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Kickin' it in the Paris airport

They are called avoidance behaviors and I've got some. For example, instead of thinking about and working on three very stressful things with fairly immediate deadlines...I'm going to write about our R&R. You do what you have to.

 First things first - Buckley was a champ on the plane.  He just sat in his little house under our seat (and sometimes in his little house on our lap) and remained quite the entire trip. We flew to Paris, stayed over night at an Ibis more reminiscent of a prison than a lodging establishment, and then took the 11 hour direct to Paris. The trip home included a 4 hour stint circling the great Salt Lake before an emergency landing (our first) followed by a 6 hour rerouted red eye to New York and a 7 hour leg to Casa on what seemed more like a floating mall than an airline. (The hair pulling! The eyeliner!) And through it all, Buckley just hung out in his little house calm as can be. I've never been prouder.

Seeing family and friends was awesome. More than awesome. I don't know if this is symptomatic of FS life in general or of being in a small post with a small American community, but you kind of get into the "life is work, work is life" zone. It's hard to keep your work life and your home life separate and sometimes you feel like the two are all hogglewashed together. An R&R does exactly what it's supposed to - gives you a minute to come up for air and re-prioritize. Revisit all the great people and things that motivated you to take up this lifestyle in the first place....and provides you opportunities to eat all of the Mexican food and pork products you can get your hands on.

A few months ago Max got it in his head that his high school band should get back together and play a show. And then somehow I got it in my head that we needed to rent a giant bowery, invite several other friends who were in bands and throw a big concert in the park to see all the people we hadn't seen in ages. A few emails, a friend with a DJ business and a sweet audio set up, and a letter to the city council later - we had ourselves a concert. It was just like I dreamed it - good tunes, reminiscing with old friends, families spread out on blankets in the grass, people playing catch with their kids and running around with their dogs. My own American utopia come to pass. And, if I'm being honest, Max's band waled. They were even better than I remember them being in our high school auditorium. And who doesn't love being married to a rock star?

My adorable neice Maycee walked/was dragged
around Buckley, who was just her size.  

And when our time in Utah came to an end, we moved west....

Taking Churros From Children

Don't do it.

So, I'm cleaning up a little at our fantastic, unbelievable, infinity pool to the ends of the earth Southern California vacation house and I see a churro left over from a pit stop earlier that day.


Certainly everyone has already eaten their churro who wants one.   I say to myself as I pop it in my mouth and finish wiping down the kitchen table (which the house rules say we are not to stand on as it may break - we are not really the dance on the kitchen table kind of vacationers, but you never can tell, right?)

Just as I'm wiping the cinnamony goodness from the corners of my mouth my wee nephew, part 8 year old, part ocean liner, walks into the room looking for the last churro that has been lovingly saved for him.  "Do you know where my churro is?" He asks in a panic, eyes round as frisbees.  

I can't remember the last time I felt this ashamed, so I hemmed and hawed until he left the room looking for it elsewhere.  When I didn't see him for a while I thought I'd gotten away with only the intense personal shame of stealing treats from a child instead of the public humiliation I deserved, but then he trudged up the stairs with the most enormous alligator tears I've ever seen running down his round face.

"They saved one churro for me and some idiot walked by and ate it!"

He sobbed at me, looking for answers.  You know why? Because adults have answers.  They help kids find lost things, they sympathize when idiots walk by and eat your churro...they don't eat your churro and then hide it from you.

For some reason I felt like my first step was to confess to his parents and they, of course, laughed, because it's kind of funny and they are nice people.  But I made Max drive me 20 minutes to the nearest town to buy him another one.  It was only after we left the gated community that we realized we didn't know the code to get back in and that we'd left our cell phones back at the house.  In the end we found a solution that didn't include scaling the gate and running up the hill to our vacation home AND the churro was delivered without me having to forever break the trust of my churro loving nephew.

Churro-gate aside, vacations are awesome.  So awesome, in fact, that I'm just getting around to blogging on the next to last day of ours.  Our R&R has been so terrific.  We got to see lots of friends and family, we ate American food that was bad for us but tasted amazing, we went to Disneyland, and Max's high school band got back together for one giant concert in the park where we rocked until the sun went down (and the sprinklers turned on and almost ruined our equipment...)  I'll blog more about getting to know America again, but right now Max's brother's are building a  human train down the waterside with the lights off and it's pitch black.  How could I miss that?

What a Difference a Year Makes!

On April 22 Max and I hit our official year mark In Morocco. 12 months, 365 days, holy smackers. We have been away from home for a bit longer than that, but we are certainly still State Department babies.

