506639327162419noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069354511167646779.post-67715930108389914502014-01-26T14:02:00.000-05:002014-01-26T14:05:31.218-05:00Dinner on the Ship<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Well what do you know … a blog entry!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Working full time has unfortunately
caused my little Third Culture blog to take a back seat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Working at a public library has been
everything I expected it to be; every day is a new day, variety is the name of
the game.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have met people from
across the spectrum, from every corner of the globe (cliché, I know) and of
many religions and creeds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(What
is a creed, anyway?)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am just as
happy to see the woman wearing a burqa as I am the young African immigrant studying
for the GMAT.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am thrilled to see
the family that has adopted across racial lines. </div>
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It's like working in a candy factory where you're not allowed to sample the wares. Books pass through my hands, and just about all of them capture my interest. I've even checked out a few, but returned them, unread, because, well, I'm just too darn tired. </div>
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I hope I will have some time to write more about my
experiences in biblio-land, but in the meantime I can only share this beautiful menu that my
mother found recently.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> (She is Susanna C. Dixon on the menu, and I, unfortunately, am listed as Margaret E. Dixon. Margaret is my my first given name, never used .. I always went by Elizabeth). </span>It is from
our last voyage from Yokohama to San Francisco on the SS President McKinley.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All of the passengers and crew
autographed it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> (I'm impressed with the one from the Department of Philosophy at Niagara University!) </span>I wonder what
happened to them all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s just a
drop in the time-universe paradigm, a piece of ephemera from my history.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">I've written about my shipboard adventures in the past. Mom says someone used to quiz me about capitals of the world, and I would run off to a huge map on the wall to search for the answers. I think these trips taught me, in addition to nuggets of geography, that boredom is not an option. (Imagine eight days without the electronica of today). </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW8M0fbbx5OLG8mpDu6tAjKsn5iCb0xF3mZbFVLqUAG_mNDDc8-FPExihvQ3WMS-wcG_I6FYKiCZH5sMb2G5UY4xtINvtrlf44GiEQ3ZrvQ8zQbtflZQTkGSBpghNS2abz1Jh_GV6i-laS/s1600/ShipMenu1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW8M0fbbx5OLG8mpDu6tAjKsn5iCb0xF3mZbFVLqUAG_mNDDc8-FPExihvQ3WMS-wcG_I6FYKiCZH5sMb2G5UY4xtINvtrlf44GiEQ3ZrvQ8zQbtflZQTkGSBpghNS2abz1Jh_GV6i-laS/s1600/ShipMenu1.jpg" height="320" width="249" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl9Ca7zCDeJBtQsqRX4LC5oMipcrniVkVzSmKRsLP5UVv_jO3tCk1iF1EtUhSfvn-S7WI26irGx3yh0OWYa_-Xd5Z_l9UboabrcfH0sQKqCKWVMwBIvxDwBX7cUn_ThVJJSIpJlG3XLx4X/s1600/ShipMenu2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl9Ca7zCDeJBtQsqRX4LC5oMipcrniVkVzSmKRsLP5UVv_jO3tCk1iF1EtUhSfvn-S7WI26irGx3yh0OWYa_-Xd5Z_l9UboabrcfH0sQKqCKWVMwBIvxDwBX7cUn_ThVJJSIpJlG3XLx4X/s1600/ShipMenu2.jpg" height="320" width="250" /></a></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->http://kazakhstanii.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06243506639327162419noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069354511167646779.post-29417875165879572312013-11-06T08:31:00.002-05:002013-11-06T08:31:20.241-05:00A Weekend at Subic Bay<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0_XvykQyJUZFSi9aStbboBhc8oX1XAJXdmrWwS-bf5_5VURm_OwOfdREWkL6Uuv-2PrRb-uva-4a1F-Jb185ZwHL9mqhvoJFwMkpCjTbSKyWAQOSpOl_EQZTXpa0KIGWLSdt6lcTwiXS4/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0_XvykQyJUZFSi9aStbboBhc8oX1XAJXdmrWwS-bf5_5VURm_OwOfdREWkL6Uuv-2PrRb-uva-4a1F-Jb185ZwHL9mqhvoJFwMkpCjTbSKyWAQOSpOl_EQZTXpa0KIGWLSdt6lcTwiXS4/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">Sometimes it’s hard to do
my job. Every day I am faced with a large cart of books that need to be cataloged,
and too often I end up thumbing through one that catches my eye. I’m
transported from my little cubicle in Technical Services to worlds that I can only dream about. To historic events, to
the lives of the rich and famous to the poor and the not-so-famous. I
never know when a non-fiction book will take me back somewhere in my
past. The minutes tick away as I fall, engrossed, into the book and into my
memories. Suddenly I, guiltily,
snap back to reality and carry on with my work.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">The other day, it was
Graham Nash’s autobiography, “Wild Tales: A Rock and Roll Life." I have
always put Crosby, Stills and Nash (and sometimes Young) at the number one spot of my favorite bands. I’ve written before
about how their music is thematic of my sister, Lisa’s life, and of my vision,
as a spectator, of her extraordinary high school years. Their rich sound and lyrics remind me of
jam sessions in our living room in Brussels, made up of lanky, long-haired,
blue-jean-wearing, motorcycle-riding guys and their girlfriends, singing
impossible harmonies and strumming their 12-string guitars. I peeked in
from behind closed doors, taking it in, wishing I could be like them, young,
talented and totally cool, their whole lives lying ahead. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I put CSN on my iPod
this morning (to start my day … but that’s another band) and a song came up
that took me in an entirely different direction, to the Philippines, in a
galaxy far, far away ... </span></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">It was Thanksgiving,
1976. My mom and her friend Eileen had booked a shopping trip to Hong
Kong. My dad was on his way to India for an extended business trip.
What to do with me? Of all times, at Thanksgiving, the penultimate family
holiday, my family was leaving me! Luckily, I had two invitations: one to
go to the mountain resort of Baguio with a family friend.
The other was a trip, just for fun, to Subic Bay, the home of the biggest US Naval Base in the
Pacific at the time, about 50 miles north west of Manila. What a choice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">The friend who invited me
to Subic was uber cool: she was a cheerleader, and beautiful, and I was thrilled that
she saw fit to be my friend. We had met in our Asian Studies class; she
was new to the school, and we just clicked. I always felt comfortable
with her, and we had a lot of fun together, sometimes skipping school to grab a
burger at the local watering hole. We laughed a lot and got into some
shenanigans here and there. She lived a little on the edge, which enticed
me, and gave me courage to do the same. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">She was dating a guy whose
father was a physician at the Naval Air Station, Cubi Point, on the edge of
Subic. Another girlfriend was to join us, with the boyfriend, and the four of us were
to stay with his family at Cubi. We left the Tuesday before Thanksgiving,
on a Victory Liner bus. It was loud, hot, dusty and windy, and we sat,
happy and free, as we bounced our way north to Olongapo City, outside the gates
of the base. We made our way to Cubi, and to the boyfriend’s house.
When we arrived, there were no parents in sight. We had the house to
ourselves, for the entire weekend. I was sixteen years old.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq-2ASWde5ppIuTObuyxrB18d8PHwfhThUJLGXmlTTZJOHimsBWOeQdLtq5UZ_5uRjlUq53_hd9Fk-Q4E-FOUf3iYcY87Jt9PVlpPv_A_GaSmeM1FY0zPn8cd1sdHWsQcpdeK7nWjmEjUp/s1600/opo_subic-gate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq-2ASWde5ppIuTObuyxrB18d8PHwfhThUJLGXmlTTZJOHimsBWOeQdLtq5UZ_5uRjlUq53_hd9Fk-Q4E-FOUf3iYcY87Jt9PVlpPv_A_GaSmeM1FY0zPn8cd1sdHWsQcpdeK7nWjmEjUp/s320/opo_subic-gate.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">The boyfriend was a
student at George Dewey High School, and we made our way over there to meet
some of his friends. "Afternoon Delight" was a big hit at the
time, and it seemed to be playing from every jukebox we passed. We went
out that first night to a club on base where we danced to the latest music from
the states, and later ate American hamburgers and chocolate ice cream at the nearby
bowling alley. There were American servicemen everywhere you looked, and
you know what they say about a man in uniform. It was mesmerizing.
They also paid more than a little attention to us as we passed. The next night we went to a club called The Sampaguita Club, where a Marine MP
took one look at my I.D. and threw us out because we were underage. For
some reason, we then went to the Officers’ Club (where age doesn’t matter?) and
I was asked to dance by ten different sharply dressed officers. Was I in
heaven? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVbwUxIL-NKd9jw5lDKUodFr320T7t56BgeDsQv-AhS4Zy3W8OoUyZ5j984laIzAfl__eNjSNLbtgwcg5Cge9MUXyvsb-pHU3lviFkYHs9Z-zUij1QgJhqu5FuyBeiOX-8lHnEWVOpPnG7/s1600/67110_182843828393434_8285600_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVbwUxIL-NKd9jw5lDKUodFr320T7t56BgeDsQv-AhS4Zy3W8OoUyZ5j984laIzAfl__eNjSNLbtgwcg5Cge9MUXyvsb-pHU3lviFkYHs9Z-zUij1QgJhqu5FuyBeiOX-8lHnEWVOpPnG7/s320/67110_182843828393434_8285600_n.jpg" width="219" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Me, at sixteen.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The next day we took the
ferry to Grande Island in the middle of the
bay, an R and R spot for the military.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We hung out on the beach, drinking and just being.
Sunburned and a little tipsy (perhaps?) we came back to the boyfriend’s house
and dressed for an evening out. We hooked up with a nurse who worked at the
naval hospital and her date. She was a WAVE, and worked with the boyfriend’s
father at the hospital.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a
strange time in the history of the base: the war in Vietnam was over, and for
whatever reason there was a lot of dissatisfaction among those in the
Navy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We saw evidence of drugs
everywhere; they were just another part of Navy life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We listened, horrified, to stories about two servicemen who
had rescued a drowning Filipina, only to be accused of rape by her family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thrown in the brig, the men endured
daily beatings by Marine MPs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There seemed to be a dome of dark discontent covering the entire base.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Graffiti was spray painted on many a
wall: FTN!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;"><span style="font-size: large; mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">After lingering for a
while in the nurse's apartment, we left to see the sights in Olongapo. The base
was separated from the city by a river, if you could call it that, more like an
open sewer (its nickname was Shit River). Walking across the bridge from the base into the city, I was
a little amused, but at the same time shocked to see men in small boats on the
river, calling out to the passing sailors, “You want a girl? Hey
Joe! You want a young girl! My sister only 13!” Small children would actually be swimming in the awful water, calling for people to throw coins to them. If the coins landed in the water, the kids would dive down to the mucky bottom to retrieve them. We were too
young to appreciate the tragedy, only in retrospect do I understand the dark
world we were passing through. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">On the main thoroughfare the air was pulsing with
music from the clubs. Beautiful Filipina women stood in the doorways,
dressed provocatively, enticing passersby to enter. There was a sensory
cacophony of the loud music, cigarette smoke, stale beer, and cooking food. We
were blinded by thousands of blinking neon lights.
The sidewalk teemed with humanity: sailors and Filipinos moving in all
directions as jeepneys and motorcycle taxis rumbled by coughing out diesel
fumes. Towering above the crowd, tall MPs sauntered along, their starched
while uniforms spotless and pressed, hands on their billy clubs, looking for
misbehaving sailors.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3SXEMZnUTbxe8JeUYs6xk_zRD3J1LqszVnvAcRu98xTQ5OYzXs6ydkFvlBdaSNN_Oehdy0ajwyrkjgvNJs-7SD1s_pG3mWI87dEUt1AFChcDREyfm45-tFTm3oas2m-R0l8O21gcTWNco/s1600/images-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3SXEMZnUTbxe8JeUYs6xk_zRD3J1LqszVnvAcRu98xTQ5OYzXs6ydkFvlBdaSNN_Oehdy0ajwyrkjgvNJs-7SD1s_pG3mWI87dEUt1AFChcDREyfm45-tFTm3oas2m-R0l8O21gcTWNco/s1600/images-1.jpeg" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The view from the base looking towards Olongapo.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">We wandered into a club
called New Florida, where we danced with each other and other guys. I suppose we
were rare birds: young American girls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My friend gave me some dance tips: "It's all in the shoulders,
Liz!" I was determined to get drunk, (no drinking age off-base in the
city!) so I slammed back three rums and coke, one after the other.
Someone ordered a pitcher of something called Mojo, a mixture of vodka, rum,
gin, San Miguel beer, pineapple juice and who knows what else. The place
started seriously spinning and my friend took me out into the fresh air to walk
it off. As we walked along the sidewalk, elbowing our way through the
crowd, I ran smack dab into an air conditioning unit, gashing my head in the
process. We ducked into a pizza place to clean up my head, which was
bleeding pretty decently by then. The bathroom was packed with Filipinas,
all shapes and sizes, and we had to elbow our way to the sink. It was hot
and damp, with a strong, wet smell of disinfectant mixed with cheap
perfume (and other things).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The floor seemed to be
going up and down like a carnival fun house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Groups of women preened in front of the mirror, chattering
in rapid-fire Tagalog and reapplying their makeup. As I leaned in,
dabbing my head with a paper towel, a young girl threw up in the sink next to
me. It was surreal: I remember thinking that I was hallucinating, or at
least wishing I was. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">Back to New Florida we
went. As I sat at the table, the others back on the dance floor, I sensed
a presence; a sailor sat down next to me. He kept asking me to dance, but
I refused, saying I was just too wasted. I told him to sit down and talk
to me, so he did. His name was Allan. He was only 19, not much
older than I was, and had already been in the Navy for a year. After
having met a lot of sailors that weekend, I don’t know why Allan stood out
(especially in my impaired state). He was on the USS Okinawa, and he
landed helicopters. We just couldn’t stop talking. At one point a
song came on: Stephen Stills’ "Love the One You’re With." It was almost as
if the music sobered me up, returned clarity to my head, and marked the time
and place, like a pin on a map. He touched the now very large bump and
gash on my head, and kissed it. He put his hand on my shoulder and pulled
out a picture of himself, after writing something on the back. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">Exhausted from the
dancing, and the alcohol starting to wear off, we all left to go back on base
to get something to eat, and Allan tagged along. Ears ringing in the sudden quiet, we sat at a table, and he seemed reflective, quiet. I asked him if
anything was wrong, and he said, “If you don’t understand my silence, you’ll
never understand my words.” He seemed to wake up after that, pulling out
pictures of his family, his twin sister, telling me his life story.
Suddenly he looked at his watch and said, “Shit! I was supposed to be
back on the ship by midnight! It’s 12:30!” No problem … the
boyfriend said it was cool to come back to his house until 4, when he could go
back on board. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">Everyone else went to bed,
and Allan and I stayed up on the patio talking through the night, taking in the
sleepy lights of Subic as the tropical breeze pushed the bougainvillea bushes
to and fro. I was in a trance. I listened to him talk about his
girlfriend back home, how she dumped him when he went into the service.
How he missed his family, and how hard it was to be in the Navy. I
remember the glow of his cigarette in the dark, as he paused to take a drag,
his short military haircut and his denim uniform. I was floating on
air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There I was, having an adult
conversation with a man who thought I was interesting. <i>Little old me!</i> I still marvel
that I was there at all … there had been no phone call from my parents to check
out where I would be. Did they even care?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">4:00 came entirely too
quickly, and as a taxi pulled up to take Allan back to his ship, he leaned down
and kissed me good-bye. The sun was still a long time away from coming
up, and I headed back in the house to sleep. I lay in the bed, reliving
everything that had just happened as I drifted off. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">Perhaps we were just two
lost souls who happened to find each other across a noisy, smoky bar. He
so far away from home, longing for his family; me, near to my home as I knew
it, but longing for my family as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There were too many stretches of time where I was alone, my dad on the
never-ending business trips (sometimes several weeks away), my mom out with her
friends, playing mahjongg or shopping in Hong Kong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a rare day that I came home from school to find anyone there.
I was desperate for some semblance of stability, a port if you will.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Allan and I were both adrift, (him
literally, me figuratively) out in the big bad world with no direction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We happened to stumble across each other
in the course of a crazy, wild weekend, each a buoy for the other in the middle
of an ocean. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkILFC8mw3Uhf8XSQru5lfCiU1n_F7dtRSRjmwDpBPRpdO3QzKVk1U0h6MnUu1k2jp9_VrA5TsqYB_I9_csr1cokwOsXqmCKA2o4IRupoBDiq-9lRDrZn5wD_7rM-18KAb-lU_5BSwXYZa/s1600/GI.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkILFC8mw3Uhf8XSQru5lfCiU1n_F7dtRSRjmwDpBPRpdO3QzKVk1U0h6MnUu1k2jp9_VrA5TsqYB_I9_csr1cokwOsXqmCKA2o4IRupoBDiq-9lRDrZn5wD_7rM-18KAb-lU_5BSwXYZa/s320/GI.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Not me at Grande Island.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Several weeks later, I
heard through the grapevine that the Okinawa was back at Subic. I had
this silly notion that Allan and I would be reunited and we would sail off into
the sunset. </span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">I managed to get back to
Subic with a different girlfriend, ostensibly to watch a soccer match between
our school and Dewey High School. Of course as soon as the bus got there,
we ditched the game and went browsing around the base. (I still remember how the goody two-shoes in me whined and kvetched about how we were going to get in trouble, until my friend finally told me to shut the heck up. I wasn't a very good "bad girl.") We took the boat
across to Grande Island, walking along the beach. I didn’t really expect
to find Allan, what were the odds? I mean, there were thousands of people
at Subic. Surely I would never find him!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">I literally stumbled
across a group of people, sailors and Filipinas partying on the beach, tripping
over the corner of their beach blanket. I hastily apologized, blushing,
and turned to the guy whose legs I had just trampled. It was Allan.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">I stood there, stunned and
agape with disbelief. He jumped up to his feet, and hugged me. He
stood in front of me, and grabbed my hand. We walked over to
the breakwater, and sat down on the rocks, our feet dangling over the sea.
He told me there was “something about me”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We decided to have a romance on paper. The Okinawa was
leaving the next day for Taiwan, and he promised to write to me every
day. He kissed me again, like he had that night at Cubi, and I watched
him walk away. My girlfriend and I got in lots of trouble with the
school (see, I was right!) for ditching the soccer game (the bus had waited three hours for us, ack!)
