Parque Colomos, 9:15 am

Stillness bordering on cool, for the first time in months. Skunk, pine, the dryness of the needles compressed by a tropical storm edging its way upland from the coast. Meat and onions, morning prep for comida and a merciful absence of cologne. A few middle-aged men out to stave off the premature heart attacks and various ailments plaguing their generation. Mostly women, youngish mamas and older, with remarkably few babies in strollers. The deep green of dry trees awaiting the imminent rain matched by equal amounts of the dusty ochre of the season, both punctuated by bougainvillea, lilies and the bright, tight tee-shirts sported by the park's visitors. Joggers among the younger set, speed-walking among the older crowd and those too top-heavy, by choice in this town, to handle the rigors of a run. Quiet, without the weekend crowds and children and chaos, the clouds cushioning the dull crush of the city beyond the trees.

Last lonche!

The school year is winding down, with just a few days remaining for Iris and another week beyond that for Ruby. Today was Ruby's last lonche, which in my opinion is real reason to celebrate. Mike was up at six making 48 dinosaur turkey cheese sandwiches and I had made my Costco trip earlier in the week to round out the meal with with baby carrots and because it was her last time this year, juice boxes and chocolate chip muffins for a treat, in direct violation of the "suggested guidelines." But I figure we had already violated school policy by having a father participate, as the school handbook specifically tasks "mamas" with this not so small job (update to the 21st century, please, bc I know someone out there from our lovely school will read this!). I've been on the fence about this piece of school life all year, especially once Iris started attending too. The idea is to have each mother (and yeah, I know the reality is that it is the mamas, but c'mon, let's at least set the expectation for fatherly participation--which has happened quite a bit in our household) provide lunch for the children in your kid's classroom once a month. That's 25+ kids in Ruby's class, and in Iris's case, because she is in a smaller classroom, it's twice a month for about 15 kids. We don't have a cook, as some of the families clearly do, and I only farmed it out once when I felt the pressure of actually providing the dish that we had been assigned and I of course had no idea how to make it. It was, in short, a lot of cooking. But making lunch every day would have been a ton of work too, so I'm not sure the grass is greener. We made lots of soup and veggie mac and I occasionally tried to approximate what I had been assigned but I always worried that Ruby might feel the sting of sending food that was just a bit weird. By the end of the year, the school had recognized the cultural challenge and often assigned me things like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, which ironically, I resisted sending because out of my own gringa paranoia, I didn't want to be responsible for sending some child into anaphylactic shock. It all worked out though, and both girls are better and more adventurous eaters for the exposure to others' cooking and I hope the other children's parents would say the same. But I'm glad for the break now and we'll see how a little summer school daily lunch-packing feels in comparison.

Cuadro!

 Ruby, our budding artist, showed her first painting (hence the cuadro! of the title) in a show. Her art studio, of which there are several branches in the ZMG, asked students to submit one of their paintings. Ruby chose her Monet, which isn't half bad for a four year old. The opening was held in Cafe Martinique, which aside from its lovely terraced dining area downstairs, also possesses some great space upstairs for just this kind of event.

 Yes, we ditched Iris for this event too, as she has become a holy terror in the past few weeks and we wanted Ruby to feel the full glory of her first show. And honestly, Ruby deserves a medal for the many cheeks she has turned to Iris's smacking, hair-pulling, toy-taking and just general toddler style reign of terror. More on Iris later, as she, in addition to being a bit of a stinker, has also moved into a riotous linguistic phase which helps take the edge off her rapidly developing ego.

 As you can see, it was a pretty swank affair, and I've gotta say, either the teachers do a fantastic job or there's a whole lot of artistic talent out there or both. And seeing the takes of kids ranging from three to fifteen or so on Van Gogh, Morrisseau, Monet, Warhol and a bunch of others was really pretty wonderful.

Not surprisingly, the highlight for Ruby was not all the praise from us or the glitz of the opening or seeing her work up on the wall, but the lollipop.

