Ready to Write?

It's been almost a year since I have written. In the past year, so much has happened that I gave up on writing. Lately, I have been feeling ready to write again. I don't promise that it will be pretty. So, up early this morning (as I have been for the past 3-4 weeks), I decided to hop on and see what's what.

I almost woke my family up with my laughter bark. The last post I wrote here, except for the date, would fit today. Everything has changed and nothing.

It is true that we are actively grappling again with the stay or go question. Some things are different this year - I am working FT at the school (with a PT teaching load); the kids are older and (maybe?) one year off from a "better" transition year - if we stay one more year, Asher will finish 8th grade and Elia will finish 5th grade. Both these grades are transition points to the higher school - high school for Asher (that's just plain weird) and middle school for Elia; we have a new and quieter apartment with a pool; there are many changes in Admin at the school and it will take time to discover what ideas and excitement these new folks will move forward.

And, it's been a rough start for us this year. Starting a new job is just plain hard and busy. With my new teaching duties this year, there are a lot of systems that I interact with now that I didn't necessarily as a substitute. Not to mention the sheer volume of planning and grading - almost more for a PT load - at least if I had more classes, not only would the pay be more commensurate, but the planning would be more useful - if I taught the same subjects anyway. Ah - the life of the sub - breeze in, breeze out! :)

In addition, Asher was struck by a motorbike one morning while riding his bike to school; I got a persistent flu-like disease that has me totally feeling like I've been to hell and not-quite-back again; our apartment's hot water heater burst - all over our closet, leaving us for (4) days with very little to wear and a soon-to-arrive large electricity and water bill; we have the Invasion of the Ants and, now, if the last two days are any indication, a burgeoning cockroach population is making itself known; and, finally (we can hope), our washing machine broke.

"What do you think is the message?", said a friend to me one day.

Ummmmmmmmm..........

Do we stay or do we go now?

Our life for the past two months has been consumed by this question. And this song, by The Clash, just rolls through my mind on an almost daily basis. As the song continues, if "I stay there will be trouble..... if I go it will be double".

Although it is now only November, the deadline is fast approaching by which Andrew needs to declare his final intent to stay at SSIS and renew his contract for a third year. We keep talking about "these past two years", but the reality is that it has been 1 year and 3 months. While I was traveling in New Zealand this past September, Andrew received his "soft" declaration paperwork, due by October 1. So the second year had barely begun and we needed to start thinking hard.

While there are good and bad aspects both here and at home, the truth is, it's a mixed bag. Is that redundant?

There are basically three options.
1. Stay.
2. Go home to Oregon.
3. Try another International School.

Option 1: The easiest in terms of effort, staying means the kids stay in the same school - a good fit, really, for both of them. Elia has started swim team this year, is loving it and thriving because of it. She also was able to start taking ballet this year after school and continues to build herself a bustling hive of friends who keep her busy in the free time. Asher has found his niche at the MS and (except for the homework) is confident, working hard and enjoying himself. He has joined the Environmental Club, the Dragon Tech Ninja (mostly minecraft, I think) and just finished running track. A few weeks back, he was able to join other environmental club members in Singapore at an International Global Issues Network conference. His recent conferences show him to be kind, well-liked, well-spoken and a positive attribute to the middle school.

Andrew loves his job. His class sizes are great, his behavior management is getting rusty from disuse, he travelled to Indonesia this year with students on the Week without Walls trip, joined Asher in Singapore for the HS GIN conference, and attended a conference in Jakarta where he got to catch up with an ex-colleague from Oregon. He teaches International Baccalaureate (IB) Geography, which gives him two years to go into real depth into his subject and, in a developing nation, he doesn't have to go far to show his students geography-in-action. It is all around us, every day.

I have been plagued with homesickness this year. It could be the unexpected trip home with my mom after she had medical issues while visiting us, it could be the trip to see Rene in New Zealand, it could be that I don't have enough to do here, it could be that Oregon is just hard to beat in terms of all the things that help me feel grounded in life - clean air, clean water, good food, family and great friends, beautiful forests, a dark night sky, and sounds of nature putting me to sleep.

Option 2: Not without its difficulties. 35 - 40 student classrooms and behavior management for Andrew, schools for the kids, a job hunt in an uncertain economy for me, car shopping and a return to a car'd life.

Option 3: No sure thing. Could be better, could be worse. Could be more job opportunity for me, could be less. And, requires an immediate and extensive output of energy that neither of us have right now.

It's agonizing every day and, as we fluctuate between these options, we recognize that the mere fact of these choices is a  luxury. Every day we see and live with people who do not have these kinds of options within the country, let alone outside of it. We have had these amazing opportunities to travel and live in another country, with a people very unlike us on the surface, yet so alike in the depths of our humanity. It has truly been a dream come true and, whatever we do next, I hope that is where our memory lingers.

Suspicion

We hired a cook. Her name is Thanh. She prepares dinner for us four days per week, Monday through Thursday. She is friendly and warm, is an excellent cook, brings us flowers every Monday and, lately, has taken to painting Elia's fingernails for her in the neon colors that only an 8-year old can love. For Asher, she makes fresh juice and dessert - this despite the fact that we specifically asked her not to make dessert. Our thinking was that we would spend less money (less take-out) and eat healthier, fresher foods.

I think she's trying to kill us.

After two months, I believe that I can now say, quite easily, that I have NEVER eaten so much fried food in my entire life.  Our stomachs are clenching. our butts are filling out, our pores are oozing. Going through my daily activities, I am sometimes overwhelmed by the smell of french fries. A surreptitious sniff in my general direction confirms that it's me. My stomach is beginning to bulge over my waistline. I am developing a deep disgust of food. Sitting here at the computer, I can hear the oil for the night's dinner sizzling and bubbling, calling out to me from the depths.

My theory involves family genealogy, prior historical conflicts and personal wrongs never righted.

