History Comes for a Visit

This summer has been filled with several visitors from the East.  My daughter Lisa flew here in June for a week, and we had a great time shopping and showing her the sights here in South Texas.  We drove out to Marble Falls and toured Longhorn Caverns, an unbelievable mini-Carlsbad right in our back yard.  If you’re ever driving around the country looking for pop culture like the Largest Ball of String or the Barn Made of Corn Cobs, or a Store Shaped Like a Duck I highly recommend Longhorn Caverns.  We also have one here in the Austin area called Inner Space Cavern, right smack dab underneath Interstate 35, but I have to say I prefer Longhorn. 

Lisa spelunking.

Daughter Melanie came in July to celebrate her 10^th birthday and we spent a week at Disneyworld (no, it wasn’t 1000 degrees, 1000% humidity and there weren’t billions of people there, not my definition of hell on earth).  We had a fantastic time in spite of the less than ideal conditions, including dinner with Cinderella and a night at the Cirque du Soleil show “La Nouba”.  Melanie was thrilled.  Being the youngest in a large family, it was a treat for her to be the main attraction.   

Melanie schmoozing with da princess.

In early August my two sons Quentin (junior in college) and Christian (sophomore in high school) hit the road and DROVE here from North Carolina.  I had imagined for them a “bros hit the roads” trip of bonding and extraordinary experiences.  After a stop in Mississippi with their grandmother (and a midnight trip to the ER after Grandma sliced her hand open in the spinning blades of an antique fan) they rolled into our driveway, road-worn and weary.  With their older brother Colin (who lives in Austin) they had a day at the Schlitterbahn water park in New Braunfels, a trip which can only be summed up with the immortal words “It's all fun and games until you find a colostomy bag in the Lazy River!”  The End.

Christian is a Man After My Own Heart, in that he, like me, is a World War II fanatic.  When he was about 9 years old we visited the D-Day Museum in New Orleans.  He walked up to the docent who was decked out in authentic WWII uniform.  Little Christian looked up at him and pointed at his rifle, saying “That’s a M1 Garand, isn’t it?” The guy’s eyes flew open and after a pause he said, “Why YES!  It is!”  I would like to say he learned this all from reading history books, but it most likely came from video games.  Who says they aren’t educational?  Now he’s pondering some sort of military career.  Can you say proud mom?

Christian and the Very Large Weapon

Christian brought his copy of “The Pacific”, a companion series to HBO’s “Band of Brothers.”  We watched the entire thing while he was here.  I had no idea that the series was based on real books written by the real people who fought in the real Pacific.  Even with what I thought was pretty comprehensive knowledge about the war, I had never heard of Peleliu, Pavuvu or Cape Gloucester.  Apparently I still have a whole lot to learn.  We took a drive out to Fredericksburg and spent the day at the National Museum of the Pacific War, or the Admiral Nimitz Museum.  I could have spent a week there, it is so impressive.  And again, right in our back yard.  As I often do after learning something new, I had to snatch up all the reading material I could find about the subject.  I just finished “With The Old Breed” by Eugene Sledge and am now ensconced in “Helmet for my Pillow” by Robert Leckie.  I will never be as enthralled with a book of fiction as I am with these books.  Real life is much more interesting and impressive.  The horrors these men went through and lived with for the rest of their lives are unimaginable.  The numbers of surviving WWII vets is getting smaller and smaller these days, and the opportunities to thank these heroes are becoming more and more rare.  Don’t miss the chance to shake a hand, although most of them are as humble as humble can be.

I asked my mom why, when we lived in the Philippines, we never visited Corregidor or Bataan. I think she was miserable in Manila; the heat and the pollution did her in, and she was just biding her time until we could leave, four years later.  No energy for sightseeing.  We did live a stone’s throw from the American military cemetery at Fort Bonifacio.  We used to drive through it on the way to the airport, and I do remember being somberly impressed by the neat rows of white crosses, but their real meaning escaped the teenaged me.  I’m just glad it’s not to late for me to learn as much as I can about this important part of history; I’ll never be done.  

Progress, far from consisting in change, depends on retentiveness.  When change is absolute there remains no being to improve and no direction is set for possible improvement; and when experience is not retained, as among savages, infancy is perpetual.  Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.  --George Santayana

The Olympics

Japan Image Series

Watching the Olympics this week has been a slow walk down memory lane for this TCK.  The earliest memory I have of anything Olympic was moving to Tokyo in 1965.  The Olympics had been held there in 1964, and we drove past the Olympic Stadium every day.  It was a sweeping, wavelike, concrete monolith, a little reminiscent of the swimming venue in London today.  The Japanese later turned it into an ice skating rink.  One time when we were there skating, I fell down and someone ran over my hand.  I was carted off to the first aid station, where they doctored the gash and wrapped it in what I thought was sticky brown paper. 