I was humiliated by getting into trouble, but it was worth the few minutes I
got to spend with Allan.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">Over the next few weeks, I
got several letters from him while the Okinawa was cruising around the
Pacific. He wrote me poems and told me about his life on board the aircraft
carrier. He sent goofy pictures of himself and the guys on the ship.
He told me he loved me, as if, impossibly, he could create a love affair by
writing about it. For the love-starved, hyper-romantic teenager that I
was, it was gold.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">Then, just as soon as they
had started, the letters stopped coming. Over time my memories of him,
such as they were, faded. Life went on. Our moment was over.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">About a year later, I did
get a short note from him, telling me he had been kicked out of the Navy, and
he was back in California, but that was it. I never heard from him
again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">When the internet came
along, a hundred years later, on a whim I tried to find Allan, if nothing else, to tell
him how I still remembered him, and how our brief time together had made me, an
awkward and lonely teenager, feel special. Somehow I found out that he
had died in the late 1990s. Strangely, I was crushed. I still
can’t explain the magic of that crazy weekend, amazed that my parents didn’t
care where I was or what I was doing. It was like a quick, heady trip
home to the states; the American food, the music, the American guys.
Allan and I had probably spent a total of about 6 hours together. Maybe
that was how it was supposed to be: brief, but meaningful. A message from
the universe that we were not alone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: large;">Every time I hear that
song, “Love the One You’re With," I am transported back to that skanky bar
in Olongapo and can taste the sickly sweet Mojo. I can smell the
cigarette smoke and hear the music crashing around my ears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I remember how a young sailor
picked me out of a crowd and, just for a moment, made me feel special. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times;">If you're down and confused </span><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times;">And you don't remember who you're talking to </span><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times;">Concentration slips away </span><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times;">Because your baby is so far away</span><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times;">Well there's a rose in a fisted glove </span><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times;">And the eagle flies with the dove </span><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times;">And if you can't be with the one you love, honey </span><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times;">Love the one you're with </span><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times;">Don't be angry, don't be sad </span><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times;">Don't sit crying over good times you've had </span><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times;">Well there's a girl sitting right next to you </span><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times;">And she's just waiting for something to do</span><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times;">Well there's a rose in a fisted glove </span><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times;">And the eagle flies with the dove </span><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times;">And if you can't be with the one you love, honey </span><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times;">Love the one you're with </span><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times;">You gotta love the one you're with </span><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times;">Turn your heartache right into joy </span><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times;">She's a girl and you're a boy</span><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times;"> Did you get it together and make it nice? </span><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times;">When you ain't gonna need anymore advice</span><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times;">Well there's a rose in a fisted glove </span><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times;">And the eagle flies with the dove </span><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times;">Sometimes you can't be with the one you love, honey </span><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times;">Love the one you're with</span><span style="font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">You can read more about the debauchery and insanity that servicemen at Subic got into at <a href="http://dennisclevenger.wordpress.com/">http://dennisclevenger.wordpress.com/</a> </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">From my "fully-in-port-on-solid-ground" position today, it all seems ridiculous that my parents were on board (let's see how many boat and ocean puns I can cram into one blog entry!) with me spending several days at a military base filled with hundreds (thousands?) of young men who were on dry land after having been at sea for months. It was a different parenting universe, to be sure. I truly believe that a parent living with children overseas had similar issues of detachment from (reality?) the norms back stateside. Perhaps my parents were struggling in their own fashion to find their way. Is there such a thing as a Third Culture Parent? I wonder. </span></div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<!--EndFragment--><br /></div>
http://kazakhstanii.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06243506639327162419noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069354511167646779.post-47251495640724303492013-10-19T13:19:00.000-04:002013-10-19T13:36:36.779-04:00There's No Place Like ... <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFmV2N4toVPhw1gCp1LbOxJBFgs9VADec_KGPFDmbJ7UFf4y1J9n0lqL7LLFL6rl90aqAlsAHPB2rbRZXvJ8aRbS-FpvZ3EUQp0v9vVxV57MRvsoQ4qAAqIW-5_MBBrXNSJL_9jYmwTmlp/s1600/DSC_6595.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFmV2N4toVPhw1gCp1LbOxJBFgs9VADec_KGPFDmbJ7UFf4y1J9n0lqL7LLFL6rl90aqAlsAHPB2rbRZXvJ8aRbS-FpvZ3EUQp0v9vVxV57MRvsoQ4qAAqIW-5_MBBrXNSJL_9jYmwTmlp/s320/DSC_6595.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Schmoozing with the captain. (Not Capt. Steubing).</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Lessons learned from a European cruise (that are totally
incidental and not applicable to the American tourist as a whole, lest I be
accused of generalizing too much):</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some Americans don’t like to be in foreign countries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They like to go home and tell people that they have been to
foreign countries. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But while they are on their luxury cruise ship, which looks
pretty much like a four-star hotel-from-home-on-water, they peek out their
portholes at beautiful European hamlets and historical waterfronts, and complain,
complain, complain, that it’s not like home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s too hot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It’s too cold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s too
steep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s too far to walk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The people don’t speak English.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The food is too rich.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s taking too long for the harbor
officials to clear the ship for disembarking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Well, that’s the French for you! There are rules, and there
are ‘French’ rules.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><eye roll=""> The tiny TCK voice in me is outraged, embarrassed, angry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Why did you come here, if all you do
is complain that it’s not like home?”</eye><br />
<eye roll=""><br /></eye>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmT-zuBu1PKc-Oa1GM38hNj6aiQUa3l42PO6NhmOk54dzfz56ddzhIV8FnA9uHAbpil0vxA5FG8kiKmOh3BF5FsoFm-Fw-qyw4KsAyy7wVoU33ZHcA0AwoM8_Efl2Hd5d8gF64RCq4TjVM/s1600/DSC_7259.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmT-zuBu1PKc-Oa1GM38hNj6aiQUa3l42PO6NhmOk54dzfz56ddzhIV8FnA9uHAbpil0vxA5FG8kiKmOh3BF5FsoFm-Fw-qyw4KsAyy7wVoU33ZHcA0AwoM8_Efl2Hd5d8gF64RCq4TjVM/s320/DSC_7259.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Portugese Tiles.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<eye roll=""><br /></eye></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And lest I sound like a cynical, ungrateful be-yotch who
does nothing but gripe about an opulent, ridiculously luxurious cruise provided
by the generosity of her mother-in-law, whom she appreciates more than she
could ever say, allow me to say that I, myself, had a wonderful time seeing
places that I have to date only dreamt about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I finally got to set foot in Portugal, that exotic place
that tempted me last May but which, thanks to the buffoonery of United Airlines, I was
prevented from seeing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was
enchanted by the intricate tile-fronted buildings in Porto and by the tiny
alleyways of Sintra.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got to
watch men building a wooden boat from scratch, and taste tawny and red Ferreira
port at the very place where it was made.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I got to wander through the white towns of Andalusia in Spain,
surrounded by rolling green hills, dotted with hundreds of modern windmill turbines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I chuckled to myself that Don Quixote
would have had his hands full battling those!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzW_6HE_ejn0fEL2_7gjFlWmC4-77P-llesL0KkHk1aZQ5Zm10tIUC5mohGbCDQI7xYJkkXYyCg7xmBKD3OEAszcApAAf60HHQJnc0zJ1lqAeY6r0e-DfS01pVDtH7b3VRZyWrEvMAmk1E/s1600/DSC_5778.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzW_6HE_ejn0fEL2_7gjFlWmC4-77P-llesL0KkHk1aZQ5Zm10tIUC5mohGbCDQI7xYJkkXYyCg7xmBKD3OEAszcApAAf60HHQJnc0zJ1lqAeY6r0e-DfS01pVDtH7b3VRZyWrEvMAmk1E/s320/DSC_5778.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mt. St. Michel</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I finally got to climb the seemingly endless craggy steps to
the top of Mont St. Michel in France.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My sister Lisa, when we lived in Belgium, had been there on a high
school field trip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was
mesmerized by the thought of a mysterious abbey on a rock island, only
accessible at low tide, and cut off from the world when the sea came back to
the land.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a sort of
pilgrimage for me, to stand where my sister had once stood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgDTEqNgHx3zHIw3SJt0hQ1nkGkG4fCt9jp8CjYmPLPaaDKsECwHW64yW4i8J3bLroVxyh8jIVT3_21eewgII3-MXpjQUrFVyG41Z43ezavL7YBCJhwuJtnXtvcyuKyCVbJBUPRtAo0XkM/s1600/DSC_6565.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgDTEqNgHx3zHIw3SJt0hQ1nkGkG4fCt9jp8CjYmPLPaaDKsECwHW64yW4i8J3bLroVxyh8jIVT3_21eewgII3-MXpjQUrFVyG41Z43ezavL7YBCJhwuJtnXtvcyuKyCVbJBUPRtAo0XkM/s320/DSC_6565.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bordeaux </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><br />
<div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">My husband and I sat in a bistro on the sidewalks of
Bordeaux and I resurrected my French language skills to order scallops in
mushroom sauce, and a goat cheese salad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Oh Em Gee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t remember
tasting anything so exquisite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhewbZie0X4tLXZRYPFj2WjlIWvuZYVqgeqBLPr5bY-ki4OFCx5SCg2T-Twiax4lLTmgeAwe1RqL1OTaLwDXutEod5X1KqUKxTH0t_mTQOB2y0yO_8ZJ6_wFi0OgYz1Yt-0fwsr_50DsbI/s1600/DSC_6816.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhewbZie0X4tLXZRYPFj2WjlIWvuZYVqgeqBLPr5bY-ki4OFCx5SCg2T-Twiax4lLTmgeAwe1RqL1OTaLwDXutEod5X1KqUKxTH0t_mTQOB2y0yO_8ZJ6_wFi0OgYz1Yt-0fwsr_50DsbI/s320/DSC_6816.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the Garonne River in Bordeaux</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipsAv4Slk-RG3ZJbz8r-YrcYP_o9jbpgvj763vgOqsLt3P-SMhzN2vmSa1Wst1zXIJV_5O-rih-evgqk46r4D8sZ25rOgN_tuNk4HPvt5NsK809nfvCEzoFYrP51pQM_zj_JLYOw-aKcoK/s1600/DSC_6414.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipsAv4Slk-RG3ZJbz8r-YrcYP_o9jbpgvj763vgOqsLt3P-SMhzN2vmSa1Wst1zXIJV_5O-rih-evgqk46r4D8sZ25rOgN_tuNk4HPvt5NsK809nfvCEzoFYrP51pQM_zj_JLYOw-aKcoK/s320/DSC_6414.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">OMG</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I stood, in the rain, on the deck of our ship as we came into port in Bilbao, Spain. When I was a little girl and we crossed the Pacific on freighters, my dad would stand with me on the deck as we came into port in Yokohama. He explained how a little tugboat would come out to meet the ship. The pilot would hop on and guide the ship through the channels safely. It gave me a little nostalgic thrill to see the Spanish pilot do exactly that. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfKDQHYTUo95GuzGyBxNAVuH4YyJW8f0pQ0Zn4hhb50HunIXCwzQOONUJX5K3IkSeCm2Gb4HBzSKvkOJ2NwXlHMZvIT9N96IxPNqN9bR32ZYXKeadnvy_t4pXJMydS85k6W2My7KwPf0o2/s1600/DSC_7816.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfKDQHYTUo95GuzGyBxNAVuH4YyJW8f0pQ0Zn4hhb50HunIXCwzQOONUJX5K3IkSeCm2Gb4HBzSKvkOJ2NwXlHMZvIT9N96IxPNqN9bR32ZYXKeadnvy_t4pXJMydS85k6W2My7KwPf0o2/s320/DSC_7816.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So you can only imagine, that in light of my enchantment and
my sensory thrills, it was a little disheartening to hear my fellow countrymen griping
and bemoaning the ways of the Europeans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My TCK snobbery was running at full tilt … it was so very hard not to
respond to the complainers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
tried to think of a non-confrontational thing to say, but the moments passed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps I could have said, “Yes, but
vive la difference, right?!” or “Yes, but we need to respect their laws since
we are in their country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We would
expect the same of them when they visited our country, right?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4SF9WM2PdF0eUEUQMKBtSadHbfb0HKJ91lTZlrLZYPSU6fZ9-92KQbiSgG8ioPG54N_RX3zNyQaato8i9b6JjytZeXqHAO7jdOIwKSm7sSvnhCHGGaWNpV93nnM6Ol_9wZE2tAKp1joSU/s1600/DSC_7501.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4SF9WM2PdF0eUEUQMKBtSadHbfb0HKJ91lTZlrLZYPSU6fZ9-92KQbiSgG8ioPG54N_RX3zNyQaato8i9b6JjytZeXqHAO7jdOIwKSm7sSvnhCHGGaWNpV93nnM6Ol_9wZE2tAKp1joSU/s320/DSC_7501.jpg" width="211" /></a></div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">On the other hand, we befriended several of the crew, many of whom were from the Philippines. When I told them I longed for some Filipino food, they cooked a spread for me, and delivered it to my cabin when I was under the weather. That, my friends, is kindness and hospitality. I even sang the Filipino national anthem with them, resulting in lots of smiles and laughter. </span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiho7sdUXd_XO9jxg-1yfOgZ0p1G_1Uq27SZpawkLzhBF_k3f4cTw8_f-ExqwXE9jipNOBQZuOOrIEtSYc10uFT4biB1JveXyj0fgBt0A0funS_1Lfsg1xT7ZaFpTUkzPSCaK5LPpJ95RiU/s1600/DSC_9365.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiho7sdUXd_XO9jxg-1yfOgZ0p1G_1Uq27SZpawkLzhBF_k3f4cTw8_f-ExqwXE9jipNOBQZuOOrIEtSYc10uFT4biB1JveXyj0fgBt0A0funS_1Lfsg1xT7ZaFpTUkzPSCaK5LPpJ95RiU/s320/DSC_9365.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEmyjNAZ-dUMJc3jOO9tp4etOSIhai884o0hZsyqPnQIRtavxZ_SLN_DTY6HYW7Z9PZXakquuPNQsdYjEm0uybt_UwHD4E3OgwihTg5aenuBHZDOqc4mz4aztBJcWK8I8ut56OKfZ_gGvE/s1600/DSC_8401.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEmyjNAZ-dUMJc3jOO9tp4etOSIhai884o0hZsyqPnQIRtavxZ_SLN_DTY6HYW7Z9PZXakquuPNQsdYjEm0uybt_UwHD4E3OgwihTg5aenuBHZDOqc4mz4aztBJcWK8I8ut56OKfZ_gGvE/s320/DSC_8401.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Andalusia</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Sigh … being a TCK is sometimes a curse.<br />
<div style="font-size: 13px; text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">
Many people travel overseas only to realize that there’s no place like home. For me, wherever I go is home, so any insult of the place, is an insult to me. There is so much in the world to be appreciated and absorbed. We shouldn't waste time longing for home. </div>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV8tBQzcjprFDiULZfwHUeIN0RHh-LUV-CJi57FxrGA8d8RyjEeW50VR4vekCjlsS0L7ajkN-Dtwm49s7_LD7wZqsuLBuZ4F_czaaviSd1Tnjy324jWdAte-kexGZIVFMfQeIPMQnLDKCi/s1600/DSC_8426.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV8tBQzcjprFDiULZfwHUeIN0RHh-LUV-CJi57FxrGA8d8RyjEeW50VR4vekCjlsS0L7ajkN-Dtwm49s7_LD7wZqsuLBuZ4F_czaaviSd1Tnjy324jWdAte-kexGZIVFMfQeIPMQnLDKCi/s320/DSC_8426.jpg" width="211" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gloria and me in Andalusia</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Post Script: I hit the ground running when we got home. Work is a pleasure, exhausting, but still a pleasure. My posts here may be few and far between, but I'm still here, thinking and viewing the world through my TCK rose-colored glasses. I hope you'll stay tuned. </span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->http://kazakhstanii.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06243506639327162419noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069354511167646779.post-26431663226620514372013-08-18T10:57:00.001-04:002013-08-19T10:03:41.149-04:00The Real World Meets the TCK<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdJC3ErhP0U3MQEfBc5rV9oIHHhRG2VPO4SVkykFVKckOWoQ2V4BnvW9xwz3Yx3Mp0WyglBO0OpM0Mt7VLBEG5Dz1BJCD758157eGG3gMOHQj252E_ukNnSfE3l_1fryilQJUZjhW122f8/s1600/exhausted-500x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdJC3ErhP0U3MQEfBc5rV9oIHHhRG2VPO4SVkykFVKckOWoQ2V4BnvW9xwz3Yx3Mp0WyglBO0OpM0Mt7VLBEG5Dz1BJCD758157eGG3gMOHQj252E_ukNnSfE3l_1fryilQJUZjhW122f8/s320/exhausted-500x300.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Four weeks of working full time under the belt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love my job, even though it is filled
with a mountain of tiny details that I have to internalize.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every day I learn something new: it’s
like learning all the rules for a foreign language, then learning all the
exceptions and irregularities of those rules.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know, it’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">always</i>
this way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Except when it’s not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s frustrating only because I am the
type of person who hates being “new” and who wants to know everything at once;
to be an expert at everything on <a href="http://kazakhstanii.blogspot.com/2013/07/the-tck-and-job-interview.html">Day One</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
hate being inept and still under construction, if you will.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe that’s why I never was hip on the
idea of building a house from scratch; I’m too impatient to imagine the
possibilities; I just want to skip to the end to see the result.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEb2Ixn-yU-3rJUCbgI567u0PreaMpfUxpUoRZA0Vzi_mfHffjGuB9HyuCQcvCZwOJor4WUE_dpPB6_oVTcUAQcIu3KKwierjFmiajo_kng0gimSZJhOtlprHBtF1tNMvOxrOD_YrCb4PL/s1600/librarianmug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEb2Ixn-yU-3rJUCbgI567u0PreaMpfUxpUoRZA0Vzi_mfHffjGuB9HyuCQcvCZwOJor4WUE_dpPB6_oVTcUAQcIu3KKwierjFmiajo_kng0gimSZJhOtlprHBtF1tNMvOxrOD_YrCb4PL/s1600/librarianmug.jpg" /></a>.</div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
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I’m going through a kind of tired, too, that I haven’t felt
in a long time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I go to bed and it
seems like five minutes later the alarm is going off and it’s time to get up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I come home at night and before I can
blink it’s time to go to bed and do it all over again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There just doesn’t seem to be any down
time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My husband and I are the
proverbial ships passing in the night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I know, whine, whine, whine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Cry me a river.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Welcome to
the Real Word.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizS9r4r-expU-Pht41muu0Yb7xdnP3qsI2ArqWqc5MBjV8A-NRdIOp_w9FBtYw-C6Yx3kc-k2vSPJR3tePwFaFVXMT_Nbwg6vlMdZcjhHXaMZic23Ki9qUS15rMLp5tiudMemaew_eKS65/s1600/minnie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizS9r4r-expU-Pht41muu0Yb7xdnP3qsI2ArqWqc5MBjV8A-NRdIOp_w9FBtYw-C6Yx3kc-k2vSPJR3tePwFaFVXMT_Nbwg6vlMdZcjhHXaMZic23Ki9qUS15rMLp5tiudMemaew_eKS65/s320/minnie.jpg" width="243" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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The best part is the level of satisfaction I have in the
fact that I am working in my field.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I went to school, studied hard, and earned a degree in library
science.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now I am actually working
in a real live library, using some of the actual things I learned in
school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cataloging is meticulous
and subjective at the same time; it was one of the courses I enjoyed the most
in school and here I am, getting paid to do just that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In all of the jobs I held in the past,
mostly in the legal field, I felt incompetent, untrained and ill-prepared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went to law school for a year, yes,
but I never felt that I was good enough; I was completely insecure in my
abilities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In one case I really
did make a huge mistake that was a result of my lack of supervision and true
ignorance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Being asked to take on
the project, I remember thinking, okay, I’ll do that, just hang on one second
while I go to law school “right quick”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’ll be right back!)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
powers-that-were never made me feel bad about my screw-up, not to blame myself,
etc., but I still felt guilty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Attorneys
always have the final responsibility for a paralegal in their employ, but it
still hurt and was embarrassing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
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Of course, if you make a mistake in cataloging a book, no
one is going to die, and it’s easy to correct.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The stakes are not as high (thank goodness!)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now I feel confident, secure in my
knowledge and education.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s the
kind of job that I always wanted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’m being trained well, and that, in combination with what I learned in