Whatever - I am off to get my cholesterol checked.

Happy No Water Anniversary

In honor of last year's welcome to our new home for which, as you might recall, our running water went out for 22 days (a mere 32 hours after moving in), our water has again stopped working. Almost exactly one year to the day.  But who's counting?!

This time at least we have been back for 3 days. And my mom is here with us to enjoy the experience.

Covering all the bases, the (very kind) guard obviously not on duty in his flip-flops, shorts and casual shirt, who Andrew reported the situation to this morning, came up to check our turn-on valve. We did check that last night. Next, he seems to be telling us that maybe we didn't pay the bill. This is a possibility since we have been gone for a little over 5 weeks. However, it does not explain the reason why there are also other people, on multiple floors, also complaining that their water is not working. Nevertheless, it is good to be thorough.

We can look out the window by the desk and watch the situation from the 8th floor. Five different people now have approached the area where the pumps are, put hands on hips, and stared. One person in very official looking dress of black pants and white shirt, went so far as to take off the "manhole" cover, look down into the hole, put his hands on his hips, and shake his head before putting the lid back on.

Andrew went for a bike ride. Upon his return, there was a person from the apartment complex management company who had a little English. Shaking her finger in his general direction, she says, "You. Wait one hour. "

This is actually better than last year when, for 22 days, we were told that the problem would be fixed in four hours.

Meanwhile, I've been back in Vietnam for 3 days and haven't had a massage yet? Gotta go. I think I remember a shower in that bathroom.....

Whose crazy, beautiful life is this?!

One problem with not keeping up with the blog is that, upon return, you might find that you are writing about the same themes. I had in mind to call this post "So Lucky". Blast to find that, not only have I already used that title, it was only 2 posts ago!

But, here I sit feeling so very lucky indeed.

We have been home in Oregon for 2 weeks now. All of us are soaking it up as fully as we can in hopes of retaining some essence of home to pull out on the hard days back in Vietnam. The colors and sounds and smells of Oregon zing straight to my heart's home in a way that no other place has yet to do. I long for this feeling of home for my children, while acknowledging that this living-overseas-adventure that we have undertaken, may negate that possibility.

And, it's not so perfect in Oregon either. We have been sleeping on a lot of floors. Asher threw up all over the bathroom on our first day at Cannon Beach. Heated floors - hmmmm. Seems like SUCH a great idea until someone barfs all over them. We sold all our cars before we left and so we feel a little dependent and guilty on the (very present!) generosity of others. Visiting our home in Estacada was lovely. The renters seem fabulous, earnest, and appear to be taking very good care of our place. And, our storage space is infested with mice and their residual droppings. Already, we talk about things like building an apartment into our garage, renting the same beach house every year for at least a week, buying a multi-plex in Portland and leaving one unit unrented so we could set it up as a home base to return to.

We have been gone long enough now, that we are also missing some things about Vietnam. I think and worry about our kittens daily. I can't believe that 2 weeks have passed without seeing or speaking or having dinner with the Thompson-Taoli family. I cannot visit a bookstore without thinking of my doctor-students and wondering both if they are doing their homework (reading a book in English and preparing a Book Talk), and if they might like an Oregon bookmark as a gift. Even on these sunny days, things don't dry here in 10 minutes.

Meanwhile, it is pretty perfect here. We have been blessed with gorgeous summer weather and friends, Rene and David Walker here at the beach. We are all sporting sunburns from days chatting on the deck, riding funcycles on the beach and scanning the near Haystack Rock for nesting puffins. We have been so very generously welcomed into the homes and cars and hearts of friends and family, feeling simultaneously as if we have been gone forever and have actually never left.

I think and hope that we all feel this tremendous gratitude that I am feeling for our life. We get these crazy, weird and beautiful experiences out in the wide world AND get to come home? It's a love-fest for certain.

It's getting hotter every day....

Picture the wicked witch, "I'm meeellllttting". Repeat in a high-pitched and screechy voice. Hold that image.

That is me.

It's getting really hot here. So hot, I'm thinking about getting a motorbike. So hot, we get sweaty taking a shower. So hot, the kids are begging to shower (two weeks ago they were whining because we asked them to shower once a week). So hot, I'm seriously thinking about breaking our lease so we can move to a place with a pool. So hot, we have become those people who close all the curtains and hide from the sun all day. So hot, I think I am buying an umbrella to shield myself from the sun. So hot, we go to the pool and lie in the shade.

How quickly we have acclimated. In the 9 months we have been here, we have gone from exposing every possible bare inch of skin (properly protected) to the sun with upturned faces to, well, locals. We don't drink anything without ice in it if we can help it (yes, that DOES include beer), we lounge around indoors between the hours of 10 and 3 (if we don't we need a day to recover), and we are getting to bed later and later as it is only when darkness falls that we want to be outdoors. It might still be hot, but at least the sun is not blazing down.

We are packing our sweaters for home and laughing. After a year of 90 degree days, we will need those sweaters, I am sure, in the cool 70's of NW Oregon.

Ice cream and big hats help keep us cool.

So Lucky

One of my new favorite phrases is "So Lucky". This is a phrase we hear a lot in Vietnam. For white skin, for having a boy and a girl as children, for blue eyes, for the time I crashed on the motorbike and only got a scrape,

My knee post-crash

for an envied new toy, for visitors who are able to come and see us. For some reason, although she seems to be using it more and more, this phrase really bothers our youngest.

I love it.

It's such a good reminder. Maybe not So much for the reasons it is directed at us for.

But - for health (knock on wood), for family and friends near and far,  for Estacada artists and their small works that we were able to pack to remind us that we are never far from home in our hearts. For Skype and Facebook, which are revolutionary in being able to feel connected even when you're half the world away, for renters who pay the rent, for this incredible opportunity which reminds us every day that we are, indeed, so lucky.