The movie, “Walk, Don’t Run” was filmed in Tokyo.  It was a typical campy 1960’s comedy set during the Olympics there.  A stuffy English Lord (Cary Grant) talks his way into sharing an apartment with a lovely young British embassy employee (Samantha Eggar), as there is a serious housing shortage due to the games.  Grant in turn, sub-lets half of his room to an American athlete, played by Jim Hutton (yes, Timothy Hutton’s father).  Hilarity ensues when Cary Grant tries to fix up Hutton and Eggar.  Hutton is evasive when asked which event he competes in, until the climax of the film has Grant stripping down to his boxers and undershorts, pretending to be in the race walking competition to catch up with Hutton. 

Race walking looks pretty hilarious, compared to some of the more mainstream events.  Watching a video of it, with the droll British color commentary, it almost feels like you’ve stumbled into Monty Python’s “Silly Olympics”.  Laugh if you must, but this is a serious competition.  You try walking that way for 50 kilometers! (China’s Chen Ding won the gold this year, in case you were wondering).

We had just moved back to the states when the 1972 Olympics were held in Munich.  Having been to Munich while we lived in Brussels, I could identify with the places and landmarks I was seeing.  Even as an innocent 12 year old I watched in horror as the Israeli athletes and coaches were being held in a dormitory by Palestinian terrorists, and later slaughtered in cold blood.  I still think it was a travesty that those athletes weren’t remembered this year in London.  If they could have taken a moment to remember the victims of the bus bombings five years ago, I don’t see why they couldn’t have remembered the Munich tragedy.  I will make up for that oversight by posting pictures of the men who were killed, and whose memory is still alive with their families and may they rest in peace. 

Moshe Weinberg

Yossef Romano

Ze’ev Friedman

David Berger

Yakov Springer

Eliezer Halfin

Yossef Gutfreund

Kehat Shorr

Mark Slavin

Andre Spitzer

Amitzur Shapira

We were on home leave in the states in 1976 when the Olympics were held in Montreal.  I vaguely remember catching some of the events on TV, but I was more interested in shopping at the American stores and stocking up on my wardrobe for the coming year.  Of course, we all remember the 1980 Olympics in Moscow, or rather the Olympics That We Skipped.  In 1982, I traveled to the Soviet Union with my Russian professor at Trinity University.  We stood on a bluff at Moscow University, overlooking the stadium where the games had been held.  I don’t remember being caught up in the politics of the moment, but I did think that I was seeing something historically significant. 

Being a Third Culture Kid AND the mom of two daughters who were adopted internationally, I find myself rooting for athletes from all over the world.  I have a special soft spot for Kazakhstan (4 Gold Medals as of this moment!) and the Philippines.  I was excited see a Belgian athlete.  For some reason I feel more of a thrill when the underdog wins against the powerhouses like the USA, China and Russia.  I always root for the poor swimmer whose preliminary times earned him a slot in the outside lane for the final.  I don’t know if anyone ever won in Lane 8!  I feel terrible for the poor guy who is lapped by the pack in the 10,000 meter run.  I am thrilled that a Guatemalan athlete won the marathon.  Some day the Jamaicans are going to win the bobsled race, and I’m going to be their biggest cheerleader!  We may feel bad for the poor bronze medal winner, but for me, just to BE there competing would be an honor.  Even if I were the last one limping over the finish line, it would be a proud moment.

Blogger Beware: Copyright

YIKES!! =:-0  <---click here

I am so guilty, guilty, guilty!  I love putting funny pictures on my blog.  But I apparently, innocently, have possibly broken copyright law.  But as they say, ignorance of the law is no defense.  I will probably be starting the odious job of sorting through over 400 posts to make sure I'm not a scofflaw.  (Although the thought of three hots and a cot ... nah, won't go there!)  

We learned a great deal about copyright in library school.  I should have known better.  One of the best videos we watched in class was this one

It's so easy to assume that pictures found on Google are free for the taking.  I mean, practically every web page you read has a "share" button on it.  Maybe copyright law is losing its sharp edges in this day of the wide distribution of information, data and images.  I know the law is constantly changing as the formats with which we access information change on a daily basis.  I wonder what the powers-that-be are working on for tomorrow.  Only 20 years ago, my cell phone was the size (and weight) of a brick.  I remember the first time I looked at AOL (remember that awesome beeeee ---- brrrrrr ----- beeee ksssssh?)  I felt like I was looking at an alien from the planet Smorgashboroghagip.

Think about how much our lives have changed recently:  As early as 20 years ago, I never heard the term "Third Culture Kid".  Getting together with my classmates from all the schools I attended was just a dream.  Now we speak daily on a Facebook page.  Meetups in real life (IRL in textspeak!  See I can talk the talk!) happen all the time.  The closest group of girlfriends that I have was formed on AOL's MomsOnline.  We have been together over 15 years now, both IRL and IVL (I made that one up ... in virtual life).  And look how FAST things change:  I remember the wonderment that I had when (1) we got our first color TV, and (2) it had a REMOTE CONTROL!!  Wow!  The Jetsons' world can't be too far off!  We were the last folks on the block to have a microwave.  Now having a computer is commonplace (tell that to my mom who is still without) and people look at you funny when you say "I don't have e-mail".  Believe me: happens every day.

