R&R in the PNW

It's R&R season for most of us here in GDL are rotating through this foreign service ritual. Many friends have already made the trek north to various parts of the U.S. and we are anxiously awaiting our turn to head up in a matter of days. Iris is looking forward to the plane ride, while Ruby remembers enough of cousins and doting friends of ours and hers and good food and fresh air to turn herself inside out while waiting for the trip to begin. There's a reason why so many, although not all, posts have R&R. You really do need to get out once in a while and recharge your batteries after the grind of life in a foreign country. Even if GDL is foreign service light compared to what we will likely see on the next tour, I'm really looking forward to a break from the narco news, the grind of traffic and less than civilized drivers, the grime, etc. Most of these matters aren't all that grievous, but like many things in this country, one wonders if a little effort couldn't make it so much better. And that's a daily frustration that one sometimes need to walk away from for a spell in order to take on another year. So bring on the organic heirloom tomatoes and all the splendor of summer produce at the height of the Pacific northwest summer, bring on the spunky red wines and the hoppy microbrews, fish and chips or maybe breakfast at Etta's down in the market, Vietnamese at Tamarind Tree in Seattle's Chinatown, the Lebanese joint in SE Portland our friends always take us to, a spree at Target and Nordie's Rack, the inevitable trip to the mothership REI, and a gazillion other consumer pleasures, but most of all, bring on the company. We can't wait to see you all! 

Doggie delight

Feliz cumple, Chu!

Chucho, our first baby, turns ten today. We got an early start on celebrating with cupcakes yesterday. Ruby and Natalia, our sitter and Chu's best friend these days, as she is his only hope of ever getting walked, made one especially for the beast. It was gone in a matter of seconds, but he enjoyed the sprinkles afterward, licking them out of the carpet with all the care he usually gives to his vacuuming responsibilities around the house. We're hoping to take him to DQ this afternoon for a birthday treat as well. We don't normally devote this much attention to the poor dog, but ten seems like an achievement.

The list

"Got the list. Might be late." was the text I got earlier this afternoon. Deep breath on my part, as the arrival of the list in Mike's hands is only the first step in a waiting game that plagues the lives of foreign service officers and their families every two to three years. This list contains the jobs available for bidding for our next posting. We've got another year here, but it's never too soon to start packing or purging or preparing in one way or another, and fortunately, the DOS needs all that time to figure out not just where people are going but to get them and their stuff there in a reasonable fashion. This initial version of the list is a bit cruel, as perhaps as many as half of the posts (virtually all of the ones in developed countries with good food, good health care, good education, etc.) will disappear in another week or so, taken by those officers coming out of Iraq and Pakistan and other posts that are considered high hardship places. Then it will be up to us to figure out which of the remaining places work best for Mike's career, our family, the dog, etc. It's a complicated calculus that one could waste hours of one's life worrying about, but it might be smarter to simply say, well, there's a bunch of places that we really don't want to go to and here are a bunch that we're willing to try on for size. Health care matters a lot when you've got small children but maybe education is not so crucial at this point. Would be nice if there's decent food available locally, as I don't care to feed two small children and myself imported mac and cheese for two years. Not sure if we want another Spanish speaking post or if we should head into some new linguistic adventure. I am just going to accept the fact that we will inevitably end up somewhere harder to live than Guadalajara, and I can also embrace the fact that somewhere new and novel rather than a country you are already acquainted with holds a certain attraction, even if it will be more challenging.

On the sisterly bond

These girls, for the time being anyway, simply adore each other. Iris's first word each morning and upon waking from her nap is usually a querying "Buby?" and Ruby, in turn, can hardly bear to let her sister sleep in or take that very necessary nap for too long. At school, the teachers have confessed that Ruby regularly begs to visit Iris and of course, because she is persistent and because they are indulgent about that sort of thing, she does so on a regular basis. I have also learned of late that Ruby begs the babysitter, who is a sweetheart and reluctant to put her foot down, to let her sleep with Iris. If Ruby had her way, she'd be in the crib with Irie, but they sometimes settle on Ruby in the bed next to the crib. They will share a room soon enough, and I bet that Ruby will sneak down from the top bunk to snuggle.
Summer school has just begun and the girls are together in a group of kids ranging from Iris's age to six. Ruby is taking her big sister duties seriously, as I asked her to keep an eye on Iris with the bigger kids. Two boys pulled a stick gun routine on Iris yesterday, but Ruby put her foot down about that immediately. She was a little disappointed that they then turned their guns on her, but it sounds like she took it in stride as pretty typical on the part of some of her little male companeros. She served herself and Iris their lunches, out of lunch bags they are so preciously proud of as the normal routine is that of a group lunch. Never mind that the tops didn't make it back onto the pasta salad containers when the bags came home. Iris reported, with no small sense of import, that "Ruby sit wif Irie."
They are fast friends and budding co-conspirators, hiding together, plotting together, playing together. I walked into the kitchen the other day to find them chanting "caca caca chucha" to a snappy little tune, which roughly translates to "poopy poopy p_ _ _ y." Ruby took the news pretty well that it was not an appropriate thing to sing, confessed she had learned it at school without having the faintest idea what it meant, and agreed that Iris would soon embarrass us in the grocery store or somewhere else if they kept singing it. We'll see if it resurfaces. In the meantime, we are enjoying the sisterly love while it lasts.

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.