Frustrated Scavenger

Those of you who know me, know that I revel in turning someone else's trash into my treasure. Sometimes to the detriment of our garage, it's true.  I have been known to pull over and rescue bits of furniture from the side of the road when they have clearly blown off someone else's load. I have been known to put other people's things in our truck at the dump. I have been known to knock on people's doors to ask their plans for something that has been in their driveway long enough to make it seem like maybe it just needs another home. Mine. At home, in Oregon, three of my favorite pieces of furniture are scavenged- two of them from the side of the road. A little paint, a little effort and Wha-La!

In some ways, Vietnam is a scavenger's paradise. As mentioned in previous posts, everything unwanted goes to the side of the road. Glorious metal bits, perfectly good wood, chairs and pots, broken pottery just waiting for mosaic, bricks, doors, perfectly good baskets, pieces of glass. It's a veritable Rebuilding Center on every street corner. Even in our neighborhood. Even in our apartment building. I am still lamenting the bamboo blinds that our neighbors threw out a few months back. Surely they would have fit some of our windows....

Let me just mention that this is not necessarily a habit that my husband is particularly fond of. Secretly, I think he takes at least a little perverse pleasure in the beauties I create once they are done. That's what I like to think (and I am sticking with it). At the dump, however, he is not so crazy about providing the necessary distraction so that I can grab that "perfectly good fencing" that someone is throwing on the metal recycling pile. On five acres, I could kind of "hide" my finds. A shed here for doors and windows, a garden "ornament" there. My shop for bits and pieces of furniture or interesting wood bits.

In an apartment, it's a little more challenging. We already have a lot of landlord furniture that we don't really want or need. The extra dining room table, complete with 8 chairs, the table acting as a desk of sorts in Asher's room and the chairs scattered around higgledy-piggledy. The hideously ugly TV bench that even I cannot find any redeeming qualities in, now (mostly) covered with the Spanish flag and acting as the battleground for Asher's Playmobile fleet. The monstrous TV that requires two (very) able-bodied people to lift and so, continues to dominate our living room despite our backs being turned to it. Art that just (REALLY) isn't us. Fabric only goes so far. Vietnamese apartment bedrooms rarely come with closets. And, everything in the apartment has been properly inventoried, signed off on, and must be returned in some semblance of the same order in which we received it. We understand that - we have things at home that we left in our house and that we want back some day.

We, actually, are quite a sensation amongst teachers at our school because we do have a storage closet in our apartment. I have created a bench of sorts out of a couple of our extra dining room chairs to hold our luggage in the closet. Most people stack their luggage in a corner, giving rather an air of "I could leave at any time" feeling to the place. We also have three balconies. With the right accoutrements, these spaces could be put to better use. Maybe, could even hide a few finds.

Gotta go - surely there is some shelving out there somewhere.....

If I can just let go of the guilt of taking it away from someone else who might be able to fix it up and sell it for money to feed their family.

I miss Oregon

There are some days when I wonder what we have subjected ourselves to. This would be one of them. Things are fairly well developed here and so we can get in the groove sometimes and forget ourselves. And then, WHAM. Something comes along seemingly for the sole purpose of reminding ourselves that we are foreigners in a foreign land.

Today it's about environment and garbage. Air and food.

First, it is just a fact of life here that there is garbage everywhere. On the streets, on the beach. Here are some photos I took from the beach in Phu Quoc.

We were told before we moved here that everything was recycled. The reality of this is that trash is put out on the street for garbage pickers to go through. The pickers are private people who take bags and carts and bicycles and try to recover items that might be sold. Of course, not everything is wanted. So there are spots where the piles linger. And linger. And linger. And then there are the people who just drop trash as they walk because, the rationale is, someone else will pick it up. Sometimes this is true, sometimes not. And, of course it is the plastics and the styrofoam that linger.

At home, we separate our garbage Oregon style. One, we're in the habit. Two, we don't want the kids to develop the throw-away mentality. Three, we don't want people to have to pick through the muck to get to the good stuff. So we mostly feel ok about our trash. It's still hard to throw away food, however. And the food gets icky fast so we line our trash bin with?? You guessed it - plastic bags. Which are EVERYWHERE here. Where is my compost pile?

And the plastics. Aie. All this garbage ends up somewhere. Too often, it's the ocean. Harming sea life and turtles - my especial totem. Follow this link to read more about ocean trash and what one group is doing to study this problem. http://coastalcare.org/2011/04/its-official-theres-plastic-in-all-of-the-subtropical-ocean-gyres/

Some days it just all gets to me. The kids and I came home from school today. There was a nice breeze blowing up so I ran around the house opening all the windows to let the cool in. Five minutes later, I ran around closing all the windows. Across the busy road, in a schoolyard, someone was burning plastics. My eyes were burning and my throat itching. I don't want that air.

Then I think about the brand new mall built down the road that we visited recently. I could only stay for about 10 minutes due to the powerful chemical smells from all the off-gassing materials - paints, formaldehydes, plastics. Who are the store clerks? Young people. I made the joke as we departed that I wouldn't want to see their children, IF they are able to have them after chronic exposure to all those estrogenic materials. But it's really not funny. Already, there are generational effects from the US use of Agent Orange during the Vietnam-American war. Low birthrates and high rates of birth defects in areas where use of this chemical were highest.

Then I think about the food we are eating. And my cancer history. And what kind of toxic stew might be brewing in my life and the lives of my children.

Some days it's all I can do to stay in the room.

Memories of My Dad

It has been twelve years since my dad died.  The year 2000 was a big one for me. I sold a house, bought a house with my soon-to-be-husband, got married, got pregnant, started a new job and lost my dad in December.

This year, being without him, feels particularly poignant and fresh. Andrew and I have a friend in Oregon who recently lost her father to cancer and she has been upfront with her process over Facebook so we have been following his diagnosis, sickness, decision to not pursue treatment, his death and her grief.  This, in the same month as my father’s death.