A lot can happen in a year. Since moving here I have learned to drive A La Marocaine (AKA, video game death defying crazy driving) and come to think of chicken bone littered streets as totally normal. We have set goals for future home ownership (Do people own homes? They do! And so can we!). We became puppy parents (doting ones at that) and learned about the most fabulous moroccan dish that I once heard aptly described as a "chicken donut".   After only a few months in Morocco we received our next two  assignments in the Foreign Service (kind of three) and even though I’m just bursting, I cannot reveal our future homes just yet. Here’s what I’ll say – they are hot (in different ways) and by the sea :)

I started learning Arabic and I’m pretty serious about it. I am learning to watercolor, mostly from books and youtube videos of old women wearing kimonos, but it’s something. We have visited 19 cities in Morocco and 4 countries since moving here.

And over the last year we’ve decided to adopt. When we came to Morocco we were on a “thinking about babies” hiatus. Once you start exploring medical options things get real hairy and real expensive real fast. There are a gaggle of options ranging from the very simple to the totally invasive; the reasonably priced to the “mortgage your home - twice”.  It’s exhausting in every way conceivable (no pun intended) and it can take over your life. We took a break from everything and somewhere along the way things have changed for us in baby land.

We have always been excited about the idea of adoption, but it doesn’t make us less sad about not having biological children. I haven’t blogged much about this because it’s pretty heavy stuff. It’s primarily about loss and disappointment. Not that there isn’t something to be gained from those things – there most certainly is – I just didn’t want to share all the downs... and more downs so publicly. But adoption is about life, about joy and renewed hope. THAT is something I want to share.

Max and I have met with an adoption specialist a few times and my adoption notebook is growing every day. There is a grieving process that happens when you come face to face with your inability to bear a child, but there is joy in feeling that your love won’t be wasted, that there is a someone meant to be part of your family. And I don’t talk about things being “meant” very lightly. Quite frankly, I don’t believe in fate. I don’t believe that most things are “meant to be” and that God has a top secret plan for us to uncover.  I never felt strongly that we would overcome our infertility and have a biological child, but for whatever reason I DO feel strongly about the little whoevers that will enter our life in the nearish future. Well, not for a few years because of a certain “hot” post that doesn’t allow children - but I’ve said too much already!

For years I've lived in baby limbo land, keeping clothes that were too big "just in case" and not thinking beyond 9 months into the future because "who knows?".  But that's not living.  That's just waiting around and it's no way to go about your life. Making the choice to pursue adoption instead of countless and unending alternative options was the best, most liberating choice we’ve made in a long time.  To be the boss again, to call the shots and create your future instead of waiting for it to disappoint you.  It’s pretty sweet.

So, all in all, good year.  

Go For a Natural High

Enough of all that serious stuff!  Though, I will say that I woke up this morning with the phrase "Invest in your life" running through my head like an infomercial.  What the heck?  What does it mean?  Where did it come from!?

But anyway, a few weeks ago we took Mr. Buckley to the lovely seaside town of Essaouira.  First road trips are always monumental and Buckley celebrated by rolling in all the fish yuck we found on the ground.

And yes, perhaps he even rolled in some bird yuck. 

Ocean!  

Old portuguese fortress wall

I'm always shocked at how different one town is from another in Morocco. Essaouira is a hassle free beach bum kind of place with the freshest fish in Morocco (Don't tell the city of Safi I said that) and a Bob Marley-esq atmosphere. And I don't just say that because we were offered hashish as soon as we stepped onto the main square. It's just kind of...you know, groovy.  There aren't a lot of things to "see" - we spent our time walking around in the Medina, checking out shops, and tasting things that looked good. It is quite a dog friendly place and wherever we went, ere went our dog.

"The Maritime history of North Africa has always fascinated me"

    

Loosing Control

I discovered a few months ago that I'm a bit of a control freak.  We may have talked about this before, but who can remember?

When we moved to Morocco I became seriously obsessed with tracking and recording the many airlines that flew in and out of Casa.  Which airlines  flew to which European countries from Casablanca?  Marrakesh?  Which ones were cheapest?  Which left on Friday and returned Sunday night?  It got to the point where I couldn't go to sleep until I'd checked just one more flight, just one more website.  I don't remember the day it happened, but I was taking a moment to contemplate our latest overseas move and how we were coping or not coping and it occurred to me that my sudden loss of control over, well, almost everything in my entire life, had led me to become an obsessed flight checking list making lunatic.  But what kind of control was that really giving me?  I made a conscious effort to stop being a crazy face and I'm happy to say that I've almost kicked the habit entirely.  (Easyjet did stop their leg from Casa to Madrid which sucks, but helped me fight the urge to check it once a day...)