school, is the perfect culmination of a lot of dreams.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSecL61cz3nmhj1KX49YIzzi0HWMHrqIuT2XvTEahsWTYFy4IsVl7vPYT8w3JNbIHxm-LAVpAVpCKVAoHjz96Z4e-jNGZRP7auEqbPJfb1XWQvlwCIslqBnS3mVfUWWfS2afSho2Vfv11V/s1600/roboread.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSecL61cz3nmhj1KX49YIzzi0HWMHrqIuT2XvTEahsWTYFy4IsVl7vPYT8w3JNbIHxm-LAVpAVpCKVAoHjz96Z4e-jNGZRP7auEqbPJfb1XWQvlwCIslqBnS3mVfUWWfS2afSho2Vfv11V/s320/roboread.jpg" width="210" /></a></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All this happened at the same time my book came out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s been a great couple of months,
feeling like I have accomplished a lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>All those years of feeling half-baked and not good enough are behind me
(but not so far behind me that I get cocky!) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The down side is that I have so little time for my little
Third Culture Kid blog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope
that I am still in my adjustment period, so to speak, with my state of
exhaustion, and that I will fall into a steady hum of existence soon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seeing hundreds of books every day
(agonizing not to be able to read them all!) gives me a plethora of ideas about
life to write about, I just need to sleep on the weekends!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the meantime, check out my Facebook
page, at Recovered Third Culture Kid, where I post snippets of TCK
interest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the words of the
immortal Terminator, “I’ll be back.” <br />
<br />
Check out this review of my book on <a href="http://www.amazon.com/review/R72R47OXJMVUM/177-7047392-6067211/ref=tsm_1_fb_lk">Amazon</a>. (Full disclosure: it was written by my friend <a href="http://kazakhstanii.blogspot.com/2013/02/sons-of-great-satan.html">Anthony Roberts</a> whose books "Sons of the Great Satan" and "Dead'r Than Elvis: Tall Tales of Texas Bullsh*t" I talked about earlier). <br />
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<!--EndFragment-->http://kazakhstanii.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06243506639327162419noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069354511167646779.post-81734519946986907922013-07-29T09:31:00.000-04:002013-08-17T15:03:57.499-04:00A Third Culture Kid Writes<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVGwAjLEfXNGIYMpJL_D6tl7n1TopvYGQdvEUoXTLSb4-1O4ZGRfVMWfMoWt08HNk97UX5gXovYJeCTwqVaj-j52mETIcOJf4g7xQswjEdNPd9HdAKxChMy5QyjN8Sv0eoqH5LxK1qPNng/s1600/diarypic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVGwAjLEfXNGIYMpJL_D6tl7n1TopvYGQdvEUoXTLSb4-1O4ZGRfVMWfMoWt08HNk97UX5gXovYJeCTwqVaj-j52mETIcOJf4g7xQswjEdNPd9HdAKxChMy5QyjN8Sv0eoqH5LxK1qPNng/s320/diarypic.jpg" width="240" /></a>Growing up as a Third Culture Kid, I kept a diary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is tear-stained and filled with the
usual teenage angst that most of us go through at that point of our lives, only
mine had an international slant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
have schlepped all twelve volumes, in spiral-bound notebooks, from pillar to
post throughout my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes
I flip through it and marvel at how mixed up I was, how I grieved, and how I yearned
for love or stability.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I recently
picked up a book called “Forbidden Diary,” an edited version of a journal kept by
an American woman who was interned by the Japanese in the Philippines during World War II.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Reading the introduction really struck
a chord:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Confined persons are often prolific diarists.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This has been true for centuries, as
shown by the abundance of memoirs and journals of prisoners, whether in the
Tower of London, concentration camps, or hidden residences, as in the case of
Anne Frank.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Such persons may be
physically confined or restricted to a limited existence, physical or
psychological, for protracted periods – because of illness, imprisonment,
geographic isolation or emergency conditions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They may be in a threatening, unfamiliar, or uncongenial
environment where they have little if any control or freedom to pursue their
customary activities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Enforced
routine or exceptional leisure may allow them an unusual amount of time for
reflection.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Could it be said that a Third Culture Kid is a “confined
person”?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I certainly felt
confined; I was thrust into foreign countries against my will (okay that sounds
a little extreme, shall I say, without any input from me), and completely out
of control of my own destiny.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
spent hours detailing my life in my tiny script, often copying poems and
passages from other books that spoke to my adolescent spirit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In no way would I presume to compare being a TCK to being an actual
prisoner, but aren’t prisons sometimes invisible?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We don’t have to be surrounded by walls and barbed wire to
feel trapped, after all.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps that journal was the fulfillment of a dream: I have
always wanted to be a writer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
breaking up my mom’s house last year, I came across reams of papers with
stories I had written, either in my own scrawl or on a typewriter (remember
those?) we had around the house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It is said that you should “write what you know” and I took that
seriously. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wrote what was inside
my head, purging all the depression and the longings, but also celebrating the
joys of a first kiss or “going home”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There were calendars where I literally counted days, agonizingly willing time to speed up until something could happen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This very blog is a reflection of my need to write.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel compelled to reach out to others
who have lived as I lived, to reassure them that they are not alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many TCKs (dare I say <i>most</i>?) know what it is to be lonely;
in the dictionary next to that word is a picture of me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A picture of me in a room filled with
stacked packing boxes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is
the physical sensation of the first morning waking up in the new place; that
sense of strangeness, but at the same time familiarity; the smell of damp
cardboard and fresh paint.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am in
a new world, afraid but simultaneously intrigued with my surroundings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I filled my loneliness with reading,
writing and imagination.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was no
one with me to nudge with my elbow and say, “Hey, look at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i>!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My writing was and is a poke in the ribs to an imaginary friend: “Check it out!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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When we adopted our first daughter in 2001, I wrote about
the trip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a harrowing
experience, on so many levels, (ever see “The Out of Towners” with Jack Lemmon
and Sandy Dennis?) and I felt that no one had been honest with me about the
realities (no one wants to talk about the difficult parts, after all!)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt obligated to share my experience
with other families, so that they wouldn’t be as gobsmacked as I was when I was
in the middle of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxeNpunZp1EGMVoe6lquywhj4CZ2y5ShGlhjWfvyH71eL0xZPePd9Gg8SGr2kf3YFt8E8gvuBveDvXHN8SsYU-r1wO477FepjKjd3-auOze5AzaVj9uJ2ZSaph3qY-Wh6GTQEwb-vdZWZB/s1600/images-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxeNpunZp1EGMVoe6lquywhj4CZ2y5ShGlhjWfvyH71eL0xZPePd9Gg8SGr2kf3YFt8E8gvuBveDvXHN8SsYU-r1wO477FepjKjd3-auOze5AzaVj9uJ2ZSaph3qY-Wh6GTQEwb-vdZWZB/s1600/images-1.jpeg" /></a></div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
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I banged the story out on an old IBM Thinkpad that we had,
and produced a pretty hefty manuscript.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I even signed up with a publishing outfit, and sent it to be edited
by a professional memoirist (is there such a word?)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then the Thinkpad died.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then life happened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There was a second adoption, then, sadly, a divorce.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The paper copy of the manuscript came
along with me in my several moves, but it just sat, neglected, in a manila
envelope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I kept running across it
and feeling guilty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I rationalized
that since it was about my daughter that I needed to wait until she was of age,
for her to approve my writing about her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It also addresses some hard truths and I wanted her to be old enough to
be able to process this without feeling that any of it was her fault. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This past January 1, I made it my New Years’ resolution to
finish the book.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I blockaded
myself into the study, rewriting, adding, editing, and just plain finishing the
book.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mom used to be an editor
for the LSU Press, so I ran it by her for typos and bad grammar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sent it off to the publisher (okay,
full disclosure, a self-publisher, but today so called “indie” publishing is
becoming more and more mainstream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That’s my story and I’m sticking to it).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I got the first pictures of the cover, I can’t express the emotions that overcame me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a
childhood dream come true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I wrote a book!</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So now, my little book is available on the Authorhouse <a href="http://bookstore.authorhouse.com/Products/SKU-000444495/BUILDING-A-BRIDGE.aspx">website</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can also buy it on
Amazon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(What?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Little old me on Amazon??)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t claim to be an F. Scott
Fitzgerald or even Shakespeare, but it is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i>,
and it is from my heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I intend to contribute a percentage of my royalties to an
organization called the Spoon Foundation (I wrote about it <a href="http://kazakhstanii.blogspot.com/2011/10/orphan-nutrition-project-video-spoon.html">HERE</a>), which has
made it its mission to improve nutrition among children in orphanages around
the world. Many "special needs" children who are adopted from overseas have nutrition-related disabilities, easily fixable with vitamins and a balanced diet. Check out their website <a href="http://www.spoonfoundation.org/">here.</a><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7e4skN8PXEVC-ijC0dnmE39W1fmzVPRF8Dzy9tIJBuiJPYxKmeiy0ZyVl6fwYFWlrBh5kVDpKf2ti1SvOMN69z_-duQeLEQpyq9GRV9-64Vh5wBipIW3tMjQ-EpVrNRj62dqR3mARB_d8/s1600/ResizeImageHandler.ashx.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7e4skN8PXEVC-ijC0dnmE39W1fmzVPRF8Dzy9tIJBuiJPYxKmeiy0ZyVl6fwYFWlrBh5kVDpKf2ti1SvOMN69z_-duQeLEQpyq9GRV9-64Vh5wBipIW3tMjQ-EpVrNRj62dqR3mARB_d8/s320/ResizeImageHandler.ashx.jpeg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Et, voila!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->http://kazakhstanii.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06243506639327162419noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069354511167646779.post-66990446013783883642013-07-19T11:38:00.003-04:002022-01-25T17:34:19.882-05:00A Trip to Bulgaria in 1971<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho-KFKadE1UdUMPAQBESsTtnbD7JlDmBZ5vbXblHDUHfAIfaIiLMtJiKUu53xKsq4_RA_W7f8W53ZjdgdMPdaieA4SZeTSPRVHqD9HxOHVwXX2w0jahOE61cy_VGjGhoPempYjNZHA2Yq3/s1600/DaddyEthyl.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho-KFKadE1UdUMPAQBESsTtnbD7JlDmBZ5vbXblHDUHfAIfaIiLMtJiKUu53xKsq4_RA_W7f8W53ZjdgdMPdaieA4SZeTSPRVHqD9HxOHVwXX2w0jahOE61cy_VGjGhoPempYjNZHA2Yq3/s320/DaddyEthyl.jpg" width="262" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
My dad surely had a lot of adventures in his job. He was the sales & marketing director for a multinational petrochemical company, Ethyl Corporation, and it seemed that he was never home; constantly traveling the world. One of my earliest memories is of him sending me a stuffed kangaroo from Australia, where he was when my birthday rolled around. His passport had hundreds of pages in it, with accordion-style inserts as long as my arm. There were decorative visas in it, with entry and exit stamps from all over the globe. I wish I knew where it was; I don't remember coming across it when I was packing up my mom's house last year. When he was alive, I used to badger him to write down some of his stories. I even bought him a Dictaphone gadget, but as far as I know, he never used it. <br />
<br />
One story with which he regaled us was a trip behind the Iron Curtain in the early 1970's. I wish I had a video of him telling the story; one of the best parts was his imitating a propeller airplane. Not long before he died he gave me a written account of the trip as a Christmas present. My copy was lost when I moved several times recently, but my sister sent me her copy. I am happy to share it with you today:<br />
<br />
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It was a dark and stormy night ….” or more correctly, it
was a cold, dark and rainy morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And there I was at Zaventem Airport in Brussels at six a.m., checking in
for a flight to Sophia, Bulgaria, via Frankfurt and Vienna.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was filled with foreboding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The day was somewhere between Christmas
and New Years and although I had made dozens of trips in Europe, this was the
first time I was required to fill out an exit visa which I realized was only
for travel to Eastern [European] countries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Events were to confirm that my foreboding was not misplaced.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj1UPAsPj4E18J64kqET3797pQG1ekAkqJsttEktbal8H1LkHH7lzAL1QrIwY_2jrGvufx2AQ2FXY3QUuVtVeTqQMMKZHpJPfetsp4Dr88O2TwPfJ81bloyVOmyk0Hn6DjkkUc12TtzXzKB9Mw6nuwz8v3DSN0KdhypI05OlFu9bpxZsMsFXu8HOi_7dw=s800" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="423" data-original-width="800" height="169" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj1UPAsPj4E18J64kqET3797pQG1ekAkqJsttEktbal8H1LkHH7lzAL1QrIwY_2jrGvufx2AQ2FXY3QUuVtVeTqQMMKZHpJPfetsp4Dr88O2TwPfJ81bloyVOmyk0Hn6DjkkUc12TtzXzKB9Mw6nuwz8v3DSN0KdhypI05OlFu9bpxZsMsFXu8HOi_7dw=s320" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal">As I sat in the departure lounge waiting for my flight to
Frankfurt to be called, I had a chance to ponder the circumstances that had
brought me to this place at this time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was then Marketing Director for the Middle East, Europe
and Africa for an international chemical company with headquarters in Brussels
and had [the] responsibility for shipping and delivery, customer service and
several other activities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There
were several people under me, which must have been the reason for that somewhat
euphemistic title.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Actually the
fancy title did not last long, but that is another story.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Since it was between major holidays, I had chosen to make
the trip myself instead of sending one of the staff.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We had a major manufacturing plant in Thessalonika, Greece,
and had made a deal with the Bulgarians to make shipment to their refinery at
Burgas in railcars as a very important replacement for shipment in drums from
an Eastern European manufacturer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It is important to know that the product involved was very toxic and a
person could be poisoned either by breathing the vapors or by absorbing the
liquid through the skin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More
later about the hazards involved in handling this chemical.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is also important to know that we are required, as part
of our agreement with the Bulgarians, to make initial delivery prior to the end
of the year and the contents of the railcars were to be discharged and in
storage by December 31.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were
familiar with the way the refinery had handled the Eastern European product and
were much concerned about the possibility of damage to our railcars.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thus I was on my way to look after the safe handling of our
product to and to prevent damage to our tank cars.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Part of my worry was that my baggage might be lost, so I put
everything into two briefcases, one with clothing and toilet articles and the
other with flanges and adapters, which I estimated would be required to hook up
our railcars to the Bulgarians’ facility.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>If I were traveling today the iron in that one briefcase would set off security
alarms all over Europe.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first leg of my journey was uneventful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I normally passed through Frankfurt
several times a week and I was very familiar with that air terminal.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The second of the three legs was also routine and we arrived
in Vienna pretty much on schedule.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I checked in for the flight to Sophia and settled down to wait for
departure in two or three hours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>About an hour before departure I noticed a crowd around the airline
ticket counter and heard voices raised in German.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a short search I found a young man who spoke English,
and who filled me in on what was going on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sophia was fogged in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>(This was not at all uncommon in winter months).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Austrian Airlines notified passengers
that they would be flown to Bucharest in Romania and then would go by train to
Sophia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This arrangement gave me
some worry so I hooked up with the English-speaking fellow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Turned out he was from Leipzig, in East
Germany, a commercial traveler, and spoke a little of both the Romanian and
Bulgarian languages.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were
about fifteen people in our group and I examined each person looking for an
American.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One fellow stood out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He looked like an American but his suit was rumpled and dirty and he had
several days’ growth of beard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
was attracted to another passenger who was female, had red hair and was a real
beauty.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We boarded the plane and off we flew into the night.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The airport terminal at Bucharest was dark except for a few
bulbs here and there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was the
impression I had of all Eastern Europe – dark and foreboding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were guards standing around
dressed in padded uniforms reminding me of the Chinese soldiers I had
seen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And they were well armed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another impression I gained was that no one seemed to be in
charge and no one knew what was going on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We huddled in a group in the terminal building and I stuck with my
German friend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was exceedingly
glad that I had only hand luggage.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally we were loaded on a bus for a trip to the center of
Bucharest and it was dark all the way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We drew up to the Intercontinental Hotel and we disembarked with
instructions to use the hotel currency exchange to change our funds into local
money to purchase our train ticket to Sophia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We overwhelmed the poor money changer but finally managed to
change enough for our tickets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
were ordered to cross a main thoroughfare [on foot] to a travel agency to buy
tickets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here I encountered
another Eastern European characteristic – tram tracks that, combined with
darkness, made crossing busy streets at night an adventure.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The travel agent now informed us that the tickets were to be
purchased with foreign currency, so the whole group stumbled across the street
to the hotel and converted our money back to the original.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The teller was somewhat put out but we
got the proper money, went back to the travel agency and got our tickets, or
rather <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ticket</i> – since we were all on
one ticket.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was to cause a
lot of trouble later.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because he was multilingual, my German friend was given
charge of the ticket, and I stuck even closer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The train was leaving right away.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With all the back and forth, I had an opportunity to speak
to the rumpled, unshaven fellow in our group.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To my great surprise he turned out to be the president of a
Canadian steel manufacturing company.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He was on his way to Sophia to purchase some technology from the
Bulgarians.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had been on the way
for several days, and with cancelled flights and changes in airlines, his
baggage was long since lost.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thus
dirty suit and unshaven beard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He,
like I, had to be in Sophia by December 31.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We gathered in the hotel lobby to await developments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, we learned that the train had
gone, but that it had to stop at the Bulgarian frontier for customs and