As we are in a different country so this year, we did not have the choice to gather with the family in the same way during the holiday times. Being with the family year after year, in the same way, and at the same time somehow helps to ease the pain of my dad’s loss. Partly because we can see traces of my dad in the faces around us – my brothers and their children reflect different aspects of my dad whether it be looks or personality. We might not always speak of my father, but he is present and vital in the room through our history of him and with him.

I have vivid memories from the first few weeks after my dad’s death. Getting the 9:00 pm phone call from my mom after just climbing into bed from a long day at the hospital. The pit that grew so deep that sound could not be found. Throwing on my sweats to go pick up my mom so we could return to the hospital. All of us in his room at the ICU holding hands around my father’s bedside, me, my brothers, my mom, Uncle Bob and Aunt Jenny, Uncle Mike (who had just become my father’s last remaining brother), and my cousin Jimmy, whom I loved dearly as a child, but did not immediately recognize in the hospital waiting room as we gathered to pay our last respects. Writing a good-bye letter to my dad that I put it his pocket before his cremation. The viewing where I, after a long and solid history of running from rooms where dead people gathered, telling my brother that I wasn’t ready to leave my dad and my oldest brother joking that we could throw dad in the back of his pickup and we could run until I was ready to let him go. Laughing so hard at that vision, but knowing the truth that I might never be ready to let him go.

The first week after the funeral, driving out of the Fred Meyer parking lot behind a little old lady (86 if she was a day!), who could barely see over the steering wheel, had a cigarette hanging off her lip and was going about 15 mph in a 40 mph zone, and the rage that came over me in a second. I wanted to ram into the back of her car because HOW DARE SHE (still be living)?!  When my dad was not. Having to pull over until the rage subsided.

Driving away from the hospital after an ultrasound where I had found out that Asher was going to be a boy. I had called Andrew and my mother and, as I was driving, I was thinking of who else I could call. “Dad!” Pulling over to dial my dad’s number and only on the first ring remembering that he would not be there to answer.

Going home after planning burial arrangements and burying my face into my dog, Finnegan’s fur. The week before my dad’s death, I had shown up at his house with Finnegan after a trip to the vet where Finnegan was diagnosed with terminal cancer. A week or two the vet said, maybe a month. A week or two later, Finnegan was still here (she would stay with me until two days after Asher’s birth in April) and my dad was gone.

There are people in our lives that we will never be ready to let go of. And, yet, let go of them we must. We get little practices along the way. We go to camp, we go to college, we move out of our parent’s house, we choose different ways of life that make it harder to understand each other, we get married, we have children (and it starts over again), our children go off to school, we move out of the state, or to a different country. We get to practice, but that doesn’t mean we will ever be ready.

Phu Quoc, Hoi An and Hue, Oh My!

I can't believe it has been a month since I have written. I keep thinking about writing and have been collecting a list of subjects. I can't wait for a new camera so I can be more efficient with photos to supplement. Stay tuned for more visuals coming soon! The past month has kept us pretty busy. Asher has had a big project for school - Change Agents of the 20th Century. He focused on The Beatles and how they altered music history. I have been kept busy subbing at SSIS - 4th grade, 4 year-olds, and back in the middle school. Subbing continues to be fun and I am so grateful for this opportunity to explore all the different age groups. I am focusing in on the 4th through 8th grade range. Old enough to know what they are supposed to be doing, but still young enough to listen attentively and enthusiastically. I flirted with a PT art teaching job for the early childhood classes at SSIS, but found out this week that they offered it to someone else. It would have been fun and also difficult. The steady schedule and income would certainly have been nice, but hopefully they found someone who might be a longer term solution to this position, which I guess has been difficult to fill. Andrew has been through his first round of finals with his high school students. There have been Holiday extravaganzas and Staff parties and plenty of late nights. We are all looking forward to a little down time.

We are also super excited to see a little more of this Country that we are living in. Tomorrow, SUPER early in the morning, we fly on a little plane (trying not to think about it!) to an island off the south coast of Vietnam. Phu Quoc, "is everything a tropical island is supposed to be" (Lonely Planet, 2009). 70% of the island has been declared a National Park by the Vietnamese government and 90% of the island is forested. The rest is supposedly white sand beaches with the blue-green tropical waters that we have not yet seen off the coast of Vietnam. We'll probably visit the Pearl Farm, but other wise, we are looking forward to lounging and teaching the kids about the wonders of snorkeling.

Then we are back with a day to spare to await the arrival of Andrew's mother, Barbara. We are so excited to have our second visitor and can't wait to see her ---- and NOT just because she brings with her a suitcase full of our Amazon shopping! With Barbara, we will take some time to explore the history of Vietnam with a visit to central Vietnam. Hoi An and Hue have been the seats of power for almost all regimes claiming Vietnam. We'll travel back as far as the 2nd century and the Champa Dynasty at the ruins of My Son and visit the Imperial Palace, home to the last Emperor of Vietnam, who peacefully handed his reign to the French in order to avoid a war which would have devastated the people and country which he so loved. Also in this region is the divide between North and South Vietnam and one of the areas that was heavily fought during the Vietnam-America War.

We return to Ho Chi Minh City in time to bring in the New Year. In our last days with Barbara, we look forward to exploring some of the sights our own city has to offer - none of which we have yet done! Stay tuned for more pictures and detailed posts about our travels in the weeks ahead.

Gratitude

Last weekend, I was trapped in a taxi. I use the word "trapped" because there seemed to be a lot of complaining going on around me. I don't know if complaining is even the right word. Suspicion, maybe, or just a general air of "Vietnam is out to get me". It upset and disturbed me. I know we haven't been here long and I'm not saying that I don't understand how life here can be hard some days, but we are loving our experience here. I came home from this outing feeling heavy and burdened. In processing with Andrew later in the night after I got home, we agreed that if we get to the point where we cannot stay mostly focused on the good things about our life here, it will be time to move on.

