23 Days and a Wake Up

So many things to do. So many things to think about. Should we move into a hotel for our last two weeks? Should we remain in the house? What should we include in our express shipment? Should we mail a coffee pot, coffee, filters, and mugs to our new home? Should we mail our pillows? Should we buy a new car or used? Should I leave only seven outfits? Should I ever return to work? Should we sell the VW or scrap it? Should we attend our hail and farewell? Will our orders ever get drawn up? Are we really leaving? Twenty three days and a wake up and nothing is happening. All's standing still.

31 Days!

How do you know when it is time to go? When the most magical things have become ordinary.

Count Down!

Thirty two more days until my return and our Norfolk HRO still has not produced a line of accounting so my orders can be written. Without these orders I cannot ship my car; I cannot have my household goods packed and shipped. What exactly do the lovelies at HRO think happens? Our stuff magically makes the trip across the Atlantic? POOF! We're here! I am trying not to get stressed and not to think about it because when I do I start getting so angry. I will be so glad come November 20th when I NEVER have to deal with those people again. They SCREWED UP my husband's pay beyond comprehension, leaving us owing the government over $6,000. They gave us rat travel (a free round trip because we extended) but because they did not know the rules and did it wrong, we now have to pay back over $4,000. I finally understand the jokes made about civil service employees. One cannot be fired without an "act of congress' so they are just moved from position to position that they are not qualified for leaving death and destruction in their wake. How do I know? I would happen to be one of them!

Bumbling Along Toward...

Let me start this blog with a couple of facts:

1. I am a pescatarian (eating only fish, and some animal protein like milk, eggs, and cheese) who has the caveat in my "don't eat meat contract" that while I live abroad and we are traveling I will sample the local cuisine, meat included. This is a sampling, a tasting, just to know. I stopped eating meat for my health, not for humanitarian reasons.

2. Jenny is a complete vegetarian (nothing with eyes shall be consumed) who does eat some animal protein (eggs, cheese). She became vegetarian for humanitarian reasons. Larry is a vegetarian for health reasons.

Now begins the story of my bumbling.

Saturday was paella night at our house. We invited over a couple of friends, Tom and Christ. «Yes, his name is Christ. That is not a typo. The "i" is pronounced like the "i" in is not like the "i" in I.» My husband and I made homemade fiery chicken chorizo paella and homemade Sangria. Christ brought Proseco, a champagne. I am sad to say we never popped the bottle open. There was ample, or should I say TOO MUCH, scotch, sangria, and fino flowing. Tom brought over two wonderful delicacies: tortilla de patatas and pata negra, also known as jamón ibérico. A little background about both, the ham and tortilla not Tom and Christ. (1) Tom is Puerto-Rican so his tortilla de patatas (which he can say really fast and rolling his r's) was authentic and full of flavor. It was cooked to perfection with just the right amount of onion and garlic. Mmmm. My mouth waters just thinking about it. (2) What makes pata negra, pata negra? Well, I will only tell you about what I read on Wikipedia that was sort of confirmed by Tom. It is black Iberian pig that is fed only acorns. Italian prosciutto would be an equivalent of the way the ham looks BUT has nothing of the smooth, buttery flavor that I experienced when I took a bite. It was divine!

So Sunday, the 10th of October, we meet Jenny and Larry in Rome for lunch and to give them a mini tour of the Pantheon, some fountains, and the Spanish Steps. I was animatedly telling them about Paella night and start describing this melt in your mouth buttery ham. It was such a strange feeling at first when I looked Jenny in the face and there was nothing there. It was flat. I could almost see her biting her tongue, and the strained tolerance. At first I couldn't understand her lack of enthusiasm for something so delicious, then it struck me...humanitarian vegetarian. Oh. Oops. Quickly I changed the subject.

Renee foot in mouth smacking herself in the forehead: 1,000,001.
Tact, good grace, suave: 0

Thinking About Home

I have been thinking about home. In the four years and two months that I have been gone my vision of what American life should be has really become crystal clear. Now that I am returning in just two short months I have the following American comforts to look forward to:
*Neighborhoods
*A library in those neighborhoods, within walking distance preferably.
*Places to take a walk where it is not necessary to dodge dog poop at nearly every step, or used condoms, or trash.
*Birds chirping in the trees.
*Trees.
*Birds.
*Insects (besides mosquitos) like butterflies and ladybugs.
*A strip mall near every neighborhood.
*Walmart and Target close at hand.
*Barnes & Noble (or Border's) just a small drive away.
*A mug of steaming coffee.
*Carpet.
*Hallmark.
*Christmas music played everywhere from Thanksgiving up until January 1st.
*Santa Claus.
*Christmas Trees.
*Sidewalks.
*Thanksgiving. It is a strange sensation to celebrate a holiday and it is only your house celebrating. The whole world outside is doing its day to day thing. I never knew how comforting having just about everyone doing the same thing could feel. It makes me all warm inside.
*Little ones running around all dressed up on Halloween night.
*School buses.
*Shoulders and pullovers on the road.

Not A Critic

Normally, and I do mean this in the most general sense, I am not a critic of art, literature, music, etc. I do have my likes and dislikes, as most people do. Those certain things that draw us and others that repulse us, but I do not think that puts me on the level to be able to judge. Really, who can say what creative impulse is good? Having said that, I just have to say something here regarding a classic I just finished reading, Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë. Really, what is all the hubub, Bub? I read this book and for the most part felt a general disgust for the main characters Catherine and Heathcliff. A great love story? Perhaps his love for her was great. Her love is questionable, I think. And really, if a love is so great, would it turn you into such a bitter and hateful person as he turned out in the end. I don't know. Anyway, I always got the general idea that this book spoke of one of the greatest loves in literature and it left me wanting. ~shrugs~ Maybe I am just a cynic?

I thought, "The ant can't."

Today, as I awaited the arrival of my caffè macchiato while sitting outside in the warm sunshine and the breezy breeze, I watched an ant. It seems the small ants called in the big guns because this black ant was larger than the rest. He was dragging what looked like a flake from the crust of a coronetto. This "flake" as I call it for lack of a better word was 1 cm. X 1cm. He actually walked backwards, dragging his burden (or was it a treat?) behind him. At one point, he stopped, let go of the flake, and stomped away. I thought perhaps he grew fatigued, frustrated, and had given up. I think he thought twice about it and after about six inches, which I think would be the equivalent of an eighth of a mile in people terms, he returned to the tidbit. It must have been too sumptuous to leave behind. I watched for a few seconds as he tried first to push it and then tried to lift it over his head. He could not, so he resigned himself to the dragging and the walking backwards. Why at that moment did I want to help? Why did I want to relieve him of his burden by doing it for him? As this fleeting thought passed, my husband, burdened with our coffee drinks, sugar packets, and stir sticks, arrived and diverted my attention just long enough to lose the ant. I wonder if he ever made it to his hole, the one he calls home.