immigration formalities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since the
border was only ten miles away, we would be loaded in a fleet of taxicabs and
could catch the train while it waited for clearance to proceed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
About this time I began to notice the pretty girl with red
hair, who was a member of our group – and she was crying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I took the fatherly approach and told her
I had three daughters and nothing would surprise me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had a sad tale to tell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Turned out she was a company secretary from Copenhagen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had spent her last summer’s holiday
at a resort on the Black Sea and had met a young man from Sophia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The boy’s parents had invited her to
spend the holidays with them and she had been on the way for four days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the first day of her journey the
Copenhagen airport was fogged in so she went back home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Starting the next day she had an
erratic pattern of flights ending up in Romania, where she had no desire at all
to be, and her money was running out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I offered to stay with her to give her courage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When the taxicabs were assembled, the four of us, the East
German, the Canadian, the Danish secretary and I boarded one cab and set out
for the Romanian-Bulgarian border.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When we arrived, the train was long gone into Bulgaria.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now what?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was much disagreement among the group with some opting
to cross the Danube River Bridge on foot and take their chances in Bulgaria.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We four decided to go back to Bucharest
and try for a train the next day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We still had the train ticket – first class seats for fifteen people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later on we were very glad.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then we encountered the next problem:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The taxis had been paid for the trip to
the border, but, as the drivers pointed out, this did not include our return
fare.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They, however, were the
“only game in town” and the return trip was triple the one-way fare.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But we paid and eventually were back at
the Intercontinental Hotel in Bucharest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>After a short stop at the bar, we all repaired to our rooms for the
night.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It had been a long day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Day two began with our meeting for breakfast as agreed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The multilingual German had determined
the time of departure for the train for Sophia and had even been able to make
telephone contact with the people in Sophia expecting to meet the Canadian and
the red-haired secretary.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The train station was within walking distance of the
hotel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We picked up our baggage
and went to catch our train.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
station was absolute bedlam.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>About
twenty trains all letting off steam and people going in every direction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Which was our train?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally we were able to get on what we
dearly hoped was a train headed to Sophia.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember that every traveler seemed to be carrying baskets
of food and a jug of wine or water in a mesh bag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We found out later why everyone was so equipped.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The train had compartments seating six passengers much like
the trains in England and other European countries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We found one with only a couple already seated and we four
settled down for our trip.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The train got underway, and since it was daylight, we were
able to enjoy the scenery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
crossed the Danube into Bulgaria and saw the customs building where we had our
adventure the night before. Trouble developed almost immediately.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The conductor came to punch our tickets
and found that the couple in our compartment was traveling on a second-class
ticket.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was an awkward
moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But then our East German
companion remembered that he had a ticket for fifteen passengers and we simply
included our new friends on our ticket and all was well.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We had a difficult conversation with our fellow passengers
and learned that he was a Bulgarian citizen and she was Romanian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were married to each other, but
not allowed to live in each other’s country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only way they could get together was to ride the
train.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sounds a bit farfetched but
absolutely nothing surprised me at this point.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What the couple had was a lot of food and a big jug of wine
which, under the circumstances they happily shared with us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was nothing to eat or drink on
the train, which explained why all of the people at the train station in
Bucharest had food and wine.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To round out our meal, the Canadian revealed that he had a
bottle of Canadian Club in his briefcase, which he had planned to give to his
Bulgarian friends, but he decided to sacrifice it and we all made use of it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To pass the time, I decided to wander through the train and
up ahead I came to some cars with bunks on the sides, much like the troop
trains in the USA during the war.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This train had come from somewhere in Russia and the passengers looked
like Mongolians or some other fierce race of people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had been on the way a long time and floors of the cars
were littered with orange peels and other garbage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t linger. <i> (Note from me: These people were probably from Kazakhstan ... interesting coincidence!)</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sun went down and finally we arrived in Sophia in the
dark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Again the station was very
dimly lit with an occasional bare bulb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This time we had to cross railroad tracks on foot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But happily the red-haired secretary
met her boyfriend and the Canadian’s business people met him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This left me and the German.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were no taxis or other
transportation whatsoever, so we got on a tram and thanks to my friend we
eventually arrived at the Intercontinental Hotel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had been there on a previous trip so I felt at home.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So ended day two.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Day three dawned and I woke up with a sense of urgency since
I was at least a day behind schedule with all of the delays.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had a letter from the Bulgarians
giving the address of an office in Sophia and the names of the people in
charge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The hotel gave me
directions to the office, which was within walking distance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A couple of interesting things: most
streets there are named for important dates.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thus, in this country, streets might be named the 4<sup>th</sup>
of July or the 25<sup>th</sup> of December.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At that time I knew little of Bulgarian history so was
unable to recognize the dates but I was to learn a little before I left the
country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many offices were located
in large former residences and that was the case with the Bulgarian oil
company.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I found the house and went inside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I have one memory of my trip to Eastern Europe it is
darkness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The office building I
went into had no lights in the hallway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>While I was holding my letter up to the skylight, trying to read a name,
a woman came along and asked me in English what I wanted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She told me that she thought the
refinery in Burgas was closed for the holidays but that she would phone and
find out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My heart sank.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All that trouble and I was wiped
out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sure enough, the refinery was closed (at least to visitors)
and I would be unable to get in until January 2.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was about December 29.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With a sad heart I went back to the hotel to decide what to
do for four days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I booked my flight
to Burgas on Balkan Bavarian Airlines and sent a telegram to the refinery
telling them I would be there on January 2.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My East German friend showed up and, since he was spending
New Years in Sophia, he also had time on his hands.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He and I spent time sitting in sidewalk cafes drinking
coffee while flirting with local girls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <i>(Not my dad!)</i> </span>There was nothing else to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One day I visited the tomb of Georgi Dimitrov, the first
premier of Bulgaria under Communist rule, and known as the father of socialism
in that country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There he was
embalmed and preserved in his bed much like Lenin in Moscow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were military guards everywhere
and I was warned to be exceedingly careful not to show any sign of
disrespect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I saw one fellow
hustled out because he had his hands in his pockets.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then finally it was New Years’ Eve and who should show up at
the hotel but my Canadian friend from the trip on the train.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had finished his business with the
Bulgarians but still had no luggage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I loaned him my razor and he looked a little better after using it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We three, the Canadian, the German and
I, booked a table at the hotel nightclub for the New Years’ party and
celebrated with the Bulgarians.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On January 2 I went to the airport and took the flight to
Burgas on the Black Sea where the refinery was located.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To my happy surprise, a woman from the
refinery met my flight and took me to the plant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was able to visit the facility where our product was
handled and found that our railcars were empty, having probably been unloaded
under nitrogen pressure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because
of its toxicity we never handled the product under pressure but moved it under
vacuum to avoid the possibility of leakage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I could find no evidence of spillage, nor could I see any
external signs of damage to our railcars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I was really wondering what in the world I was doing there at all.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I took the opportunity, however, to inspect the handling
facility at that unusual refinery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Storage of the product was in a large, riveted horizontal tank.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I inquired about the means of
measuring the amount of product in the tank, the personnel involved showed me a
long, wooden stick, which they inserted into an open hatch on the top of the
tank.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The discoloration on the
stick showed the volume of the liquid in the tank.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was horrified!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This is a deadly product and both the fumes and the liquid can cause a
terrible death.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I decided that the less I knew the better, and I arranged to
leave the plant.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Bulgarians helped me book a flight back to Sophia for
the next day and took me to the hotel where I spent the night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Burgas is a tourist resort in the
summer months but not much going on in January.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I passed the time and took a taxi to the airport the next
morning.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Taking a domestic flight in Bulgaria is quite the
experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The aircraft are
Russian-built imitations of US planes, but very bare bones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is no insulation on the interior
and the piping and wiring are all exposed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No seat belts and mean looking flight crews.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I saw on more than one occasion the
captain leaning out of the left hand cockpit window shouting and arguing with
the ground crew.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then there was the matter of getting on the proper
flight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since no English was
spoken, I resorted to pointing to the plane and asking, “Sophia?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It occurred to me that this question
might be interpreted as an inquiry as to whether the flight might have come <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">from</i> Sophia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was some reason to be concerned about safety.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I read later that this same flight had
flown into a mountain another day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Some of the people at the refinery thought that I was on the flight.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But this time I got the right plane headed to Sophia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here a rather strange thing
happened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our salesman who
normally called on the Bulgarians, thinking that he might have to leave the
country in a hurry, had sat down with the airline guide and compiled a complete
list of all flights leaving Sophia for any destination for the entire calendar
week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had given me a copy of
this list, not knowing what I might get into on my trip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had the list in my briefcase, and
while in the air to Sophia, I got it out to see when I might be able to leave
Sophia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To my happy surprise, there was listed a British European
Airways (BEA) flight from Sophia to London scheduled to depart about an hour
after the arrival of my domestic flight.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The minute my flight arrived, I hustled into the terminal to
find BEA.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their office was located
in a remote area, but I found it, opened the door and asked if anyone spoke
English.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A British voice came
back, saying “Actually, old chap, that’s all we do speak!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
sounded like angels singing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I pulled out my airline ticket with an open segment from
Sophia to Brussels and asked if I could get a seat on their London flight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I must have looked a bit harried,
because my newfound British friend suggested that I go down to the airport canteen
and have a cup of tea while he got the necessary endorsements.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So that’s what I did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But I had been there only a few minutes when the BEA man came through
the door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This time he looked
hassled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He said, “Look at this
ticket!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our travel agent in
Brussels had prepared the ticket and in the space for “validity” he had shown
the ticket to be good from December 27, 1971 to December 26, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">1971</i> (instead of 1972).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Bulgarians, being bureaucratic
nit-pickers, had refused the endorse the ticket and they had final say in such
matters.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I thought of a way out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had a Universal Air Travel Pass and I told the BEA fellow
to write a new ticket, charge it to the ATP and I would sort it out back in
Brussels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He then told me that the
Bulgarians would not accept the ATP and that the ticket must be purchased in
cash.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had been on the way quite
a few days and I was running low on money, so this was not an option for
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He said to let him work on the
problem, and for me to go back to the bank to sell my Leva (Bulgarian
currency).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bank had a limited
amount of foreign currency, so I ended up with a few US dollars, some francs,
marks and other money.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The BEA guy showed up and told me the British Airline had
agreed to accept my ATP and would generate enough cash to pay the
Bulgarians.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was very unusual
and when I got back to Brussels, I wrote to the president of BEA telling him
how his people in Sophia had saved me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But my troubles were not quite over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although I now had a new ticket
properly endorsed, there was a departure tax that was not included in the
travel pass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I dug out the
miscellaneous money I had from the airport bank, and told the BEA man to take
what he needed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Meanwhile I could see the plane for London warming up on the
tarmac.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally I had completed
all necessary formalities and could proceed to immigration for departure
clearance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My well-traveled
passport had about 100 pages of visas and entry and exit stamps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was the last passenger through, and
the official slowly examined every page.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>While this was going on, I could see the flight attendant at the top of
the stairs looking at her watch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The engines were running and I was holding up the flight.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally the immigration bureaucrat stamped my passport. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ran out the door and up the loading
stairs and said to the stewardess, “Close the door!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t let them take me off!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A little exaggeration, I’m afraid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We took off to Budapest en route to London.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The stewardess said, as we rolled down
the runway, “I think you need a large whiskey."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t have agreed more.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is difficult to put into words my feelings when we
arrived at Heathrow that evening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The first sensation was how bright it was compared to the places I had
been in the past few days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There
were lights everywhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The people
in the air terminal were happy and, of course, I had the feeling of having
escaped from a captive situation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>To be fair, this is not strictly true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But there was a distinct feeling of freedom on my part.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My odyssey was not quite over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still had to get to Brussels and home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a flight leaving almost
immediately, and I was back in familiar surroundings late that evening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only one last minor problem: The
airport banks were closed and I could not buy francs to get my car out of the
airport carpark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The attendant was
willing to buy my foreign currency at a ridiculous rate of exchange, which I
gladly paid.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then I was home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I had missed New Years’ and had accomplished absolutely nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Other than the companions in Romania
and on the train, I saw nothing beyond the New Years’ party in Sophia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sometimes wonder what happened to the
red-haired secretary from Copenhagen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->http://kazakhstanii.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06243506639327162419noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069354511167646779.post-69437181955014942052013-07-10T15:50:00.003-04:002019-12-16T10:33:20.330-05:00The TCK and the Job Interview<a href="http://www.denizenmag.com/2013/07/making-the-most-of-your-tck-experience-when-applying-for-a-job/">Making the Most of Your TCK Experience When Applying for a Job</a> - From Denizen For Third Culture Kids.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9m-GftcfLvTnRFiI6aUz9smkr3Rs4-86FmJmz9sFgwMophpYDnP9xI1DIyph-MdHk6Tnq5HtOZYfgVhpgi4VRrsDoSVnq7jQX_MCszVZGUFKpJo8Mn5KOcjzMaYSisJkN8p-Lv_BmxSKd/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9m-GftcfLvTnRFiI6aUz9smkr3Rs4-86FmJmz9sFgwMophpYDnP9xI1DIyph-MdHk6Tnq5HtOZYfgVhpgi4VRrsDoSVnq7jQX_MCszVZGUFKpJo8Mn5KOcjzMaYSisJkN8p-Lv_BmxSKd/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No, my new job is not at the Bodleian, but I did take a summer class there once!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