A few days before this taxi ride, I was on the public bus. Struck by how lucky I was and wanting to make sure that I remembered this feeling, I had started a list of the things I love about Vietnam. This seems like a good time to share it.


Things I love about Vietnam

• How friendly and helpful the Vietnamese people are
• Trying to speak Vietnamese
• Extravagant thunderstorms with super sharp lightening and hard bursts of rain – especially when I’m indoors
• Sun, sun, sun
• Wearing tank tops and flip flops in the rain
•  Flowers in November
• Crazy, crazy traffic
• Riding my bike and walking most everywhere
• Not having a car
• Café sua da
• Cha da
• Ice
• Outdoor swimming - year round!
• Open air, open every day markets
• Tropical plants
• Starlight Bridge at the park near our house
• The public bus
• Good-natured bargaining
• Velvet and silk
• How diverse the kids’ school is
• Getting caught outside in a huge downpour, kicking up our feet in the insta-puddles and LAUGHING out loud
• Flocks of dragonflies
• Naming the Geckos in the house
•  Hanging our laundry outside every day
•  Kids saying “hello!” to us in English with great enthusiasm
• Beaches

Do I love these things every day and every moment (see crazy, crazy traffic)? No, of course not.  But,they are experiences that are new and different and valuable and I don't want us to forget them.

Yikes.

Andrew came home from an all-school meeting last night with the news that there are 11 confirmed teacher departures for next year and 14 more still "on the fence". Once we learned that the Head of School was stepping down, we were guessing that there may be more departures. Why not? A new Head is no more or less unknown than a new school, right?

But 25?? If all those people leave, that is 25% of the Faculty. Of course, we don't know anything. This could be a completely normal part of the cycle of things here in the International School World and we are interpreting it from our staid, Western point of view. But it sure seems like a lot. And last year, there were only about 8 openings. But maybe that's because people were in their initial 2-year contracts.

Whatever, we feel a little sobered by the facts.

Meanwhile, today I go for an interview with Family Medical Practice - the result of a blind resume send. Not completely blind, I suppose, this is the clinic where we have been receiving our immunizations and medical care since arriving in Vietnam. One day I asked the Pediatrician if she had any job search ideas for me and explained a little bit about my background. She said, "Send your resume in. You never know." So I did.

Next week, I have an informational interview with a woman that our Head of School knows who works for a Foundation to raise money for heart surgeries for Vietnamese children. And, I have just about finished my application for an on-line Masters in Information Science (Library) for an Australian University.

Who knows what our future will bring. It is unsettling AND exciting.

But we just got here.....

Believe it or not, people at school are having to decide now whether or not they plan to renew their contracts for the 2012-13 school year.

It started a couple of weeks ago with the Head of School sending out a letter announcing that he is resigning at the end of this school year for health and personal reasons. Whatever happens, this man has instrumentally altered the fabric of our family's life by hiring Andrew. We will forever be grateful to him - whether we continue to live and work overseas for these 2 years or for 20 more.

Last night, we found out that the Jackson Family, who has acted as our "buddy" since the interviewing process will also not be returning. We feel so sad by both of these losses (to us), decisions to the people making them.

And yet, this is a reminder that this is a part of this way of life. People come and go. Students leave as their parents are transferred, teachers and their children leave at the end of the school year. In some ways, it's a very transient life that we have embarked upon. In a year, we will be struggling to make this decision.

For now, we are healthy, we have a good home, we're riding our bikes and getting plenty of Vitamin D, we're having a chance to see Vietnam - a place we might never have come to without this opportunity, the kids are loving school, Andrew loves his teaching situation, and I am starting to explore options for myself.  It's not perfect, but we're here and we're happy.

There's a dog on our doorstep

This morning, Andrew woke me up.

"There's a dog on our doorstep", he says.

I wave my hand blearily, thinking I am still dreaming. I mean, did you read yesterday's post?!

Sure enough, there was a dog on our doorstep. A small, mostly white, cutest brown spots, warm brown eyes, dog with puppy teeth. And a collar. Must be somebody's, right? There was a HUGE thunder and lightening storm yesterday in the late afternoon. I'm thinking it got scared and slipped it's fence. Our lobby doors are always open and the stairwell is open so it must have just dashed in and kept climbing until there was no place left to go. Andrew found it when he went out to run stairs.

The poor thing was definitely skittish and a little trembly. He seemed to be favoring one of his back legs a little. I put out some water and cleaned up its poop. I tried to herd it down the stairs, he let me get him down to the 6th floor before he dashed past me back up to our floor (we live on the 8th). I tried to go first and call him down, no go. After every unsuccessful attempt, he would curl up in the corner between our door and the wall. So cute, really.

I would go inside and get ready for the day, but peek back out at him. By the time the kids were up, he was coming toward me when I called. I put out some water for him.

By the time I took the kids to school, he was letting me pet him and we almost got him in the elevator.

When I came back from school, he was curled up on our door mat. Awwwww.

Then I had a couple of phone calls. I checked on him once in the middle and he had ripped into his poop bag and had one of my shoes off our shoe rack - whoops. When I just went out to try and leash him up (with our clothesline) to take him for a walk, he was gone. I walked down all 8 flights of stairs and looked around the courtyard, no sign. When I barked at the Security Guard (communication, remember?), he waved an arm broadly.

I hope that means he has been found by those who lost him. I'm going to try and believe that. I kinda miss him....

Just when I thought....

The other day, I saw two big and hairy Huskies being walked down the street. I have been missing our dogs so much, I had a pang of "ugh (sock-in-the-gut feeling), WHY didn't we bring them?"

And then this: http://www.wordhcmc.com/news-latest/item/1829-thailand-rescued-120-dogs-bound-for-restaurants in the local equivalent of Willamette Week  (for you Oregonians).