Miss fish

We took a chance on a decrepit hotel in San Pancho last weekend. The surf is pretty rough there--I'm still digging sand out of my ears from a very short-lived venture into the waves and an equally short-lived confrontation with my own mortality, which I curtailed by heading for the pool and a beer to quell the adrenalin overload. Iris was absolutely terrified of the crashing surf and stayed well away, while Ruby ventured out for a little digging and wave tag but preferred the pool as well. In spite of the general state of decay around the joint and in our rooms, the pool itself was absolutely perfect for our purposes, with a few crabs for ambiance, a fantastic view, and pretty decent food at the little restaurant. The delightful company of lots of friends and their respective little ones, all of whom were staying in a house nearby made for two great afternoons floating around in the sun. Miss fish mastered the art of swimming to the bottom of the pool to fetch her little dollies, who now have swimmers' hair from all their time soaking in the chlorine. Both girls played so hard they almost made themselves sick, but they have of course recovered and are begging for a return trip soon.

GDLicious: Oh la la!

A large Mexican family (extended version, of course) goes through a couple kilos of tortillas a day. No meal is complete without them, no matter the hour of the day, and most people will tell you they prefer the corn ones, which are indeed healthier. But as much as I love a steaming fresh tortilla, sometimes those Euro-peasant roots kick in and what I really want is a crusty, holey, yeasty baguette. Folks in this town eat a fair amount of bread, mostly the bolillos sold in the stores and out of baskets on street corners, and the larger supers have bakeries where the bread at least looks appetizing. However, most of it is made with the most extraordinarily refined flour, often with a large helping of lard or margarine to keep it from turning into a brick within the day. It took us a good half a year to find a not just good, but great bakery. We went out for a huge St. Patty's day dinner at Lula Bistro (the chef, Darren Walsh, is an Irishman) and they served little rolls that had us back a few weeks later to investigate their origins. I was happily shocked to learn they were not made in house, and that a mere citoyenne like myself would be able to get her hands on them at Oh la la! (Av. Sebastian Bach 2074). Of course, there's a Frenchman involved. In addition to some rather dangerous chocolate croissants, you will find the crustiest baguettes in town there, along with a very respectably chewy pain de campagne and whatever else they felt inspired to make that day. Bon appetit!

GDLicious: Dip de atun

Once I got over my obsession with the salsa that comes with Juanito's roast chicken (Providencia between Labrador and Alberta, take out and delivery, tel. 33.1149.4005), I moved onto a new fixation, the chipotle tuna dip served with totopos at Santro Pez, also on Providencia but on the opposite side between Labrador and Virginia. The restaurant is really more of a watering hole. You ask for a drink and two or three always arrive, as the place thrives on specials and a very lengthy happy hour. The food's decent and not very expensive, with the quesadilla de camaron and the doradito de marlin being favorites in our house. There are better and cheaper fish taco places in town, but this place is a real restaurant rather than just a tent or a stall, and in their favor, they play truly decent music. No classic rock, no pop, just burning salsa most of the time. Anyway, to get back to the dip, the stuff here solved one of the mysteries of Mexican cooking for me. While Mexico was recently recognized as a world cuisine by the UN, and certainly deserves the honor when one thinks of regional cooking in Oaxaca or the Yucatan or a few other places, one walks into most grocery stores and is struck by the enormous variety of two products, to which entire sections of each store are devoted. First, you've got the salchicha section. What on earth do they do with all those hot dogs? I still haven't figured that one out yet. Second, the tuna section is usually pretty massive too, along with a whole variety of olives, pickled veggies, and other kinds of canned and often smoked seafood. Some of this you can chalk up to the Spanish influence, as throw together a plate of that stuff with some jamon serrano, a little cheese, some bread, and you're good to go for a light cena. And I haven't touched tuna in years, given the overfishing issues and the fact that they scare the daylights out of you about eating it when you're pregnant. In fact, I hadn't had any in so long that I didn't realize what the dip was made out of when I finally asked the waiter for the ingredients. It's not exactly a healthy recipe, but is it ever delicious with some chips or even better yet, the tostadas found in every little tienda or super too. All you need is a can of tuna, drained, some chipotle peppers (adobados), a ton of mayo, more than you would really think is reasonable or smart so that it takes on a more dippish rather than sandwich spreadish consistency, a squeeze of lime juice, and then whatever else you might want to throw in, like cilantro, to brighten up the flavor. Whip it into a consistent paste, chill, and then serve. Provecho!