When I'm <strike>trolling</strike> surfing around on the internet looking for things to write about, I find that, more times than not, the subjects find me, rather than the other way around. This article from Denizen (Online Magazine for Third Culture Kids) just popped up. Just when I am less than two weeks from starting a new job, right after I myself had a job interview that morphed from a conversation about my job experience and education to my Third Culture Kid-ness.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio7bGSgdr6XgRmyWhQ_M98-Tbg_ppLw4xvFT6Ki2LwobSohYuF5IVzyx75ZfePIVPS7M5yWintDJ9gHLGBcDD-tZOgZUDn4lt9Pq6FTVJ1IJjdohD8Y-yLXW-NcseGGCEVmJ3ahbLolAsm/s1600/1063466_10151602762274865_468777461_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio7bGSgdr6XgRmyWhQ_M98-Tbg_ppLw4xvFT6Ki2LwobSohYuF5IVzyx75ZfePIVPS7M5yWintDJ9gHLGBcDD-tZOgZUDn4lt9Pq6FTVJ1IJjdohD8Y-yLXW-NcseGGCEVmJ3ahbLolAsm/s1600/1063466_10151602762274865_468777461_n.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
As you may know, I earned my Masters' degree in Library and Information Studies more than three years ago (and no, you don't need a masters' degree just to shush people). The market in my field is about as soft as a marshmallow wrapped in cotton wool, dropped onto an air mattress. Because of the insidious presence of Google and other search engines, many people question why we even need librarians any more. City and county budgets are being slashed right and left, and guess who are first to land on the chopping block? You guessed it. Us. There are two radio jocks here in Austin who make me nuts, talking about why the heck do we need another bleepin' library, as the city breaks ground on a new, state of the art facility (<a href="https://library.austintexas.gov/central-library">Austin Central Library</a>). (I know, I could turn them off, but now and then they do talk about something interesting). There is the oft-repeated adage, "Why do we need librarians when we have Google?" I don't know who said it, but I heard that Google will get you 100,000 hits, but a good librarian will get the RIGHT hits. <br />
<br />
So here I am, three years after marching down that aisle to get that coveted diploma, finally, finally having been hired as a real live, honest to goodness, real McCoy, gen-u-ine librarian. I have worked in retail for the past couple of years, but one of the women at the interview agreed that the best experience for working in a public library is retail. Another one piped up, "Or a bar!"<br />
<br />
Then they told me that their community serves a diverse demographic: there are seventy three languages spoken among the immigrant population. <i>Seventy three</i>. Can you sit down and even name 73 different languages? Beside the usual Spanish, French, Russian, there are Urdu, Hindi, Tagalog (I jumped at that one!) and myriad African dialects, just to name a few. They have a Vietnamese reading section (in fact one of my interviewers was Vietnamese). This got me more excited than anything .. my inner TCK snapped to attention. This was the right place for me. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQGV7XGvYzCHgUpYd0wEOtKh6O7VN-xHxRnJv6MadVJP90_fZz0STP5UEhkBoxD7TjSUJ5m-0XOZRqaYMqDs3w0zTlSEJUZenOmEkK3LLBNKZ4lHl62AcYzJr-pBghgOS7eaz3qpyZaCCQ/s1600/rude-librarian.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQGV7XGvYzCHgUpYd0wEOtKh6O7VN-xHxRnJv6MadVJP90_fZz0STP5UEhkBoxD7TjSUJ5m-0XOZRqaYMqDs3w0zTlSEJUZenOmEkK3LLBNKZ4lHl62AcYzJr-pBghgOS7eaz3qpyZaCCQ/s320/rude-librarian.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I told them about my background, and how I always find it easy to relate to people across the spectrum, culturally speaking. In my retail job I have run into French speakers, Russian speakers, Vietnamese speakers, even Japanese speakers. I always ask where they are from, hoping maybe to find a common thread. I hope I don't come across as nosy ... I'm just curious. I can spot a Filipino accent across a crowded room and will zero in like a heat-seeking missile to talk to them. I always, always get a smile. Just thinking about serving this diverse group as a librarian is making my enthusiasm about the job multiply exponentially.<br />
<br />
I told my interviewers that because of my constant "being new" experiences, I throw myself into training. I want to learn, and I want to learn fast. I hate, hate, hate, being new and not knowing what I'm doing. I want to put down my roots and settle in as quickly as I can. As Bethany Clark states in her article, I am also comfortable (well, somewhat) in new and unusual situations. I can walk into a job, look around and take stock of what things are going to be like, and adapt like a chameleon. I'm not sure what made them decide to hire me, but I can't help but think, since it was a large part of our talking points, the TCK angle must have pushed me over the top. <br />
<br />
Three years was a long time to wait, but I have to remind myself that all good things come to those who wait, and it just took that long for the right job to come along. I can't think of a more perfect fit for this TCK. And now, my three year long vacation comes to an end!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFGGJ62VWtLeMJGg0UqhgiP69wwbneqEao6otkE7HmR-d1PwiuPpApMmczLmv45OS0PjnPEU9LPtA3d4a63gy-OCzdE_FcIh21OOlSacZW_NIRYQyraPOdzv6bGiaFMu80RE6TlpKVXI_F/s1600/library_overdue.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFGGJ62VWtLeMJGg0UqhgiP69wwbneqEao6otkE7HmR-d1PwiuPpApMmczLmv45OS0PjnPEU9LPtA3d4a63gy-OCzdE_FcIh21OOlSacZW_NIRYQyraPOdzv6bGiaFMu80RE6TlpKVXI_F/s1600/library_overdue.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Stay tuned for some really exciting news from me (other than my new job!) in the next couple of weeks. http://kazakhstanii.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06243506639327162419noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069354511167646779.post-63401310613088815972013-06-22T17:51:00.001-04:002013-06-22T21:07:08.042-04:00Hunger<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrSmgnoeKR6jVUC85TsOX5K1fgp95-6bRQEkQDfQV4LGhB2ovFd8RATHeMMNpg-T3XiJWofhWDNEuJHBsEMXaJfI4TIvFkDvl6vFZs4XdqgWFHWkbsxHtJ_QS-F3l4wrJqjqK_3xwbIzIf/s1600/c918de9ea99afe8a616056406355db7c1a084634_389x292.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrSmgnoeKR6jVUC85TsOX5K1fgp95-6bRQEkQDfQV4LGhB2ovFd8RATHeMMNpg-T3XiJWofhWDNEuJHBsEMXaJfI4TIvFkDvl6vFZs4XdqgWFHWkbsxHtJ_QS-F3l4wrJqjqK_3xwbIzIf/s320/c918de9ea99afe8a616056406355db7c1a084634_389x292.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.ted.com/talks/joseph_kim_the_family_i_lost_in_north_korea_and_the_family_i_gained.html?source=email#.UcXHXlyst3o.blogger">Joseph Kim: The family I lost in North Korea. And the family I gained. | Video on TED.com</a><br />
<br />
This video came across my news feed today. Another one of those TED talks, the ones that always make me wonder, "Where are these taking place? Where can I get a ticket?" So what the heck is TED? TED was started in 1996 by a magazine publishing entrepreneur, Chris Anderson. Originally a think tank for Technology, Entertainment and Design (hence, TED), the TED conferences have broadened their focus far beyond just those areas. Now there is TEDGlobal, TEDWomen and TEDIndia, just to name a few. But the basic premise remains the same: an exchange of ideas. According to their website, "... (They) believe passionately in the power of ideas to change attitudes, lives and ultimately, the world. So (they are) building here a clearinghouse that offers free knowledge and inspiration from the world's most inspired thinkers, and also a community of curious souls to engage with ideas and each other." Now that we've gotten the details out of the way, let's talk about Joseph.<br />
<br />
I won't go into detail about his story, but I will implore you to watch the video. If it doesn't bring you to tears, or at least put a small lump in your throat, you aren't human. He describes being a poor child in North Korea, and how he ended up in the United States.<br />
<br />
Joseph was born the same year as my oldest son. As he spoke about his childhood, I imagined where my son was at each age. I thought about my son having to paw through garbage cans to find scraps of something edible, or spending hours and hours searching for firewood. About him being cold, or watching his father die of starvation. Of finding his mother gone one morning, never to see her again. Being homeless.<br />
<br />
As you know, I am a sponge when it comes to stories about people overcoming difficulties. (To call Joseph's early life a "difficulty" is a masterpiece of understatement; a difficulty is not being able to find a good parking place). I have read many, many books about the war in the Philippines, probably because I lived there and evidence of the war was everywhere. Only in my adulthood, after leaving the Philippines, did I learn about the Santo Tomas Internment Camp, where as many as 5000 civilians (men, women and children) were held prisoner for over three years. THREE YEARS. I probably went to school with kids whose parents or grandparents were there. <br />
<br />
The story is bad enough, but I have come across hints that the American government may (and I emphasize may) have left these people behind in the Philippines on purpose, as a message to the Filipino people that they weren't abandoning them. When civilians asked the State Department in Manila what they should do, they were reassured that Manila was the safest place in the Orient, and that they should stay. Ostensibly, the belief was that if the entire foreign population had been evacuated, it would have killed the morale among the Filipino guerillas. It was a huge win in the propaganda department; the Filipinos sided with their Western "friends" rather than the Japanese, even though a frequent motto of the Japanese army was "Asia for the Asiatics". But at what price?<br />
<br />
By the end of the war, the Japanese were providing as little as 800 calories a day to the prisoners. (And I say prisoners, because the word "intern" sounds a little whitewashy to me). Even fewer calories for the children. As Joseph Kim says, starvation is humiliation. Starving people is the ultimate control, the ultimate humiliation of a beaten people. The Japanese thought that surrender was weakness, and so they treated their prisoners with appropriate disdain. Starving people removes hope from their souls. And where there is no hope, there is death. At least Joseph had hope that he would find something in the garbage; otherwise he might not have even tried.<br />
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I saw starvation early in my life. We had left Japan to go to Korea, something about renewing our visas. It was winter, and very, very cold. Walking along the sidewalk, we encountered so many children, small children, probably five or six years old, barefoot, selling chewing gum. I remember being curious about them, but I didn't think much more than that. I remember my mom rushing me past them, I guess because she was embarrassed (or ashamed?) or didn't want me to ask questions that she couldn't answer. In the late 1960's, there were pictures of Biafran children on posters at our church. It was then that I formed the notion of a hell on earth. I don't need to remind anyone of the Great Depression of the 1930's. I used to wonder why my grandmother always saved three leftover green beans in a tiny bowl, or a spoonful of mashed potatoes. It was because she had lived through the Depression, and she had once been hungry. Nowadays this would go down the disposal. <br />
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I can't imagine telling my child that there is no food. I venture to say that few of us can imagine not having a pantry filled with cans of food, of not being able to go to a grocery store to fill up a shopping cart. To think that this kind of destitution exists today, in this world of plenty, is almost too much to comprehend. And exist it does, not only in the oppressive regime of North Korea, but also in Africa, India, and just about every continent in the world, even North America. Famines, while sometimes the result of natural disasters, (like the Irish potato famine) have also happened because of oppressive governments; China's "Great Leap Forward" and Stalinist Russia come to mind. All this I learned in a college class called Sociology of the Third World; that sometimes hunger is a result of political unrest or civil war, or just plain meanness. Makes me think these dictators have it all wrong. If you beat a dog, does it make him love you? <br />
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To most of you, my dear readers, I may sound a little (or a lot?) like the suburban mom, telling her kids to clean their plates, because "there are starving children in ___". Fill in the blank. <br />
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I don't know what my point is. I could go on a whole tangent about the state of food in the United States, that it costs so much more to eat healthy, and that our government allows bad food into the chain by their loose standards of labeling. With one hand they ban large sugary sodas, but with the other hand, they allow genetically modified and trans-fat laden foods into our grocery stores. They tell us that we're bad because we're fat, while they provide the things that make us fat, and even encourage us to eat them! <br />
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I will end my rant by imploring, begging you to appreciate every single bite that passes your lips. And if you aren't unemployed and struggling financially (like some of us, ahem!) send a few kopeks to your favorite charity that works to end hunger in the world. And clean your plate.<br />
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Post Script: The organization that brought Joseph Kim to the United States is called LINK ... Liberty in North Korea. Check out their Facebook page at <a href="https://www.facebook.com/libertyinnk">Liberty in North Korea</a> and their website at <a href="http://libertyinnorthkorea.org/">libertyinnorthkorea.org</a>. They are doing important work ...<br />
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<br />http://kazakhstanii.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06243506639327162419noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069354511167646779.post-64963580634583872832013-06-17T20:06:00.000-04:002013-06-17T20:06:02.483-04:00(Too) Close Encounters of the Buggy Kind -- RERUN<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">With summer here (and oh boy is it here!) I have been feeling somewhat languorous in the writing department. I also have been traveling a good bit, so my poor blog has been feeling a little neglected. For your reading pleasure I am re-posting a post from two years ago that will curl your toes. Also, if you are on Facebook, check out my page, Recovered Third Culture Kid, where I post all kinds of interesting nuggets about TCKs ... </span></span><br />
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Warning: A Blog Post that is not for the faint of heart.<br /><div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">If you like National Geographic like me, you’ve probably seen all kinds of bugs and critters from around the world.</span><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span">There’s the amazing Coconut Crab from the South Pacific … and the giant centipedes from the Dominican Republic.</span><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span">And who doesn’t love the prospect of driving over migrating red crabs on Christmas Island?</span><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span">Let’s all give one big collective shudder .. right … NOW!</span><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 1px 1px 5px; background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-color: rgb(238, 238, 238); border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; border-left-color: rgb(238, 238, 238); border-left-style: solid; border-left-width: 1px; border-right-color: rgb(238, 238, 238); border-right-style: solid; border-right-width: 1px; border-top-color: rgb(238, 238, 238); border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 1px; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 1px 1px 5px; color: #222222; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 5px; padding-left: 5px; padding-right: 5px; padding-top: 5px; position: relative; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjupEWHmonC1_iTSDsSgXUSO6OtJMKWNwhimTPGKSEll-8Fa-VzM_G2TgmB70XGepHqne68W1-7-CR5iGeZKjFDLbU6vzbS1HCIdoyi4bNpWnbCX1l2lmLMjTKg0wOLTPvY5EqIv-w_R3r_/s1600/images-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="color: #993300; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjupEWHmonC1_iTSDsSgXUSO6OtJMKWNwhimTPGKSEll-8Fa-VzM_G2TgmB70XGepHqne68W1-7-CR5iGeZKjFDLbU6vzbS1HCIdoyi4bNpWnbCX1l2lmLMjTKg0wOLTPvY5EqIv-w_R3r_/s1600/images-1.jpeg" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 0px 0px 0px; background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; border-width: initial; border-width: initial; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 0px 0px 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; position: relative;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Ewww .... just ewww!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsiNfK0jW3J5qJx2pirJjlXA7OHapaxO6q5b5w67KrX6tSdkEBkduIPZ5XESp-9Js6rpHhqAZNbAa7XsMP1RWySGj7yePL-fcro1etTbySNv0hvIHZb5keTJWCxSSqFYan8uSnPmo_K6h2/s1600/DownloadedFile-2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="color: #993300; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsiNfK0jW3J5qJx2pirJjlXA7OHapaxO6q5b5w67KrX6tSdkEBkduIPZ5XESp-9Js6rpHhqAZNbAa7XsMP1RWySGj7yePL-fcro1etTbySNv0hvIHZb5keTJWCxSSqFYan8uSnPmo_K6h2/s1600/DownloadedFile-2.jpeg" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 0px 0px 0px; background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; border-width: initial; border-width: initial; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 0px 0px 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; position: relative;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; line-height: 19px;"><i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Birgus latro</span></b></i></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUhbhJYRVOEFDdqcFhGZ6jVVCWPFXPt5k8NnrXLrHUncuddLsTXyupjQ-0TFaxE5hSaSb79EZV811JDDbd5zxM13cqNDI-Ah4q4ZsrnvY8BKkMNPhRWh0e2wMPrj3njl7dFqfr9kZe8sNg/s1600/DownloadedFile-3.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="color: #993300; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUhbhJYRVOEFDdqcFhGZ6jVVCWPFXPt5k8NnrXLrHUncuddLsTXyupjQ-0TFaxE5hSaSb79EZV811JDDbd5zxM13cqNDI-Ah4q4ZsrnvY8BKkMNPhRWh0e2wMPrj3njl7dFqfr9kZe8sNg/s1600/DownloadedFile-3.jpeg" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 0px 0px 0px; background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; border-width: initial; border-width: initial; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 0px 0px 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; position: relative;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; line-height: 19px;"><i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Gecarcoidea natalis 120 MILLION of these guys live on Christmas Island!</span></b></i></span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">My dad took SCUBA diving lessons at our house in Manila.</span><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span">Our house was nominated as the class location because we had a pool.</span><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span">On the first day of class, I overheard the instructor informing the group that there were 39 species of man-eating sharks in the entire world.</span><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span">And every one of those species could be found in seas around the Philippines.</span><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span">I seem to remember half the class getting up and leaving, but I may be mistaken.</span><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj21c0177UTlEVx0j8aCIctrwmAmsmpKIFWNAx2bSkri40WJVWeHS87p30bCo00Umev-3QesWAEfNiMw_IpyhZyrr0qorYu_stj74g9ydwZoSPbA_vRyvGVDaKb3t9hn6s2x7wdS3UrZnw1/s1600/images-2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="color: #993300; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj21c0177UTlEVx0j8aCIctrwmAmsmpKIFWNAx2bSkri40WJVWeHS87p30bCo00Umev-3QesWAEfNiMw_IpyhZyrr0qorYu_stj74g9ydwZoSPbA_vRyvGVDaKb3t9hn6s2x7wdS3UrZnw1/s1600/images-2.jpeg" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 0px 0px 0px; background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; border-width: initial; border-width: initial; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 0px 0px 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; position: relative;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"Who you lookin' at?"</span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">At night groups of Bufo toads would congregate in our back yard.</span><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span">According to our gardener, these toads would emit some kind of neurotoxin when they were threatened.</span><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span">Letting our miniature schnauzers out at night became tricky, as they thought the toads were little doggy appetizers.</span><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span">The first time Sheba got hold of one, we feared for her life and waited for her to collapse into seizures.</span><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span">For some reason though, the toxin didn’t bother her.</span><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span">Then again, Sheba had a cast iron stomach and could eat broken glass and rocks without batting an eyelash.</span><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span">It became a daily occurrence with her, and we knew she had gotten into a tangle with one of these guys when she came inside with her beard covered in slime.</span><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span">(Gee I hope no one is eating breakfast right about now!)</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnYU7FNR9jEsvcigH9KnGb0jT99X-tx17d5U7NLSRKX3cQ6oBIsAVJLTiVumnAvJN8wGczZSBJQaqVHwB5YRH-n_sK2j9np4Ac4TSHstMyJzgDI8aeDJfmUt7n1Sj3E_r8KJnBxAP4YowH/s1600/DownloadedFile-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="color: #993300; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnYU7FNR9jEsvcigH9KnGb0jT99X-tx17d5U7NLSRKX3cQ6oBIsAVJLTiVumnAvJN8wGczZSBJQaqVHwB5YRH-n_sK2j9np4Ac4TSHstMyJzgDI8aeDJfmUt7n1Sj3E_r8KJnBxAP4YowH/s1600/DownloadedFile-1.jpeg" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 0px 0px 0px; background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; border-width: initial; border-width: initial; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 0px 0px 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; position: relative;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The dreaded and feared Filipino Giant Shower Cockroach (shown actual size!)</span></td></tr>
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<o:p> </o:p><span class="Apple-style-span">The tile in my bathroom shower was speckled brown and beige. You know, that attractive 1970’s faux-marble stuff that matched perfectly with the lime-green shag carpet and the harvest gold appliances? I remember the first time I had an encounter with a creature in there. I might add at this point that I am almost legally blind, nearsighted to the point of wearing coke-bottle-bottom glasses. One time I got into the shower, not really paying attention to anything other than the task at hand, when I noticed out of the corner of my (nearly useless) eye, one of the brown speckles in the tile starting to skitter across the wall. I leaped out of the shower faster than you could say “Filipino monster-sized cockroach”. </span></div>