We have also heard stories of dogs belonging to foreigners being stolen and ransomed. Once we were riding our bikes to school and we saw a Cocker Spaniel running loose. It was being chased by two men on a motorbike and only just managed to escape being flattened by a taxi. At the time, I thought the men were trying to collect their pet, but I wonder. Meanwhile, around the corner from our apartment, there is a pet shop selling fluffy, small dogs for 12 million vietnamese dong and up. The highest price I've seen is 20 million. This equates to a price between $600 and $1000 US dollars.

Most of the dogs we see that appear to be pets are small and easily transportable - think chihuahua, Llahsa Apso, Bichon Frisee, and other such breeds. And we do see a lot of dogs - in all parts of the city. Certainly on the ends of fancy leashes with collars heavy with Bling, but also at just about every hole in the wall establishment - regardless of how well appointed it seems to be. Of course, I have assumed that all these dogs are pets. For the most part, they do not appear to be mistreated and they seem well-behaved. But are they just waiting to be somebody's dinner? The thought makes me even more glad that I am staunchly vegetarian. But my husband and children eat meat. How would we know if they were being served dog? What does dog taste like? Is the penchant here towards small dogs a result of the fact that they don't have much meat on their bones or some other, less sinister, reason?

Having parted with all of our pets to make this move, we (especially Andrew) are not anxious to bring a pet into our home. And yet we miss the companionship of animals. This may be the first time in my entire life that I have not had some sort of animal companion. It certainly is for my children. I am tempted nearly every day. Lately, there is a young kitten with three legs hanging out in our courtyard. He is small and flea-ridden, but oh-so-cute. Ginger-colored with hazel eyes and an endearing sidewalk rub when I talk to him. Luckily (though I'm not sure whether it is more lucky for me or for Andrew), he appears to be getting fed and the missing leg is obviously healing from a neat surgery. Someone is looking out for him (her?).

It might be true that we will welcome a pet to our home while we are overseas. If we do, one thing is certain. It will be small enough to join us for the travel home.

Communication is everything.

On the days when I do not receive a call to substitute, my days are filled with errands and Chores. Chores gets a capital letter because, when you can't communicate, the doing of chores rises to a whole other level. A couple of days ago, I had my first "bitter" day. This is the first time I have felt while here that internal "everyone is out to get me" feeling that I do hear from some other expatriates.

The day started out fine. Then the washing machine broke. It really has never worked quite right since we moved in. The repairperson has been out a few times, but we have never understood exactly what is wrong. Because we don't speak Vietnamese and, so far, the repairpeople don't speak English. So we are trying to pantomime at what point the washer seems to be breaking down. What's needed is a computer like most cars have now. The repairperson could come in, hook up the computer, "read" the problem and fix it. All I would need to do is answer the door. But in the absence of that, I am trying to think up how to show physically that the washer fills with water, starts to agitate, stops before finishing the wash cycle, resets to 45 minutes, starts beeping and then drips out the bottom until all the water is gone. It's complicated. Can you do it? Sure you can. Go on, give it a try.

But now we have a household helper. A Vietnamese woman who works for another teacher is coming in to clean for us 3 mornings a week for a couple hours. But she doesn't have English and I still don't have Vietnamese so, really, the problem is still the same. Except that I decide to try to call the landlord myself. Usually Andrew does it. So I go to our file and pull out our rental agreement. We have a copy in English, but for some reason, I can only find the copy that is in Vietnamese. I take it to Ms. Hoang and try to get her to tell me who I should call. She reads the contract (now I am realizing that I do not know if she can read. Vietnam has a very high literacy rate (reported at 90 - 93%) so it is not too gross of an assumption), dials her phone and hands it to me. While my brain is saying, "Wait - I thought YOU would call", a man answers the phone against a very busy, industrial, noisy backdrop.

I think I confirm that it is Mr. Le, our landlord. His English is not sounding as good as it usually is, but it is noisy and he does not like to talk to me. In person, if I ask him a question, his face looks as though he has just taken a big bite of moldy bread while his gaze drifts as far away from my face as possible. Then there is a deliberate pause before Andrew re-phrases whatever it is that I just said, which then, miraculously, is understood and answered. If this were the dark ages, I am quite certain that he would determine that I have "hysteria". Just because I speak.

But, back to the phone call. After many long pauses, I ask if Vietnamese would be better. Whoever I am talking to I think says yes so I find Ms. Hoang and thrust her phone back at her. A rapid conversation in Vietnamese ensues after which she informs me via pantomime that someone is coming. I am already so exhausted that I can't think to ask when and I leave the apartment hoping that it is while she is still there.

I head into town to do some shopping. I need a watch on the days that I am subbing, I have a gift certificate for a British department store that is supposed to have some higher quality items (last time I tried to go, they were moving and not yet open in their new location) - I am really hoping for some sheets, and there is a grocery store that other teachers keep raving about that supposedly has good prices on US brand foods.

I did not go out with the proper spirit of adventure.

I came back wishing I had never gone out at all. I paid way too much for a watch just so I could pay a fixed price and not have to bargain. The British department store was super expensive ($50 usd) for a t-shirt and I never did find housegoods. The glitzy shopping center was having a promotion for 100,000 vnd vouchers for every 1 million vnd spent and I earned two of them with my watch, but then had to wait in line to receive them. As I am waiting for them, I'm wondering why, on earth, because I could leave and never enter this shopping center again and be really quite happy. And, I have not spent my department store certificate.

The grocery store had no lights and super narrow aisles. Prices were no better than the stores within walking distance of our apartment and the items were not what I would buy anyway. They did have Froot Loops. And I got to be escorted around the shop by a woman holding a flashlight so I had any chance of seeing what was on the shelves.  If I want Froot Loops and Pringles - that is indeed the place to go. Only proving that what I see in my head when someone says "Western" food and what other people see are very different. To be fair, I did get Maple Syrup and I found quite an impressive stash of Indian foods that will be worth going back for if I can't find anything closer. I do so want to learn how to cook Indian foods.