I guess my point is, if anyone notices that I have snagged and used an image of theirs, it was completely unintentional.  A friend of mine who is a photographer slapped me on the wrist when I shared one of her photos of my family, and I corrected that immediately.  I am a victim of the times.  But I suppose it's like seeing an armored truck driving along with money spilling out of the back.  I could just run along picking it up and think, "Wow!  Free money!" knowing full well that it's not mine, never was, never will be.  Photos can be someone's hard-earned livelihood, their art, their property.  And that's not free!

Dancing

Where the Hell is Matt?

I heard about Matt several years ago.  For some reason he started traveling the world and videotaping himself with people of all nations, cultures and creeds, just dancing.  The international language of dancing.  No words, no languages, just movement, celebration, joy.  Every tribe, every nationality, every culture has a dance.  (How many of you can say you spent your P.E. classes learning tinikling?)  From the most primitive cultures in the Pacific, to the tribes of Africa, we all dance.  We've all seen a baby who has just learned to stand, moving his body with joy; dancing.

Matt has made so many videos.  In this one he even goes to North Korea (wonder how he explained THAT one to the people issuing his visa.  "Yes, I just want to come to your country to dance with your people.")  He is in Saudi Arabia, in Egypt, Israel, Syria, Pakistan, among many, many others (including Quezon City, the Philippines -- okay there's my plug for my adopted home).  And the commonality in all the places?  Joy.  Smiles.  Happiness.  Happy and giggling and just being silly.  Doesn't this prove that we are all just the same?  We're not Muslims, Christians, Jews, Buddhists, Taoists.  We're just people who dance.

My very favorite is at the very end, when Matt is shown dancing with his wife (I assume) and their baby on their shoulders.

I dare you to watch this video without cracking a smile.

Nostalgic Manila

American School classmate Lou Gopal waxes nostalgic about Old Manila ...

Traveling Alone

Check out this blog, called  Legal Nomads:

It's an interesting journal written by a former New York City attorney who chucked it all to travel the world.  I have to admit I'm a little extremely envious.  You would think that all the traveling I have done in my life would have made me brave about traveling alone.  I have done it a lot, but it has involved a lot of nervous stomachs and nail biting.  As early as age 16 I flew from New Orleans to Manila, alone, stopping in Hawaii to visit a friend.  The plane was delayed in Dallas, making my arrival time in Honolulu a little later than expected, but I managed.

The most difficult trip I made was at 18, when I flew from Singapore (where my parents were posted) to London.  First of all, the flight was cancelled, after my mom had seen me through immigration and left to go home.  When we got the news that we weren't flying that night, I called mom repeatedly, but there was no answer at the house.  She was watching TV and didn't hear the ringing.  I finally got ahold of a family friend, who went to the house and threw stones at the windows to get mom's attention, letting her know of my predicament.  (Oh, by the way the Dutch national soccer team was on the flight, not too hard on the eyes, but no English).  The flight left the next morning, finally, but after landing in Bangkok, Colombo and Karachi, we arrived in Amsterdam in the wee hours of the morning.  No flights for another 6 hours.  The airline bused us to a hotel, where I lay awake in a jet-lagged stupor, worrying about missing my wake-up call.  I finally arrived in London, where I spent the summer with a British family as their nanny, and went to summer school at Richmond College.

More recently, I flew to Barcelona, Spain, to meet my to-be husband for two nights before he & his family boarded a ship for a Mediterranean cruise.  I had been in London to visit said family-for-whom-I-nannied, and jumped at the chance for a quick reunion with my sweetie.  I got there two days before Mitch did.  I resisted the urge to hole up in my hotel room, and bought a ticket for a city bus tour.  I felt disoriented, uneasy and scared at first.  It's hard not having anyone to "ooh and aah" with.  I went out to dinner that night (it was either that or starve!) and found myself sitting at a table being ignored.  It's almost as if the staff couldn't fathom that a woman would go out to eat alone.  I finally gave up, going to a different place where I got served.  I felt awkward and uncomfortable.

The Sagrada Familia, Barcelona

I had planned ahead though.  At the time I was in grad school, studying library science.  I got in touch with a library professor at the University of Barcelona, and she graciously agreed to meet with me and give me a tour of the school.  After the tour, she and several members of the faculty took me to lunch at a tapas bar.  They kept re-filling my wine glass and bringing me plate after plate of delicious, but not identifiable, delicacies.  I think one of them was covered in squid ink.  When the lunch ended, we poured out of the restaurant, and they said, "Hey!  It's been fun!  See you later!  The subway is over there!"  I was completely unaware of where I was.  Did I mention that it was hot?  Did I mention the copious amounts of wine?

I staggered walked into a hotel lobby where I got some definite directions.  I found my way onto the subway and back to my hotel, no worse for the wear.

I won't even go into the story about when I spent the night on the floor of the Detroit airport.  'Nuff said.

Bottom line is, I may have traveled a lot, but my hat is off to this woman who has made it her life's work to wander the globe alone.  Wish I could have some of her chutzpah!

An International School Regret ~ Unsettled TCK

Sometimes we fail to look at things we take for granted.  (And I promise I will start posting again really soon.)

An International School Regret ~ Unsettled TCK