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The commode in my bathroom was strategically placed so that a person who might be using said commode could observe a small hole in the floor between the wall and the baseboard. On many occasions one could see a pair of antennae peeking out said hole, as if the owner of the antennae was casing the joint. If the antennaed creature sensed the presence of a human being, he would quickly retract his feelers. It was quite unnerving, seeing as you were somewhat trapped in this position, and unable to bolt if Mr. Cockroach decided to make a run for it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But the “pièce de resistance” critter experience came when I enrolled in English horseback riding lessons at the stable down the street. (Never knew what a "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gymkhana_(equestrian)" style="color: #993300; text-decoration: none;">gymkhana</a>" was until I was forced to participate in one!) My mom kitted me out in the most fashionable jodhpurs and leather boots. The leather boots were extremely tight (as they should be) and required a pair of “boot pullers” that attached to flaps inside the boot to get them on. Once the boots were on, however, it required the help of another person to get them off. (I think you can see where this is going!)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5gAjp7E2qE8NN8tTJrTQ8IWLsPAvcELdDgoQac2HSDo4DxWRnSaiHTrsL7pJlnpnHKFPlj3UpKsjDP8KEzvMfUWR3M2KF746tn3OiyriVKZoxO1Ii03FZ2vgcabhsonk0RpNEXlXrKYij/s1600/boot+puller+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="color: #993300; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5gAjp7E2qE8NN8tTJrTQ8IWLsPAvcELdDgoQac2HSDo4DxWRnSaiHTrsL7pJlnpnHKFPlj3UpKsjDP8KEzvMfUWR3M2KF746tn3OiyriVKZoxO1Ii03FZ2vgcabhsonk0RpNEXlXrKYij/s320/boot+puller+2.jpg" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 0px 0px 0px; background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; border-width: initial; border-width: initial; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 0px 0px 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; position: relative;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Boot puller.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span">One afternoon, I was dressing for my lesson. With great difficulty I pulled on my boots. Immediately I felt something squiggling in the foot of one boot. It took me about a nanosecond to realize what it was, and yet another nanosecond to realize that I couldn’t get this boot off by myself. I hopped screaming through the house trying to find someone to get me out of my predicament, the poor creature being crushed by my foot squiggling more and more frantically by the moment.. The more I jumped and screamed, the more he squiggled. We were both trapped by each other’s mortal fear. Me: a giant cockroach, he: a giant human foot. My mom finally appeared, thinking I was being attacked by Godzilla himself (I may as well have been!) and after several unfruitful tugs, got the boot off. The cockroach fell out of the boot and skittered away, probably to tell his gazillion relatives living in my shower about his brush with death. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 1px 1px 5px; background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-color: rgb(238, 238, 238); border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; border-left-color: rgb(238, 238, 238); border-left-style: solid; border-left-width: 1px; border-right-color: rgb(238, 238, 238); border-right-style: solid; border-right-width: 1px; border-top-color: rgb(238, 238, 238); border-top-style: solid; border-top-width: 1px; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 1px 1px 5px; color: #222222; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 5px; padding-left: 5px; padding-right: 5px; padding-top: 5px; position: relative; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVeX04J68O1kxoob3M7uf6YSmNeovBmFAT5Pb0dVZ09H9OHOIMaEVA444uiEio6pTHDplpnIeVr5Lf_q5jc81FSnMyNN6kHnLjekKl9-acD8ldo_a0wW75YpH2EIc26A4z11eGgpKWoAfk/s1600/images-3.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="color: #993300; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVeX04J68O1kxoob3M7uf6YSmNeovBmFAT5Pb0dVZ09H9OHOIMaEVA444uiEio6pTHDplpnIeVr5Lf_q5jc81FSnMyNN6kHnLjekKl9-acD8ldo_a0wW75YpH2EIc26A4z11eGgpKWoAfk/s1600/images-3.jpeg" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 0px 0px 0px; background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; border-width: initial; border-width: initial; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0976563) 0px 0px 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; position: relative;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"The big foot .. it was THIS BIG! I thought I was a goner!"</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I don’t care, Mom, that I am 500 times bigger than they are. I still hate them and will run 1000 miles out of my way to avoid them. At least the bugs in the states are not Godzilla-sized as they are in the Philippines!</div>
</div>
</div>
http://kazakhstanii.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06243506639327162419noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069354511167646779.post-67071425081601713622013-05-28T17:47:00.000-04:002013-05-28T17:50:05.350-04:00Remembrance<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWs1-9z1E8Yzs0lV4grhGEmS94QzJaQq4Fq-3yTDKncxkaj0LkmjpGHK1X9aN0bb7hhVQcxsmQ-aifWDJ4SshQV2CG0nJ3o4pr4wNiJcTAqDk5Byc8_jS3X4ndx1rflV_KbV_iAP6NAq1N/s1600/images-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWs1-9z1E8Yzs0lV4grhGEmS94QzJaQq4Fq-3yTDKncxkaj0LkmjpGHK1X9aN0bb7hhVQcxsmQ-aifWDJ4SshQV2CG0nJ3o4pr4wNiJcTAqDk5Byc8_jS3X4ndx1rflV_KbV_iAP6NAq1N/s1600/images-1.jpeg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You might find it strange, that I, an all-around girly girl,
have such an interest in stories of war.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My bookshelves are filled, not with chick lit, but with tomes about military campaigns, about soldiers, military nurses and doctors and the innocent victims of war.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am darkly compelled to read of the
horrendous futility of it all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
am fascinated with the impossible capacity of the human spirit to persevere and
survive when everything around is vicious, heartless and cruel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know of the misery that lives in green
fields dotted with white crosses and Stars of David.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The cemeteries are too quiet, too permanent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once there, the inhabitants never
leave. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As long as there is family, there are
small mementos placed here and there, a photograph or some flowers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But in time, even the families vanish,
and all that is left is a crumbling stone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When we lived in Brussels, we attended a British Anglican
church, and we always took part in the Remembrance Day services.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Also known as Armistice Day, the U.S. Veteran’s Day, it marks the end of the hostilities in Europe in 1918, on the 11<sup>th</sup>
hour of the 11<sup>th</sup> day of the 11<sup>th</sup> month. I am still moved
by the English tradition of wearing a blood red poppy on the lapel, which may
or not stem from the poem, <i>In Flanders Field</i>, by the Canadian soldier John
McCrae.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never knew until I
studied history at university, how many had perished in that war, more or less
wiping out an entire generation of young men.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My interest in World War II probably came from living near
the actual places where it hapened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There aren’t too many sites on American soil, other than Pearl Harbor,
where the battles of that conflict took place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
Manila we used to drive through the American cemetery just about every day …
the visual enormity of the loss of life wasn’t lost on me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember the meticulously manicured
green lawn, the stark white tombstones, and the American flag standing guard, fluttering proudly in the breeze.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For some reason I never visited Bataan or Corregidor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could kick myself for my teenaged
apathy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My father, on the other
hand, was involved in the construction of an oil terminal on the peninsula of
Bataan, and drove over there on a regular basis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We could see the faraway shadow of the island of Corregidor lying low in
the water as we stood on Dewey Boulevard overlooking Manila Bay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I heard stories about the Bataan Death
March, and of families who were interned at the University of Santo Tomas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One acquaintance told us about being a small
child when Manila fell, and how his parents told him it was all a game as they
marched, under armed guard, through the hot, dusty streets of Manila to the makeshift prison.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My dad had joined the Navy when he was 17 years old, right
after high school graduation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
was in boot camp in San Diego when the war ended; he told me once that he was
in the group being prepared to invade Japan, had the nuclear bombs not put an
end to it all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After the war he
spent a year in the Pacific on a minesweeper, which had the grim duty of
detonating the ocean mines left behind by the Japanese.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dad told me stories about salt-water
showers and chow time, and how they sat on the bridge with a rifle, shooting at
mines until they exploded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Take
all you want but eat all you take,” he used to say, a reminder of his Navy days.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In Belgium, as an 11-year-old, my parents took me to
Breendonk Concentration Camp near Antwerp.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I came home I drew pictures in my childish hand of
people hanging from hooks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
suppose this was my way of dealing with the incomprehensible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My parents never hid these things from
me; I always knew about the Holocaust.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I think I read the Diary of Anne Frank before I was out of elementary
school. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t explain my morbid
curiosity.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For every Allied soldier who died, I acknowledge that there were soldiers lost on the other side as well. Enemy or not, they were sons, fathers and brothers. It's not about "ancient" history any more, either. Too many young men have died in the Middle East in recent years, and too many are coming home with their limbs missing, bodies maimed, and minds darkened, never to be the same. What is it about mankind that makes us wage war? Can we not learn from the past?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m going to put on my librarian’s hat today, and share with
you some of the books I hold very dear to my heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Some stories are very hard to read, but imagine how hard it was to endure the reality. </span>And I ask you to never forget.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every day should be Memorial Day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">World War II – Pacific
Theater<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Iron Gates of Santo Tomas – Emily Van Sickle</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Pacific War – John Costello</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Flamboya Tree – Clara Olink Kelly</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Manila Memories – Edited by Juergen Goldhagen</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Fall of Japan – William Craig</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My Faraway Home – Mary McKay Menard</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Quiet Warrior – (Admiral Raymond Spruance) – Thomas
Buell</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ghost Soldiers – Hampton Sides</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All This Hell – Evelyn Monahan & Rosemary
Neidel-Greenlee</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We Band of Angels – Elizabeth M. Norman</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Escape from Davao – John D. Lukacs</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I Came Back from Bataan – Robert Whitmore</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With the Old Breed at Peleliu and Okinawa – Eugene Sledge</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Helmet for My Pillow – Robert Leckie</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bridge to the Sun – Gwen Terasaki</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hidenari Terasaki; Pearl Harbor and Occupied Japan – Roger
B. Jeans</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Flyboys – James Bradley</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No Ordinary Joes – Larry Colton</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Unbroken – Laura Hillenbrand</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In Harm’s Way – Doug Stanton</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Blind Man’s Bluff – Sherry Sontag, Christopher Drew and
Annette Drew</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tears in the Darkness – Michael Norman</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bataan Death March; A Survivor’s Account – William Dyess</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ocean Devil – James McManus</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Conduct Under Fire – John A. Glusman</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Enola Gay – Gordon Thomas & Max Morgan Witts</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hirohito and the Making of Modern Japan – Herbert P. Bix</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Captured Honor – Bob Wodnik</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">World War II – Europe<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Wild Blue – Stephen Ambrose</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A Lucky Child – Thomas Buergenthal</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Partners in Command – Mark Perry</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Edith’s Story – Edith Velmans</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To See You Again – Betty Schimmel</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Lost – Daniel Mendelsohn</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Girl in the Green Sweater – Krystyna Chiger</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Suite Française (fiction) – Irene Nemirovsky</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Pianist – Wladyslaw Szilman</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sarah's Key (fiction) - Tatiana de Rosnay</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Book Thief (fiction) – Markus Zusak</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Boy in the Striped Pajamas (fiction) – John Boyne</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Where the Birds Never Sing – Jack Sacco</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Theodore Roosevelt, Jr. – H. Paul Jeffers</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jimmy Stewart, Bomber Pilot – Starr Smith</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Winds of War - Herman Wouk</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
War and Remembrance - Herman Wouk</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Catch-22 - Joseph Heller</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Vietnam<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A Rumor of War – Philip Caputo</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On The Other Side: 23 Days with the Viet Cong – Kate Webb</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Vietnam, A History – Stanley Karnow</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Faith of My Fathers – John McCain</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
War Torn; Stories of War from the Women Reporters Who
Covered Vietnam </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad (Not about Vietnam in and of itself, but formed the basis of the film "Apocalypse Now")</div>
<!--EndFragment-->http://kazakhstanii.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06243506639327162419noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069354511167646779.post-67947273983117040272013-05-26T14:20:00.001-04:002013-05-26T14:20:09.405-04:00Never Forget<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">In Flanders Fields the poppies blow</span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Between the crosses row on row,</span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">That mark our place; and in the sky</span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">The larks, still bravely singing, fly</span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Scarce heard amid the guns below.</span></b></div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">We are the Dead. Short days ago</span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,</span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Loved and were loved, and now we lie</span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">In Flanders fields.</span></b></div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Take up our quarrel with the foe:</span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">To you from failing hands we throw</span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">The torch; be yours to hold it high.</span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">If ye break faith with us who die</span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">We shall not sleep, though poppies grow</span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">In Flanders fields.</span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">--Lt. Col. John McCrae</span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b></div>
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http://kazakhstanii.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06243506639327162419noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069354511167646779.post-57888949879713250012013-05-24T16:44:00.000-04:002013-05-24T17:27:31.376-04:00Like a Greyhound Bus<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today I’m sitting in my kitchen drinking coffee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not unusual in and of itself, but I should
be in Lisbon, Portugal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
mother-in-law and I were supposed to leave yesterday to fly to Newark, then Lisbon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We would have gotten there this morning
around 8, been driven to our hotel, and then had a free day to rest and walk around
the city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe the coffee there
is strong and European, and I would be savoring every sip as I sat at a
sidewalk cafe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would be taking
in all the new scents, sounds and sights.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In my mind’s eye, Portugal is colorful but ancient, with cobblestones,
castles and the smell of the ocean.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVJvMic4wFQYs0ns8Ud2mJusCNV99AQ7k_kYqVNktSIe7SejXa-bHAXIiJgVDBYEbgH-B9PIVoJ3afN8Qtlnql8OS6Xb5wiASWyUoo5Z2ZVp1SLOPuecJQKgdAfCeBHZ-qnHdzq23ipmh6/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVJvMic4wFQYs0ns8Ud2mJusCNV99AQ7k_kYqVNktSIe7SejXa-bHAXIiJgVDBYEbgH-B9PIVoJ3afN8Qtlnql8OS6Xb5wiASWyUoo5Z2ZVp1SLOPuecJQKgdAfCeBHZ-qnHdzq23ipmh6/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">www.telegraph.co.uk</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But here I am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Apparently there was “weather” in Newark, and the airline kept delaying
our flight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We got to the airport
around 10:00 for our 11:45 flight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>After sitting patiently as our departure time was moved further and
further into the afternoon, we
realized that we would miss our flight to Lisbon. We still held out hope for the
next day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After standing in a long
line to be re-booked, our optimism vanished as the agent tickety-tapped on her
computer, shaking her head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Shortly after this our flight was cancelled entirely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We weren’t going.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The earliest we could get out was
Sunday, long after our ship had sailed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mother-in-law, Gloria, had invited me on this trip back
in the fall. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know much
about Portugal, and was really looking forward to adding a new place to my
personal map.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were going to be
on a river cruise down the Douro River, also going into Spain to Salamanca.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I read up on the history of Portugal (did you know Carmen Miranda was from there? She could wear a fruit salad like nobody's business!) </span>I had shopped for clothes, gotten
prescriptions refilled, and said good-byes to my mother and husband.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mentally, I was already halfway there.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Abruptly, the trip was over before it began.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t remember, in all the years I
spent travelling from pillar to post, ever having a trip out-and-out cancelled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe interrupted, but never
cancelled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I've written about my tripus interruptus (or is it tripii interruptii?) before. Same story, different chapter. Different airport floor.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yesterday I got into a conversation with a (jaded) pilot who was
also waiting for the flight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
was commuting to his job in Newark, and had a lot to say about the airline for
which he worked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He bemoaned the fact that, unlike those in the US, most international airlines are subsidized by their governments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Singapore Airlines is probably the most well-run,
passenger-friendly airline in the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You will hardly hear that said about very many American airlines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each airline company in this country is in it
for the profit, which means shaving down on just about everything, like food,
drinks, good service, etc., and charging for ridiculous things like carry-on luggage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One time, back when we were adopting,
we flew to Frankfurt on USAirways.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>After the long haul across the Atlantic, we were served a stale doughnut (really!)