I grab the nearest taxi and head home where I promptly put an email out to SSIS staff offering my gift certificates to the first responder. Something good might as well come out of this day.

There is a knock on the door and a guy with a tool box comes in. Ah-ha, I think, the washing machine repairperson. He's wearing a uniform-type shirt, has a tool box, nods when I ask him if he's here for the washer and so I lead him off. He looks and starts to take things apart. I go back to work on the computer. He emerges after a bit with a part and says we need a new one, it will be 320,000 vnd, is that ok? Just before coming to me, I heard him speaking in Vietnamese with someone, who I assume is Mr. Le, the landlord. That is usually how it goes. At first a woman came along and supervised the workers when we called Mr. Le for a repair. Then sometimes Mr. Le himself would come, but there have been a few times when just the repairperson has come. So, I shrug and make some joke about how it's ok with me if it's ok with Mr. Le. He looks quizzical, but I just assume it is a language thing. He leaves and indicates he'll be back with the part. It's close to the time for me to go collect the kids so I ask when. Somehow, we make it clear that I have to go out at 3:00 and he'll have to come back after that.

When I leave to run and get the kids, he is downstairs chatting and laughing with the guard. I feel terrible, making him sit around and bike like crazy down to school, get Elia situated with her Girl's Club group and then turn around and bike like crazy back home. Somewhere during the bike ride, something starts to tickle my brain about how he asked me if the cost was going to be ok and I start to wonder just who this guy is. I am a little on edge due to some incidents that have been talked about at school in the last few weeks. A teacher couple had their house broke into while they were upstairs asleep, a friend had someone fly by on a motorbike and try to grab her purse, and there have been a couple of incidents of an attempted abduction of an International School student in another District.

Meanwhile, our security, both at school and at our apartment has recently changed. At school, it is all explained, but at home, we have no idea why. We just know that the guy we have come to know and feel comfortable with is suddenly gone and this new guy is on the scene - a little brasher, and much less helpful. We have received notice that our maid must register with the new security and have an ID card issued. Why do I feel less safe?

All this is in my head as I get back to the apartment to find the repair guy yakking it up with the Security Guard. He follows me up in the elevator and goes to work. While he is on the back porch, I surreptitiously move my purse and put some money in my skirt pocket - the 320,000 vnd he mentioned earlier, plus just a little extra. He finishes, appears to have replaced the part he said needed to be replaced and tests the machine.  I say my thanks and usher him to the door, barely able to wait until I can shut and lock the door behind him, when he turns to me and asks who will pay. I make some remark about Mr. Le?? The landlord?? He looks at me somewhat apologetically. I ask him if he has an invoice? No.

It hits me in the gut. I REALLY have no idea who this guy is. He is not from Mr. Le. I ask how much. He says 320,000vnd. I quickly get the money out of my skirt pocket, pull out an extra 50,000 vnd and tell him it is for all the time he had to wait. He makes some remark about how maybe I can get the landlord to pay me back. No, I say, probably not without an invoice, thank you, thank you, bye-bye, shut, LOCK. Phew.

The washing machine is not fixed.

I freak.

In telling Andrew about the day later, I feel so grateful that it was fairly benign. I mean, really, I don't even have enough ability to communicate to know if I have been taken advantage of. All I really know is that I am out 370,000 (about $17 usd) and that the washing machine is not fixed. At my worst moment, I am thinking it is all a plot in which Ms. Hoang is involved. Andrew, of course, feels awful because I asked him days ago to contact Mr. Le about the washing machine.  We have to keep coming back to the fact that Ms. Hoang has worked for this other teacher for 6 years now and came with a very high recommendation. We'll try to do some talking through interpreters about who she called and where he came from.

Andrew texted Mr. Le and "someone" is coming.

Rosh Hashanah, Part 2..... FINALLY

So there we were, in the lobby of the Hotel Continental, Asher doing his broken body routine and Elia screaming her head off. The lovely, older couples sitting across from us get up and move off (heavens knows why?!). A man comes in, spies Elia's kippah, takes two steps toward us and starts spouting Hebrew. Which none of us speaks. I stand, trying to unpeel Elia from behind my back and start giving him directions in English to where the room is (and now that I have been to services on Kol Nidre, I know that this man is the Cantor and, therefore, most probably, was not needing me to direct him toward the room).

He says, rather brusquely, "Oh. You don't speak Hebrew." Then turns on his heel and moves off. I'm thinking we can still make it out the door when a youngish woman and her husband, obviously Orthodox come in the door with their children. She is smartly dressed in a white dress (barely below the knee) and the highest black heels I have seen since the 1980's. She is sporting a mane of big, fluffy, long black hair. She is DRESSED. She rattles off some Hebrew in my direction. I'm still trying to unpeel Elia so that I might be ale to stand straight and I must be looking at her with a combination of great relief - here is another woman showing some leg, AND she has two young boys with her, and a look of extreme consternation.

"Oh", (rather brusquely), "You don't speak Hebrew" she states sadly.

"No", I say. "I'm sorry."

"You're from America?"

"Yes."

"It's ok", smiling wistfully, "You Americans. None of you speak Hebrew."

I smile and nod, my instinct to be offended, but really, how can I be? I have no one to offer to prove otherwise. We talk a little more and ascertain that they have met Andrew.

The whole while we are exchanging pleasantries, the husband, all in black, round Orthodox hat, white tallit peeking out from beneath his jacket, is standing six steps back. I can tell he is listening and his body movement is engaged in a forward manner, but his feet are anchored. Their two young sons, dressed in exact miniature of their father, are running excitedly around the room. I am trying to introduce Asher and Elia and myself as a Vietnamese nanny comes in the door, pushing a stroller. The woman turns and says, "This is our youngest."

And this is when it hits me. THIS is the Rabbi and his wife. There will be no sneaking out.