Missing the swamp fan

Hindsight is 20/20, and nothing could be a truer truism for that moment in the foreign service when you finally get all your stuff and start cursing for having given this or that away, or sent this or that box to storage. The cursing is not all self-directed, as there are often plenty of other people to blame along the way too, like those in charge of pulling or placing all this stuff in and out of storage somewhere in Maryland. I've gotten over the fact that we did not get our Christmas ornaments but did get somewhere in the ballpark of a couple hundred pounds of docs, pics, and the minutiae of the past that we really didn't want to see for a decade or so. Recently, I've been doing some belated mental self-flagellation for not having held on to a certain appliance that was indispensable at the height of the Ellensburg summer: the swamp fan. I have to admit, purchasing it was a serious leap of faith for a midwesterner who had never really cared for the humidity of southwestern Michigan as a child and spent most of my grad school summers in Pittsburgh holed up in the library, an air-conditioned cafe or office, or in my bedroom with the window unit cranking. The idea of simply blowing water into the air seemed pretty crazy, but lo and behold, it worked. And get this--I was at the fancy mall the other day, and they've essentially installed the equivalent of a grocery store produce section mister system for people. You walk under these little metal hoops and they squirt a fine mist out from time to time, which is refreshing but pretty short-lived in terms of providing relief, unless you plan to just stand under the jets. The heat index also explains why the mall that was formerly the nicest one in town still does at least a brisk pedestrian business, as it has central air. The heat is not unbearable, but it is enough to make people jockey over shaded parking spaces and hot enough to keep the kids inside most afternoons and hot enough to require some serious watering to keep the garden from turning to dust in the matter of a day or two. The one rainfall we had, heavy enough to fill our lidless recycling can with a good six inches of water, made me feel like the bubble boy the next day for what it did for the air quality. So while I'm not complaining (we have friends in Oman who are helping me keep a little perspective on the matter), I do kind of wish I hadn't ditched the swamp fan.

Baby Gaga

This is what happens on weekend mornings while I sleep in (or try to anyway). It's a coffee and snack cup fueled dance party downstairs. And all of you who were at Old Jack's last weekend know where she gets it from, and yes, you should start inviting him to all the crazy concerts you go to for a good sideshow.

The cheese series

 

 Iris, who has recently approached near calm on the teething front, seems happily disposed to display the full set of choppers at the "cheese" command in front of the camera. Here are some before and after pictures displaying the effect of this simple and magical word on her demeanor. We start with some sisterly photos, with princess balloons, of course, in the first set. And for those of you in the FS, yes, I really do need to do something about those couches.

 

 Now witness the magical effect of the word with Mugga, who braved all the hype of the US news media to make the journey here (and guess what, she didn't even hear a gunshot, let alone get caught in a firefight!). We had a lovely time between swimming at the club and staying out of the heat at our place and just generally enjoying the grandma magic that she knows so well how to turn on for our girls. They were completely enamored of her, to the point where Ruby's masterpiece pictured above, which could rival some very fine cave paintings in France, I believe, figured Mugga as the central stick figure.

 

 Here's a little before and after during the horse show with Daddy. It's a good thing she doesn't sustain this grin, as it hurts my face just to make it for a few seconds.

 And finally, we have "las hermosas," as they are frequently called, at home and enjoying themselves, with lovely smiles that morph with the first "cheese" and then into even more hilarious grins with a double dose of the "cheese" effect.

Hammock angel at Hacienda El Carmen

We joined friends outside of town this Mother's Day afternoon at Hacienda El Carmen for a leisurely meal and some rambling around the grounds. We did a terrible thing and abandoned Iris with the babysitter at home, which did mean we actually sat through most of our meal and Mike was only called upon for some minor child-chasing with his fellow father, while I and my fellow mama killed the obligatory Mother's Day bottle of wine under a jacaranda tree in full bloom. It was a treat of a cloudy day out there, as full sun would have made for a scorcher. We didn't explore much of the interior, but the patio spaces abound and the greenery was nothing less than spectacular.

Ruby especially enjoyed the hammock under the mango tree. She's just a joy these days, whispering, "Mommy, I love you more than outer space" and other such hilarious endearments not only on Mother's Day but all days. She's pretty civilized too, about trips to the bathroom (which used to instill such terror in her), eating in a restaurant without causing a scene (which used to instill such terror in me), and just generally acting like a pretty lovely little human being. Iris, by the way, was no worse for wear for having been left behind, as she is rather enamored of the babysitter at the moment, and got in a nice three hour nap which made our abandonment of her seem all the more sensible.