for breakfast, and tinned orange juice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>On the next leg to Almaty, Kazakhstan, the German airline Lufthansa served us a cheese
omelet with mushrooms, a delicious roll with jam and butter, fresh
fruit and mimosas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> And yes, we were in Economy class. </span>We were incredulous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ3EIz0_EUCCTHH64VfXbFgSo6CpJ4yKT3AnorAcIQp_XpRmDDpL8bvSdMy7ifFNl2A9-x6j61YyXZ48jrnPDZSp1ri9Ff16yCaUEpDeBvY299WDGxGFbrtSDSVau0kRLwlJoKynGbUJn6/s1600/Northwest+Orient+Airlines+Flight+Attendant+-+Searving+food+tray+to+seated+passengers+-+Feb+1960.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ3EIz0_EUCCTHH64VfXbFgSo6CpJ4yKT3AnorAcIQp_XpRmDDpL8bvSdMy7ifFNl2A9-x6j61YyXZ48jrnPDZSp1ri9Ff16yCaUEpDeBvY299WDGxGFbrtSDSVau0kRLwlJoKynGbUJn6/s320/Northwest+Orient+Airlines+Flight+Attendant+-+Searving+food+tray+to+seated+passengers+-+Feb+1960.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">bjtheblog.blogspot.com</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The deregulation of the airlines in the late 1970s and early
1980s may have been in the interest of capitalism; to increase competition and decrease
prices, but the end result has been disastrous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not sure how or if this directly affected airline
travel as an experience, but anyone who traveled in the past remembers how it
used to be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People dressed up to
travel; it was a Big Deal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Women
wore hose and men suits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Children
were in their Sunday best.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Flight
attendants were polite, charming, and helpful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> We used to get playing cards and other souvenirs. I distinctly remember a candy lei given to me by a flight attendant the first time we landed in Hawaii. </span>I suppose it was a lot more expensive to fly back then too,
and only available to those who had the money, or whose companies paid for the
tickets.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now we may as well be riding on a Greyhound Bus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shorts and flip-flops are de rigueur.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My eyes pop out of my head sometimes
when I see how people dress to travel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Flight attendants are sometimes like drill sergeants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Friendly?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Polite,
perhaps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t think that attractiveness
is necessarily a requirement, but personal hygiene may be warranted at times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Among passengers there is a sense of
entitlement: it’s all about THEM.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Get me to my destination OR ELSE.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I have heard horrific stories of gate agents being punched and flight attendants
being similarly assaulted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> When I looked at the line of people waiting at the desk yesterday, I truly feared a brawl would break out.</span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMpQBI7AX6RbgbvJxAOgVU6wYc8MUysWnlF0_CnJUrHkO5R5jodCjUE2lVTd8TYiBfFRbEhi3ow6NbEOtzqP2bLClDmzyAA4E-rKFTEycs9pFfvqpeJPqz_WKnsJii8MKgBXhyphenhyphendTQwEXju/s1600/chinese-travelers-angry-over-flight-delays.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMpQBI7AX6RbgbvJxAOgVU6wYc8MUysWnlF0_CnJUrHkO5R5jodCjUE2lVTd8TYiBfFRbEhi3ow6NbEOtzqP2bLClDmzyAA4E-rKFTEycs9pFfvqpeJPqz_WKnsJii8MKgBXhyphenhyphendTQwEXju/s320/chinese-travelers-angry-over-flight-delays.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">www.nodeju.com</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
When I find myself in this kind of situation, I remind myself that
these airline employees have nothing to do with the difficulty at hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rather, I find myself going overboard
(no pun intended) in thanking them for what they do, acknowledging that their job must be so
difficult.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can’t imagine the
grateful looks on faces when I say this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We as a society always seem to always need someone to blame, and that usually
ends up being the person LEAST responsible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s probably some big corporate big-wig in a secret room
far away who is making the decisions, and there’s no way we can track them down
for a quick thump on the nose. And sometimes it's just something as uncontrollable as the weather. Who's to blame for that? Would you really want to fly in a major thunderstorm?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We have to remember that there are people who do jobs that
we ourselves wouldn’t dream of doing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I always thank goodness there are kindergarten teachers, nurses,
undertakers, and others who work in demanding fields.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I suppose being a Third Culture Kid has
made me sensitive to other people; I have seen so much and have developed a discerning eye to
that around me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many TCKs can put
themselves in others’ shoes so easily and appreciate our diversity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If only more people could do the
same.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTlSqS_OXxmgvWq5p46D9h08zf3GG2OycRg_c214fnn97YU5y3wV2yfA9rgORmfP0KLwO9Ydq-doCLaRUOWsSJW0iasTGmxjPJ8SnFNFmpOa2J7WgKh94IEJAYDL7lArMLE6wQi12qaU8k/s1600/empire.state.tower.work.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTlSqS_OXxmgvWq5p46D9h08zf3GG2OycRg_c214fnn97YU5y3wV2yfA9rgORmfP0KLwO9Ydq-doCLaRUOWsSJW0iasTGmxjPJ8SnFNFmpOa2J7WgKh94IEJAYDL7lArMLE6wQi12qaU8k/s320/empire.state.tower.work.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">www.airliners.net</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In the meantime, I am hopeful that I will make it to
Portugal someday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have never
stopped wanting to go somewhere new.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I just wish it was easier to get there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->http://kazakhstanii.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06243506639327162419noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069354511167646779.post-65141114476689116732013-05-15T13:44:00.000-04:002013-05-15T17:55:38.156-04:00Remembering Carobel<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR4wk-SBHm3KOfhl-2THQtLWBfqwDtCdzPJfZZ3BEYKg44kl8FVRBHgUbMBu-CtN1DuKSXcpLZOXgJlY-O035S5lCL3ald1aZ-BIm3EVCcGtSLLvgD-9JSKWv8nwoPYqKAuDBkpU73T35z/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR4wk-SBHm3KOfhl-2THQtLWBfqwDtCdzPJfZZ3BEYKg44kl8FVRBHgUbMBu-CtN1DuKSXcpLZOXgJlY-O035S5lCL3ald1aZ-BIm3EVCcGtSLLvgD-9JSKWv8nwoPYqKAuDBkpU73T35z/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This little gem made its appearance on my Kindle the day
before Mother’s Day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a
collection of essays by 31 women who reflect on the gifts their mother left
them, both spiritual and physical.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I had heard about this book from one of the essayists, Lillian Daniel,
who is a Third Culture Kid, like me. I wrote a little about Lillian’s dad, Leon, and her mom in <a href="http://kazakhstanii.blogspot.com/2011/06/extraordinary-people.html">this</a> post from 2011.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lillian’s mother, Carobel
Calhoun Daniel, was a <s>drinking buddy</s> friend of my mom’s in Manila.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> T</span>hey met at our church, Holy
Trinity <s>Whiskeypalian</s> Episcopalian, down the street from our house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Leon was a UPI correspondent and they had lived in Japan, India and Thailand before landing in Manila. </span>Most of what I remember about these
women is cigarettes and flowing caftans, big hair, lots of lipstick, laughter
and dirty jokes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the time,
Lillian was about 10 years old, a tow-headed, pig-tailed, freckle-faced ball of energy; she
was always running, it seemed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One
time she fell and smacked her head on the concrete floor, and Caro had to watch
her closely when she developed the symptoms of a concussion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJpCAYE7E2wJfOF_cEEAuspF1Bi2FXh0XeSZdO-70OWjrUzA9NkhVpmirOBPh1sTCnOL9iHAeI4rZHcndfsQAPowkTMSau8QtiCr3mrRjA-3wRjHq5MKBDS88DWYf-h0_EYq5LNvWo2rLb/s1600/CaroMom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJpCAYE7E2wJfOF_cEEAuspF1Bi2FXh0XeSZdO-70OWjrUzA9NkhVpmirOBPh1sTCnOL9iHAeI4rZHcndfsQAPowkTMSau8QtiCr3mrRjA-3wRjHq5MKBDS88DWYf-h0_EYq5LNvWo2rLb/s320/CaroMom.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My mom and Carobel being outdoorsy</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuBjqApvOEfjM6F4TFwR6HoayfbCm7omfQ7NdIgl3HZdtPTR3kRkHaGeNIhpNoB085zEnddjuExhgjbxhVR0n7tUx9Z8ATFfC85ZXWfZ6rpF50Io1A5dQcvJIPCdDw5UY3qK4n4OsLurLb/s1600/DebiLillian.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuBjqApvOEfjM6F4TFwR6HoayfbCm7omfQ7NdIgl3HZdtPTR3kRkHaGeNIhpNoB085zEnddjuExhgjbxhVR0n7tUx9Z8ATFfC85ZXWfZ6rpF50Io1A5dQcvJIPCdDw5UY3qK4n4OsLurLb/s320/DebiLillian.jpg" width="206" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lillian and my sister Debi</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Carobel and Leon had taken in their young nephew, Robert,
who had, I surmised, run into a little trouble at home in South Carolina.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His parents thought a year in Asia
might do him some good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Granted,
his older sister Lisa had lived with their aunt and uncle when they had lived
in India, so it wasn’t a stretch to send Robert to Manila.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mom and Caro thought it would be
“cute” to throw a little “get to know you” party for Robert and me in our back
yard, with a small group of kids from school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I cringe when I think about that occasion, replete with all
the awkwardness that 14-year-olds are prone to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tinny music played on a stereo and empty bottles of Chianti
with drips of candle wax adorned the tables.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We swam in the pool, sitting afterwards, damp and frizzy,
trying to break through the shyness and the silences.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Someone turned out the lights at one point (I’m not naming
names) and a game of spin the bottle was organized.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The next day Robert took me to see “Serpico” and I fell for
him, big time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirC6CKyyBOM_gjJ3HXKoCJuATH9Fa58CVKDB5XAjqAVJ7tXU68S5GFodz1u1XQCPh5nNb5Vol8aVARX9QSKEKbK9_IYYrZjW1vqD061p2Sl37qSYyQ3dBlC1EyAwmKXWZiOtY9CHw-J7Rw/s1600/LizRobert.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirC6CKyyBOM_gjJ3HXKoCJuATH9Fa58CVKDB5XAjqAVJ7tXU68S5GFodz1u1XQCPh5nNb5Vol8aVARX9QSKEKbK9_IYYrZjW1vqD061p2Sl37qSYyQ3dBlC1EyAwmKXWZiOtY9CHw-J7Rw/s320/LizRobert.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Awkwardness ... ouch!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Together, our families went on beach trips to Batangas and
Matabungkay, where my dad scuba dived (dove?) and the rest of us
snorkeled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Afterwards t</span>here were late-night car trips home in wet bathing suits and a sunburned state of exhaustion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have a vivid memory of Carobel in her
pink bathing suit, smoking a Virginia Slim, fretting over Lillian, who had swum
through a patch of jellyfish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">The youngest in a family of sisters, Carobel was the mischievous one. One of my favorite stories about the young Caro was when the bossy older sisters made her bring them drinks of water. She repeatedly brought each of them a nice cool glass with a smug smile and a toss of her head. After all the sisters had drunk their fill, Caro sassily chanted, "I got it from the toilet!!" I can only imagine the hilarity that ensued. I bet she was a fast runner.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Aunt Caro (as I called her) and Leon were only in Manila for
six months; in December UPI transferred them to Hong Kong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(It’s so strange how events in one’s
young life seem to have transpired over a very long time, when in reality it
was over in a flash).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We saw them
off at the airport, me sad about losing my first crush, but equally sad because I
really loved Aunt Caro.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was
like that: her laughter, her bawdiness, her hilarious facial expressions, well,
you couldn’t help but love her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She didn’t dismiss Robert’s and my relationship as “puppy love”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She got it: that first rush of teenaged love was real and powerful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was the first time that an adult
had acknowledged me as important and as a real, living and breathing person.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mom and Carobel stayed in touch over the years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We visited them in London where they
were posted in the late 1970’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Caro, after she and Leon divorced, ended up living in Washington DC, where she worked for ABC News,
an assistant to anchorman Steve Bell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When Bill Clinton was inaugurated in 1992, mom won a lottery to go
through a receiving line to meet the new president, and she took my sister Debi along for the ride to DC.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They, of course, looked up Caro.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While visiting ABC
studios one day, Mom and Carobel were waiting for an elevator.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The doors opened and the majestic Peter
Jennings exited right in front of them, saying, “Hello Caro!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mom, a longtime fan, nearly fainted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Caro arranged for Mom and Debi to be
interviewed by Spencer Christian on Good Morning America the day of the inauguration.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My sister was
playing hooky from her teaching job that long weekend, telling her principal that
she was ill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unfortunately for
her, the power had gone out at her school, classes were cancelled for the day, and the principal was home watching at
the very moment she appeared on national television.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That was the last time mom and Caro saw each other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As sometimes happens, life goes on and
we forget to write a note or make a phone call.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Years pass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Just when you think, I really should get in touch with so-and-so, you
learn that it is too late.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Caro
died in the 1990s at an entirely too young age.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was devastated when I heard, and a rush of colorful
memories came over me, making me smile through the sadness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0iidx_xnwe4dkCodVj_JgmNwiekkHFZD8kN0bky9z-M-LE9nadIe6AKHk-YRpCrpQVPXRR6yjMJ3Z1w2fz9ujkA5mdZ5vgkIuz80vPWRy_BeT0cjYMC5DkdzKyvrgDW_6-Z7O29Mx9DNw/s1600/lillian-daniel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0iidx_xnwe4dkCodVj_JgmNwiekkHFZD8kN0bky9z-M-LE9nadIe6AKHk-YRpCrpQVPXRR6yjMJ3Z1w2fz9ujkA5mdZ5vgkIuz80vPWRy_BeT0cjYMC5DkdzKyvrgDW_6-Z7O29Mx9DNw/s1600/lillian-daniel.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lillian today.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Little Lillian, the perky little girl of my memories and the spitting image of her mother, is now
a national speaker and writer, a minister at First Congregational Church in
Glen Ellyn, Illinois.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t say
I wasn’t surprised to hear that Lillian had gone to divinity school; her mother had been such a colorful character.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m
sure Caro herself saw the irony in it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Lillian</span> writes about her mother exactly the way I remember her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This story that Lillian wrote in "What My Mother Gave Me" sums up Caro in all her
glory, a perfect example of the energy and humor that made up her persona, the "hostess with the mostess" at a dinner party:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .6in;">
"(S)he came out of the
kitchen more than an hour late, dressed to the nines in a sparkly outfit a
couple of sizes too small, red high-heeled shoes clicking across the floor, and
she was holding – on another giant Japanese pottery tray – a magnificent
roasted duck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a brand new
recipe for her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had waited a
long time for the meal, but it was hard to see the duck on the plate, for in
her enthusiasm for her project, she had gone heavy on the garnish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was like a parsley explosion of
culinary enthusiasm, a product of a long day’s work, cheerfully given.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But then, the combination of the
greenery, the grease of the duck, and a fold in the carpet just underneath her
high-heeled shoes all came together in the perfect storm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As she tripped, the duck she had spent
the whole day preparing went flying across the room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bird landed where once it had had its tail feathers and
skidded across the floors, only to stop on the muddy doormat in the front hall,
a brown trail of grease, gravy and parsley garnish in its sad wake …</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .6in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .6in;">
“(S)he pulled her little shoulders
back and marched over to the defeated duck on the doormat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As she stooped down and picked it up,
she announced to the group, ‘Let me just throw this duck away in the kitchen,
and I’ll be back in just a minute with the <i>other</i> duck.’”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .6in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s the nature of the expat life, that friends are made
quickly and deeply, and the relationships are long-lasting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We remember the times and the places we shared, and upon
reflection we are transported back to a tropical house, to a dinner shared, a
voyage taken together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of
these friends make more of an impression than others, and we smile and laugh to
ourselves at some of the audacious memories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While we may be sad that those times are over, we can
celebrate that they happened, and that we were lucky enough to know and love truly extraordinary
people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcF5FOSymBQgUmtfPh7PuKsa0fP42cwdwGVdtQw2brMA2veRm2COr9rJARwxb0fYVG7qUy1R32aqRo1cIvULal1Hf7D3g0F5QcLiFmL8PQfWsIrbh02KuWkOe_5FpaoV2ppKhElU33g_ul/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcF5FOSymBQgUmtfPh7PuKsa0fP42cwdwGVdtQw2brMA2veRm2COr9rJARwxb0fYVG7qUy1R32aqRo1cIvULal1Hf7D3g0F5QcLiFmL8PQfWsIrbh02KuWkOe_5FpaoV2ppKhElU33g_ul/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqJW28_VHeOv7zCignFQvHrzQTNJX2S9_CRHXCeJ2HyZNPjRi5ax7ewgk7YtHiuFYGeTujlQMVjASPMiN6xz6LNmZZY4OwS9YCbpHq9hD7pBQuZ7IGDo1X5QlbX4xdE75yc0GV7xT5-pXh/s1600/bookcover-spiritualnotreligious.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqJW28_VHeOv7zCignFQvHrzQTNJX2S9_CRHXCeJ2HyZNPjRi5ax7ewgk7YtHiuFYGeTujlQMVjASPMiN6xz6LNmZZY4OwS9YCbpHq9hD7pBQuZ7IGDo1X5QlbX4xdE75yc0GV7xT5-pXh/s320/bookcover-spiritualnotreligious.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Lillian touches on being a Third Culture Kid in her book "When Spiritual But Not Religious Is Not Enough". She co-wrote "This Odd and Wondrous Calling" with Martin Copenhaver, in which they address the ups and downs of the ministry. She also co-hosts a show on Chicago PBS channel WTTW called "Thirty Good Minutes" which covers faith stories and ideas from different faith traditions. </span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->http://kazakhstanii.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06243506639327162419noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069354511167646779.post-53669063305913940592013-05-09T13:00:00.000-04:002013-05-19T13:36:07.229-04:00Third Culture Books<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was inevitable that I ended
up studying Library Science.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
have loved books since the dawn of (my) time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I was in 5<sup>th</sup> grade, I pasted call numbers on
the spines of the books in my room and made little pockets inside to keep a
record of people who might want to “borrow” them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t think anyone ever visited my homemade lending
library, but I was nonetheless prepared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My mother must have instilled my love for books somehow; she was always
reading, and our family bookshelves were filled with classics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> For some strange reason I was compelled to climb up in a tree behind our house with my favorite book, perhaps seeking solitude or to commune with nature. After I was espied by the neighborhood bully, he taunted me: "Liz climbs trees and read books!"</span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjexy-Um69GA6l_QGxROOcW-LmVpD4IvJ08BkDX9h5SUYfxIpJrtQSp70rHWJgIrmgz8p1rHFMfYWCod6N1MSCTa3CmDanfv4pgU9qyuGJMRwyqbGOmBOXSOvUEXh5uQKDDSg-Ej6O27ysf/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjexy-Um69GA6l_QGxROOcW-LmVpD4IvJ08BkDX9h5SUYfxIpJrtQSp70rHWJgIrmgz8p1rHFMfYWCod6N1MSCTa3CmDanfv4pgU9qyuGJMRwyqbGOmBOXSOvUEXh5uQKDDSg-Ej6O27ysf/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" /></a></div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<br />
<span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;">When we moved to Japan
when I was five, Mom set out to immerse me in the culture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had picture books about “<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Urashima_Tar%C5%8D">Urashima Taro</a>” </span><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"> the
Japanese fisherman who rescued a turtle, visited the sea god and returned to find that three hundred years had passed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There was the story of “Kintaro," the young dragon slayer, and Momontaro who came to his elderly parents by way of a peach pit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Hans Christian Anderson was boring compared to the Japanese. </span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
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<span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;">The <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Five_Chinese_Brothers">Five Chinese Brothers</a> was a favorite </span><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;">(not Japanese, but Asian) although in later years it was excoriated for
promoting Asian stereotypes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Story_about_Ping">Story About Ping</a> </span><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;">was
another classic set in China.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
guess Mom wanted me to love Asia as much as she did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIf67riMcxYl0yHY4lPeOkU49qfMTOWLY8YVcYNktb2OZH4O_ZQ1Ol1tS0yduCZAU1NU48MiiIxFAJDYyykQuP73GJj8xAaqTTc1r9CrlVkeFCv9kRqBhnkarVdqddEG4_T8KVf2QCJSUx/s1600/Hachiko+Statue.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIf67riMcxYl0yHY4lPeOkU49qfMTOWLY8YVcYNktb2OZH4O_ZQ1Ol1tS0yduCZAU1NU48MiiIxFAJDYyykQuP73GJj8xAaqTTc1r9CrlVkeFCv9kRqBhnkarVdqddEG4_T8KVf2QCJSUx/s320/Hachiko+Statue.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;">Don’t even make me think