Living abroad means that you loose control over a lot of things - especially in less developed countries.  Grocery lists and carefully planned menus?  Forget about it.  You'll bring home what the grocery store decides to sell that day.  Accurately planning how much time it will take you to get across town?  Nope.  You'll be lucky if you're within 60 minutes of what you thought it would take.  Want to make friends with your neighbors?  Ah, but they speak Arabic and you've only learned the names of the letters of the alphabet.*  The myriad of different customs encountered while living in another country require people to completely re-think the way they do almost everything.  Dinner out on the town before 8:00?  Not in Casablanca.  Being in the Foreign Service comes with an additional set of control related challenges.  At least in the beginning, many people do not have much input as to where they serve or where they live.  Driving personal vehicles is not allowed at some posts and many times the nature of the job requires officers and their family to behave differently in the community than perhaps a student or someone working for a private company would.  (And boy have we felt that one!)

So you do things like get an international flight tracking addiction.

But it's good to have the illusion of control stripped from you.  That's what it is anyway.  We trick ourselves that we are completely in control because we craft carefully written grocery lists and come home with exactly what we wanted or we slap together swimming and then shopping and then painting and then yoga and then dinner and then family time back to back to back each day without a sliver of daylight in between  - but we've chosen it and so we must be in control of our lives, right?  But then you move away and all of the ways to spend your time, the things you had to choose from go away.  I can't pick up the latest adult education program from my local community college and plan my Thursday nights for the coming months.  I can't even rely on the shop around the corner to stay open from one day to the next.   And so I get to focus on the things that I actually can control - the things that really matter.  The atmosphere inside my home, the effort I put into my marriage, the order of my mind and the health of my body.  Without any of the familiar cultural markers I find at home I'm both more powerless and much more in control of my life.  It's a strange pardox that I really enjoy about living overseas.

So it's good.

But then it's bad.  Like when your doctor, who is very technically skilled but interpersonally challenged, tells you first that you might have a serious problem after doing an invasive procedure, but doesn't write it down and tells you weeks later that he doesn't know what you are talking about.

But we are trying to to be calm about that, aren't we Brooke?  ...and not revert to flight tracking, it's  a dirty habit.  I'll keep everyone posted as to whether or not I use the only French swear word I know when I see him next week.  (But I probably should learn some more in preparation, huh?)



*I'm actually a bit farther than that in my Arabic studies - very exciting! There are ways to take back control of your life overseas!
           

Good Thing I Like Puzzles

The direct Delta flight from Paris to Salt Lake City has an in-cabin-pet weight limit of 22 pounds but the Casablanca to Paris Air France flight only allows 13.2 pounds.  The Royal Air Maroc flight only 10.  Our dog alone, on a skinny day, weighs about 9.  

Those limits are Including his pet carrier of which there are a variety of choices, colors and weights to choose from. 

The SleepyPod has a great "expandble" feature but is clumsy and weighs over 5 pounds
The Bergen Comfort Carrier weighs only 2.7 pounds but is almost too narrow for the Buckly B to turn around.
The Bergen Deluxe Comfort Carrier weighs a little more and has one extra inch of height, but it's still pretty narrow
The Sherpa Original Deluxe Pet Carrier weighs 4.6 pounds but is by far the roomiest and most well constructed.

You know how I know?  I bought them all and I've been seeing which ones will work best for Mr. Big-End-of-the-Small-Dog-Scale.  He's too small for underneath the plane, but he's almost too big for tiny chiuaua mcEurope airplanes.  And Middle Eastern airlines?  Forget about it.  Did you know that dogs are not allowed in-cabin on several-here-to-remain-un-named Middle Eastern airlines, but Falcons are?  Falcons, people.  

Actually, for religiuos reasons dogs are not very popular in the Middle East and so I can understand that.  But falcons! In the cabin!?  

Or we could take Lufthansa through Germany which allows 16 pounds and then an American carrier which allows 20 pounds from Germany to Chicago to Salt Lake City, but that's a lot of airports and transfers for a puppy and his parents.

Or we could....  

You get the idea.

I'm not comlpaining, I'm just saying, it's a good thing I like puzzles.  This was actually the biggest reason I didn't want to get a dog.  But I have to say, and this is coming from a former non dog liker, I don't regret it for one second.  It's like something chemical happened in my brain and instead of saying "holy cow this is so complicated and I can't believe I'm putting myself through it" I'm saying "OK, how can we put all these pieces together so my fuzzy wuzzy tiny bestest dog can come to America on home leave and meet my family?"  If my year ago self could see me now!

We did fit tests, we did carrying tests, we put him on the scale with each bag.  We measured and thought about the foot room on each aircraft, we evaluated the potty situation on such a long flight and which carrier would cause the least in flight stress.  And still all four of them sat on our dining room floor, choice unmade.  

And then, in an act of supreme puppy wisdom, our little guy walked over to the biggest carrier, plopped down inside of it, and threw up.

And voila.  Our choice was made. 

Humans make things so complicated sometimes.