And, since it was Mother's Day after all, a rare photograph of the elusive subject herself, who is usually behind the camera rather than being sought by its lens.

Nuevo Vallarta Workation: Day 2

Recover from the night out before, which really only took two espressos and a lot of bacon (By the way, that was a great dinner at the Vista Grill if only for the view, although the food, drinks, and company were excellent as well). Back to the grind for a few hours, with a luxurious mid-morning nap as a think break on a tough section. Lunch buffet (can't imagine doing this to oneself for more than a couple of days--would take months to undo the damage). More writing. Give up late afternoon to go lounge on the beach for a couple of hours. Quick run, then yes, unbelievable, more food. Bad TV for the first time in days to top it off, as I was fried mentally. Quick pack up, heartwrenching conversation with M, who reported that when Irie went into her crib that night, she laid there and repeated "Mama home, Mama home" over and over as he closed the door, and then a good night's sleep in preparation for the potentially nightmarish drive home (which was in fact, a cakewalk in comparison to the drive down). Feeling productive and close to capping off that chapter, and refreshed mama-wise too.

Nuevo Vallarta Workation: Day 1

Sleep, uninterrupted. Eat. Run, or well, truth be told, walk and run, on that glorious beach. Think, seriously, about how the heck to finish this bloody chapter that has been dogging me for so long. Massage. Eat again--buffets have come a long ways since the last time I was at an all-inclusive. Write like a maniac. Sinus-cleansing, bikini-malfunctioning body surfing session to make me feel like I am 23 again. Shower. Resist temptation to start drinking before dinner with a view and lovely people in PV. Short-lived attempt to stay out much later than I should have. Sleep again, knowing that at least the hangover will be ameliorated by the fact that I don't have to get up at any particular time.
Plan for Day 2? Less food, less booze, less company but more writing, more waves, more running, more missing M and the girls.

Water bug

That deafening silence

It seems to happen to most of us, the foreign service bloggers, whether officers or the spouses and partners of officers, at the moment when the chaos and novelty subsides and routine takes over, especially when you calculate in the kid factor. Let's face it, no matter where you live on the planet, dealing with a couple of little monkeys is largely the same drill of diapers and snacks and naps and oh phew they just went to bed but what a mound of dishes and laundry awaits us and so on and so forth, punctuated of course by the delight of seeing them learn to speak and swim and a multitude of other things in their generally hilarious, occasionally mortifying ways. The girls have finally settled into a happy routine with school and are flourishing in English and Spanish, in their relations with teachers and friends, and with all the benefits of what they learn there spilling over into their time at home (wow, both can actually pick up their own toys!). I've won what for me were the most pressing battles with same school, which were ultimately small but significant victories on matters of basic hygiene and safety--the first being get the freaking salmonella spreading turtles out of the babies' rooms as my child has already had parasites twice and we really don't need a round of anything more serious at this point, with the second being stop feeding those same babies popcorn before I send the wrath of the entire American Pediatric Association on choking hazards for children under three their way. No serious issues with Ruby's room for a while, much to their credit. And as for myself, finally slipping into that routine after so much work in the house and in getting the girls settled and dealing with this and that other detail for the first six months here has meant the possibility, or inevitability, of returning to that much loathed but necessarily doable project, the diss. So the fact that I'm not dinking around in blogolandia is a good sign in many ways. In all honesty, I'm also following a bit of motherly advice too, which is that if you don't have anything nice to say, then don't say anything at all. Because at that very moment when things settle down into some sort of daily normalcy, many of us out there also begin to realize, or perhaps just admit and acknowledge, that the culture surrounding us is, well, rather annoying or insane or simply incomprehensible. Such rhythms have been well documented by those with more experience than myself in globe-trotting every couple of years, and there are more stages to come, much like those of grieving or the cycles through which relationships pass. This moment is the one when the honeymoon ends and reality sets in--more on what that all means when Chapter 4, or at least a passable draft of it, has been sent northward to a patient and hopefully merciful reader. 

Spring festival in motion

That's my girl, heading straight for mama. She had heard me being interviewed earlier by one of the kids on the microphone about what the sun does for us--a little on the spot Spanish mortification for me--and had burst into tears down at the other end of the court. So she knew where I was as the parade set out in rather chaotic fashion. We rescued her carrito and made a couple more rounds before hanging out to wait for the promised treats of paletas.