about the book “Hachiko” about the dog that meets his dead master’s train every
day, waiting for him to return until he (the dog) died of old age.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I get choked up just thinking about
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I happened to catch a sappy
Lifetime movie once, loosely based on the original Japanese story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Richard Gere played the master, and <s>George
Castanza</s> Jason Alexander was a shop owner near the train station.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I found myself sitting on the floor
blubbering and sobbing in front of the TV.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Good grief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW5F70FZexfxOqWKapVmPaC3eXvxuDQ5AU3PJXuVg8l1hgAwj1fvEIikGB8n5DxvD_TdR9OfoBtuM_-RPz3KGEDjbP9UzCR8kmhCIWI1dB-Q0IwEKwdPMx-J8_VMMPBC3bXnMCmMKHJgIS/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW5F70FZexfxOqWKapVmPaC3eXvxuDQ5AU3PJXuVg8l1hgAwj1fvEIikGB8n5DxvD_TdR9OfoBtuM_-RPz3KGEDjbP9UzCR8kmhCIWI1dB-Q0IwEKwdPMx-J8_VMMPBC3bXnMCmMKHJgIS/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a>There was the story about
the little girl who had survived the atomic bombing at Hiroshima, only to die
of leukemia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a Japanese legend
that folding 1000 origami cranes would make a wish come true. This
girl’s classmates tried (in vain) to save her life by doing so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I learned very early the meaning of
heartbreak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> (And I can still fold a perfect crane). </span></div>
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<span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;">I had a book about an
orphaned Japanese girl who was sent to live in New York City.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t remember thinking too much
about it when I was little, but the back-story must have been interesting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why would a small Japanese girl be sent
to an old lady’s brownstone in Brooklyn?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Maybe there was a tragic love story, perhaps a marriage between an
American soldier and a Japanese geisha? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For the life of me I can’t remember the name of the book, but
I can still see the cover and the illustrations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The girl goes to public school and is taunted about her
Asian eyes, but eventually comes to befriend her classmates.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I'm sure</span> the book is at mom’s house
somewhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">When I was in the third grade, we lived in Westport, Connecticut, where I attended Saugatuck Elementary School. It was the quintessential "little red schoolhouse" with creaky wooden floors and a real bell in a steeple. There was a book fair once, and Hardie Gramatky, of "Little Toot" fame, was there, in person signing copies of "Little Toot on the Grand Canal". I still have my copy, signed by Gramatky himself, with a little ink illustration of the little tugboat.</span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2RcqXed7GQ2C4NM2BFCClhS85Aqrvm9eDyb9UZSVkUePU-bc1Be6kDQpRfNzBH_OihpqPrDduIRgQf71PKikBtgOBVSQXh3yTxWM3_WSt52OJQ57gRZ3I9_hqh9vQ4pRPCd_aT3_Ju5Yy/s1600/LittleToot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2RcqXed7GQ2C4NM2BFCClhS85Aqrvm9eDyb9UZSVkUePU-bc1Be6kDQpRfNzBH_OihpqPrDduIRgQf71PKikBtgOBVSQXh3yTxWM3_WSt52OJQ57gRZ3I9_hqh9vQ4pRPCd_aT3_Ju5Yy/s320/LittleToot.jpg" width="287" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR7lalGbSpx34GdzdSkhVDWMJ7nK4seH_IIp42kM0CqGMxWBTZy9SgwwVpQnrMmcCOZzBsF9KK7VTN7hbfgBojvyi8PAf7Ab0MAOvPO9H1wxP0cjDyY2URPHLsI_afKOFSlcEGf4oOe0XW/s1600/LittleToot2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR7lalGbSpx34GdzdSkhVDWMJ7nK4seH_IIp42kM0CqGMxWBTZy9SgwwVpQnrMmcCOZzBsF9KK7VTN7hbfgBojvyi8PAf7Ab0MAOvPO9H1wxP0cjDyY2URPHLsI_afKOFSlcEGf4oOe0XW/s320/LittleToot2.jpg" width="280" /></a><br />
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</div>
<span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbtZ5cFisdat1PQrwn_y6BOHkycmymXhxmAfSeOC1AhqasD0uoaMKHYfuubtftbP_NXH2K1cmWptl5M-AOlB9L7S9ELTh2OLVYzCvlqHeOtSRrNhlmPnh0JsfohBejhKom3LHkEJG1khq-/s1600/51C1TW3B7YL._AA160_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbtZ5cFisdat1PQrwn_y6BOHkycmymXhxmAfSeOC1AhqasD0uoaMKHYfuubtftbP_NXH2K1cmWptl5M-AOlB9L7S9ELTh2OLVYzCvlqHeOtSRrNhlmPnh0JsfohBejhKom3LHkEJG1khq-/s1600/51C1TW3B7YL._AA160_.jpg" /></a><span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;">In Brussels I was in a
fairly serious car accident when I was 11.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> (I wrote about it <a href="http://kazakhstanii.blogspot.com/2011/03/meeting-edith-cavell.html">here</a>). </span>I was at a slumber party thrown by a classmate, and the
girl’s governess drove us all to the movies. On the way home there was a terrible collision. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was in the hospital for a week with a
concussion (so THAT is my problem!) and mom brought me a copy of “Little Lord
Fauntleroy” that I devoured to pass the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was in this book that I learned what gout was, and came
to realize that, Holy Cow, too many children’s stories are just plain
tragic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The poor kid lost
his beloved mother and was sent to live with his crotchety old grandfather, the
formidable Lord of the Manor, who didn’t like the boy at first because his
disowned daughter had married beneath her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t long after that that I read “The Little
Princess” about the little English girl whose wealthy father is killed in the
Boer War and she is banished to live in an attic because the family fortune is
gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It all made my life seem a
little more tolerable in light of these sad stories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX5mI1Fp7OrUb-OKZ_ZadEQepLlaTHXbUKDxr1qZALy-hl4UAk1NFY6jqG1ckKsKBr1ld_VMG171RekO8MQsyX9uBEJqDiIs1Z5UJ4HcJHkl1-aREdgzZ-NtY1zfnGxjRk4fkscWEYXX5M/s1600/Little+Lord+Fauntleroy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX5mI1Fp7OrUb-OKZ_ZadEQepLlaTHXbUKDxr1qZALy-hl4UAk1NFY6jqG1ckKsKBr1ld_VMG171RekO8MQsyX9uBEJqDiIs1Z5UJ4HcJHkl1-aREdgzZ-NtY1zfnGxjRk4fkscWEYXX5M/s320/Little+Lord+Fauntleroy.jpg" width="221" /></a></div>
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<span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
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Mom used to go to London
with her friends for ladies’ weekends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She brought me copies of the Little House on the Prairie books from W H
Smith, the series my 6<sup>th</sup> grade teacher had introduced to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think I have read the entire collection
more than 20 times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was
devastated to learn that Laura had died almost ten years before I was born, as
I wanted so badly to meet her (as if that would happen!)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The stories were enchanting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many years later, in my early 20’s, mom
and I took a road trip to Mansfield, Missouri, to visit the Laura Ingalls
Wilder home and museum.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even as an
adult (well, chronologically anyway) I cherished those stories and marveled at
being in the same place where Laura had once lived.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgunmZjpAo2NyMvp49UVg65ulNUQaeD3lN52xY2aS2fdFZn5QO68rB8vLILFkYS5cjAMiLTYD9L5fwOblzyxA-uuY08fdFpF7QtKFnLR1n2ODjrAmVDQ9j9ln1IvV-RjiQRKFci03hKEsk/s1600/images-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgunmZjpAo2NyMvp49UVg65ulNUQaeD3lN52xY2aS2fdFZn5QO68rB8vLILFkYS5cjAMiLTYD9L5fwOblzyxA-uuY08fdFpF7QtKFnLR1n2ODjrAmVDQ9j9ln1IvV-RjiQRKFci03hKEsk/s1600/images-1.jpeg" /></a></div>
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<span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;">Maybe it was the long
hours spent alone as we traveled to new places, moved into new houses, when the
new friends hadn’t been made yet, or the long Pacific crossings on a ship
before the invention of the VCR or the video game.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not sure exactly what makes a young girl a voracious
reader, but it sure happened to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Books were my passport to other worlds; an introduction to many of the
cultures in which I found myself living.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Books were a panacea, as they helped me escape the grief that comes with
so many transitions and changes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They were my safe haven, to which I could run while my own reality was
filled with flux and inconstancy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;">Some women collect shoes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I collect books.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="mso-bookmark: _GoBack;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->http://kazakhstanii.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06243506639327162419noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069354511167646779.post-63136513292200994512013-05-05T12:07:00.000-04:002013-09-02T10:51:54.868-04:00The Lions of Judah<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAagWjrDWO5QSJW7rbQmFGV1wcc2lz-8nFqCxLZGxqX0VXEkMKdvJ5twvXKb-qYDrES5eRzuLqy1Olj9sd4KOO6eYwVU91ERtsNSEOK7L5qOSGijYirtfPchh0SN_M_HXs4PKI1JqtheQM/s1600/pins-black-lionofjudah1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAagWjrDWO5QSJW7rbQmFGV1wcc2lz-8nFqCxLZGxqX0VXEkMKdvJ5twvXKb-qYDrES5eRzuLqy1Olj9sd4KOO6eYwVU91ERtsNSEOK7L5qOSGijYirtfPchh0SN_M_HXs4PKI1JqtheQM/s320/pins-black-lionofjudah1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">I was recently invited to a luncheon hosted by a Jewish women's organization
called “Lions of Judah”. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">(Reminded
me a little of the Women’s Missionary Union in the Baptist Church):</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">"</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">The Lion of Judah program has brought
together women of all ages and from many walks of life in order to play an
essential role in creating social justice, healing the sick, feeding the
hungry, preserving human dignity and building Jewish identity."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">As I am hopelessly WASPy, being raised in the Episcopal Church, I felt a
little (okay, a lot) out of place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I have to say, though, that in a previous life I must have been Jewish,
because Judaism has been a part of my life since I was a freshman in high
school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;">My first best friend in Manila was Susan Roth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I spent a lot of time at her house in Parañaque, and by
process of osmosis, learned a lot about her family’s faith.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was never an issue to me; most TCKs
are accepting of others’ differences, and, indeed, curious about them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTlj32M9HlOXvDctiasOnz4TpPnu9C2oZkKgNsI_SClY1PXRbvF1WI7YUUsNr4DfXDo3hd3m7ZSqW62ib4Et1HS53JyCsmQSAu7kyws4SiBD18Xc7QvX4PFWwpnUhrv9rTuFapK5hydqIi/s1600/h5EBAB09E.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTlj32M9HlOXvDctiasOnz4TpPnu9C2oZkKgNsI_SClY1PXRbvF1WI7YUUsNr4DfXDo3hd3m7ZSqW62ib4Et1HS53JyCsmQSAu7kyws4SiBD18Xc7QvX4PFWwpnUhrv9rTuFapK5hydqIi/s320/h5EBAB09E.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">So it wasn’t strange to me that one of the first boys to show an
interest in me in Manila was actually Israeli.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had a ridiculously cute accent and his English was filled
with mistakes that I thought were adorable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had dark curly hair, and taught me how to say, “I love
you” in Hebrew.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He talked about
the fact that he would probably be required to serve in the Israeli army
someday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a reflection of
our school’s “internationality” that the group he ran with included Arab and
Jewish kids alike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When his family
moved back to Israel, another Jewish family in Manila took him in so he could
finish high school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was
remarkable to me how the Jewish community in Manila took care of its own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later on in life I read about how many
Jews from Germany and other places in Europe sought refuge in Manila in the late
1930’s, only to find themselves in the clutches of the Japanese.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The hardships that the Jews experienced
during the war were indescribable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Deplorable, tragic, incomprehensible. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">In the first frenetic, exciting days of college in San Antonio,Texas, I met a cute boy
who was from Staten Island, New York.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We had both ended up at a school that neither wanted to attend; he had
been wait-listed at Stanford, and I had desperately wanted to go to William and
Mary in Virginia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My parents were in
Singapore, his in New York.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
attraction was immediate and powerful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And yes, you guessed it: he was Jewish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I fasted with him on Yom Kippur, and listened to his stories
about being Bar Mitvahed in Israel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> We bonded over our common (gefilte) fish out water-ness.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyu25FvPx3WPK2-mNLPVasFDPXtkdicPbTSj0Hk3_PbU-nI91E6IR4yhI5-wxinXUfYn0LzXPJMM1C0lLeMuc8TV9I-DUrzZ2jooJUVAsv7JP8d-Ad5P3avtVD7NBmBJyQP__zJSYpPFuY/s1600/Bar_Mitzvah_video_image1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyu25FvPx3WPK2-mNLPVasFDPXtkdicPbTSj0Hk3_PbU-nI91E6IR4yhI5-wxinXUfYn0LzXPJMM1C0lLeMuc8TV9I-DUrzZ2jooJUVAsv7JP8d-Ad5P3avtVD7NBmBJyQP__zJSYpPFuY/s320/Bar_Mitzvah_video_image1.jpg" width="233" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">We dated for nearly 2-1/2 years in college, then for another year after
we graduated.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">It seemed inevitable
that we would be together always, but he broke up with me so he could
concentrate on his medical career.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">In a very long, anguished letter, single-spaced and double-sided, he
wrote that “It wouldn’t be fair to make you wait for 10 years while I finish my
training.”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> (I thought it was because I wasn't Jewish, but that wasn't the case). </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">Heartbroken, we
continued our lives without each other, never forgetting our bond and our
connection.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">Today, due to
serendipity and fate, destiny, kismet, whatever you call it, we are married and
ridiculously awestruck at this fact.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">His mother once joked about the “not making me wait 10 years”
comment.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">“It’s not fair that you
should make her wait ten years; but it’s okay to make her wait </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">THIRTY</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"> years?”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">After college, I moved back to Baton Rouge, where my parents had settled after their international days were over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of my mom’s good friends, Beth, who was closer to my age, became my friend as
well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Beth came from a Jewish family in
New York; she was a self-proclaimed Jewish American Princess. Beth and Mom used to host the most amazing (and delicious) Passover Seders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mom celebrated and respected Judaism as if she had been raised in the faith.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>After my sister died, Mom had given up on God and religion: the whole matzo ball.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In her job as an editor at the Graduate School at LSU, Mom met a lot of
people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of her clients was the
daughter of the Rabbi at Beth Shalom Synagogue, as she, the daughter, was
working on her Masters’ thesis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>One day, for whatever reason, the Rabbi himself appeared in her office,
and, they began to discuss faith.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Mom said, “Oh, Rabbi, I gave up on all that ‘god’ stuff a long time
ago.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The wise Rabbi replied, “Well,
you should come join us then!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">When I married my first husband in 1987, Beth was one of my
bridesmaids.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">I can only imagine
how she felt, standing in the huge Episcopal Church, surrounded by Christianity in all its glory.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">But she was my friend, and I wanted her to be there for my
big day.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy6oGGTQOeRuRZOE4wVRrHm9xAjaDEJSbKaMwaaVdfY6KS-_ydrvnhmhmNK3pG4NU-_aNWMCQQ_Klqr_TrOg8vzftZiLWWJxMgNvcuXgjhl6kt13GGfZSd-OHgayJOmdcZnebKMu8nQ3XR/s1600/2009-01-20-mortjewish1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy6oGGTQOeRuRZOE4wVRrHm9xAjaDEJSbKaMwaaVdfY6KS-_ydrvnhmhmNK3pG4NU-_aNWMCQQ_Klqr_TrOg8vzftZiLWWJxMgNvcuXgjhl6kt13GGfZSd-OHgayJOmdcZnebKMu8nQ3XR/s320/2009-01-20-mortjewish1.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial;">Over the years I made several Jewish friends; we seemed to bond in a
mysterious way that I never understood, but which I celebrated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">It wasn’t until I attended the Lions of Judah luncheon the other day
that I got it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">The speaker at the luncheon was a lovely, dynamic woman named Susan who
is a convert to Judaism.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is
also an ordained interfaith minister.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I had heard about her from my in-laws and have long wanted to meet her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She talked about a 613<sup>th</sup>
commandment (and you thought there was only ten!): “</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #262626;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">And now,
write for yourselves this song, and teach it to the Children of Israel. Place
it into their mouths, in order that this song will be for Me as a witness for
the children of Israel.</span></span></i><span style="color: #262626;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">” </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">(Deuteronomy 31:19</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana;">)</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana;">. </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">Susan elaborated that while many Jews see this as a literal writing of a Torah scroll (and many do have actual decorative scrolls written and illustrated), it
can also be a commandment to share your own gifts, to contribute to
your own community, to preserve the Jewish identity for the generations to come. Susan
asked each person to reflect and then share what our personal “gifts” are that
we can contribute to our community, to write our own figurative Torah.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Ugh, I thought, I’m only a guest
here!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Does she really expect me to
talk in front of all these strangers?)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">When it came my turn, (and thanks to a glass of champagne to calm the nerves) I said that I had grown up moving internationally often
and had never really had a true home; that I felt my gift was to reach out to
others who grew up like me, homeless, in a sense, to reassure them they are not
alone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitU3dGx0isKo9gA3qAsR1fFnkS7bxRm8GR9tHRSTJXgHZ-SAVgXwcQ16lsci6T27bioz91vRUyG9nK71k7DRG0v4PepPgDk1HmdqGvCOuq3KgcWRHRGux1G8aRqmlzoveU0AsR0Vz8SbEL/s1600/par-desmit-bausliem.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitU3dGx0isKo9gA3qAsR1fFnkS7bxRm8GR9tHRSTJXgHZ-SAVgXwcQ16lsci6T27bioz91vRUyG9nK71k7DRG0v4PepPgDk1HmdqGvCOuq3KgcWRHRGux1G8aRqmlzoveU0AsR0Vz8SbEL/s320/par-desmit-bausliem.jpg" width="255" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">Then she said something amazing.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">She said, “Like the Jews who wandered for 40 years in the desert,
without a home to speak of, you offer that sense of ‘home’ to others who have wandered like you.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">That is your
contribution to your community: by sharing your experiences, you share your
meaning of home.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">Your community is
your home.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">I would never in a million years pretend that being a TCK should in any
way, shape or form, be compared to the tribulations of the Jewish people over
the millennia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But going back in
history to those days when the Jews lived in the desert, wandering from pillar
to post, waiting for a new generation to evolve before returning to the
Promised Land, I can see a parallel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It wasn’t the Jews’ choice to be in the desert.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What sustained them all those long, dry
years was the sense of community, and the continuity of their People.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their community was their home, even if
their physical “home” was non-existent. Like the Jews, TCKs find their sense of
“home” in the community of others like them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial;">It all makes sense now. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->http://kazakhstanii.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06243506639327162419noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6069354511167646779.post-78924650369160699022013-04-27T09:23:00.001-04:002013-04-27T09:23:56.362-04:00Help A Young Kazakh <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3BKMCJQx9MdLIgzXSlI351a0kHangd5pQw-VQuzHinv7fzlfKrbZKXZZquqAkqkPXkqLQINbV-9FlHvPRs2K9whzPKIFlNpRfgLw9Z6_u6pcfleOpoJNn2cDHorDf9CerYVzl1b0nX3DG/s1600/ddb59de6-8b8b-4044-9343-28facaa35a98_profile.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3BKMCJQx9MdLIgzXSlI351a0kHangd5pQw-VQuzHinv7fzlfKrbZKXZZquqAkqkPXkqLQINbV-9FlHvPRs2K9whzPKIFlNpRfgLw9Z6_u6pcfleOpoJNn2cDHorDf9CerYVzl1b0nX3DG/s320/ddb59de6-8b8b-4044-9343-28facaa35a98_profile.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">It makes me sad that once again Kazakhstan is in the news, but not in a good way. ("Borat" was only the beginning!) Two friends of the Boston Marathon bomber are in custody, not just for being friends with Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, but for failing to attend c</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #37404e; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">lasses pursuant to the requirements of their student visas. I came across this piece about a Kazakh high school student who has the opportunity to go to summer school at Cornell to study hospitality. If you know anything about the Kazakh culture, it's all about hospitality. I was back in Kazakhstan in 2006, where I visited the home of the interpreter we had had in our adoption trip in 2004, Aida. Her mother put on such a spread I felt like a visiting dignitary! This opportunity will give Yerkebulan a huge step up if he ever returns to Kazakhstan, and even if he remains in the US. I am hoping that if any of my friends and readers has a few shekels under the cushions on the sofa, they can send them on to this guy and help his dream come true. Thanks ... click on the link to learn more about Yerkebulan and how to donate to his cause: </span></span><br />
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<a href="http://www.youcaring.com/tuition-fundraiser/help-a-young-kazakh-realize-his-dream-to-study-hospitality/54784#.UXvQCCvM1Kg.blogger">Help a young Kazakh realize his dream to study Hospitality | Tuition - YouCaring.com</a>http://kazakhstanii.blogspot.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06243506639327162419noreply@blogger.com0