And so it goes. I successfully anchor my arm to my side, going against all natural instincts to reach out to the Rabbi for a handshake. Too late, I have already done so with the Rabbi's wife. We follow them into the room, where it is now us, the Rabbi and his wife, and the Cantor. Elia tries to engage the little boys in play, but they are laughing at the fact that she is wearing a kippah. I try not to clutch the Vietnamese nanny's arm too hard and have a little internal, ironic laughter about the fact that I am more sure of a warm reception from her than from the current population of Jews in the room. Asher sits down and promptly devours the apples, honey and small plate of "appetizers" - later to be ritually blessed by everyone else in the room as directed by the Rabbi.

At candle lighting time, Asher insists on lighting a candle and then promptly unintentionally throws the matchstick across the table as he is trying to shake out the flame. Neither I nor Elia cover our heads when we light candles.

More people come in and suddenly the room is full and the evening begins. Just as the Rabbi is about to open with the blessings on the meal, there is a loud WHOOSH and smoke and flames erupt in the back room from whence the food has been coming. The Rabbi runs back, things calm, there is a little relieved laughter from all of us and off we go once more. Except for the individually sized, round challah, there is nothing that anyone in my family will eat. We do meet two young women who are here for a couple of months as part of a college program and have some interesting conversation with them. After the blessings ("whoops", says Asher, I think a little proudly), even more people join us.

Note to self: Ah-ha. The non-religious Jews show up after. And no one seems to mind.

The After group includes an older Vietnamese woman who sits across from us with two of her relatives. She seamlessly speaks to them in rapid Vietnamese, switches to English to address us and the college girls, and, to all of our astonishment, turns and addresses the Rabbi in fluent Hebrew. After talking with her more, she is here to check on her businesses (real estate). She met her husband, an Israeli, in Vietnam, converted to Judaism, and they have been living in Israel for the past 8 years.

These stories should not surprise me anymore, but they do. The range of people who are here and where they come from and the languages they acquire along the way boggle my mind. I have a new friend who is originally from Honduras. She has lived in Honduras, Europe, America, and now Vietnam. Her English is better than my Spanish and now she is taking Vietnamese. There is a 3-year old at school (Father is from Cuba, Mother from Vietnam), she speaks Spanish, Vietnamese, and now is learning English, quite well, I might add, at school. We have no excuses! Family language lessons are in our very near future. I am thinking Vietnamese and Hebrew.....

Rosh Hashanah in Ho Chi Minh City or, Laugh WITH me, not AT me

Wednesday night the kids and I trekked into the Continental Hotel in Ho Chi Minh City for Rosh Hashanah dinner sponsored by the Chabad Vietnam.  This despite, the fact that I realized (hindsight being what it is), that in my exchanges with the Rabbi, I, in expressing my concern about payment, had repeatedly asked if I could pay at the dinner. They had a whole online system set up for payment, but it required you to use a Visa. The only Visa we have is tied to our US bank account and we don't really want to use it. Since we have no money (to speak of) in the US, we have to transfer money there to pay it - costing fees, time spent in line at the bank, etc. So, I really wanted to pay cash. Which I'm sure would be acceptable. IF it wasn't a Holy Day. The Hasidim, you see, don't use money on Shabbat or other Holy Days. It being FORBIDDEN in the Torah and all.

I laid out my clothes ahead of time. Skirt and tank top. It's hot here, maybe I've mentioned. Whoops, I think - uncovered arms, not such a good idea. Which, of course, is when I realize that I have repeatedly tried to insist that the Rabbi take my money on a holy day. Quick email off to our home Rabbi to unburden myself of my errors. Realize that she may be just as horrified and disown me. Realize that maybe I better not mention that the Rabbi in our home congregation is a woman. Almost give up the whole endeavor in the face of trying to keep all these contradictions straight. Resolve to carry forward. Carefully select the children's clothing and iron everything in preparation.

Gather kids from school. Talk (again, we have been talking about it a little bit all week) about the differences we might experience - this as much or more for myself than for the kids. Get home and get dressed. Elia gets dressed in a dress with short sleeves, puts on her bright pink, capri pants with rainbow peace signs all over them. She very clearly points out that they cover her knee to show that she is thoughtfully trying to play the game. I decide I can live with that. Meanwhile, Asher is throwing a fit in his room because I picked out his one pair of long pants. He will die of heat exhaustion he says, if he has to wear those pants. Too bad, I say, put them on. He SLAMS his door, crying and sobbing. Elia comes to me with Andrew's kippah (of course, worn only by men in the Hasidic world) and asks for my help clipping it on to her head. That way her dad can come with us.

 Asher stomps out of his room wearing his blue, striped shirt that I carefully selected and pre-ironed and a brown, plaid pair of shorts.

I decide to let go of the Kippah in favor of the fight over the long pants. In response to me telling Asher that he MUST put on his long pants "or else", he says, "Or else WHAT? We won't go?"

I mean, really, who is this child?

"No" I say, "We are going. I don't know what the 'or else' will be. Because, really, I didn't think an 'or else' would be needed. And REALLY, is this how we want to be approaching our new year together? I know it's hot here. Look at me - do you REALLY think I want to wear a long-sleeve jacket? No. I don't. But I am wearing it out of respect. Because that's what you do when you are in someone else's home."

ouch.

STOMP. STOMP. SLAM.

Finally we're all dressed. I bribe the kids out the door with a promise to stop at Ga Ran Kentucky (yes, it is who you think it is) for popcorn chicken. A little protein before we go has to be a good thing, right? Can't hurt, might help. Asher throws another fit because he can't have a sandwich -they are pretty gloopy and they will be eating in a taxi. More crying, lip pouting and this in public! I am paying now, I tell you what, for the fact that he NEVER had tantrums as a child. I am so ruining his life and it is starting right here on Rosh Hashanah. This is just the beginning and I am already exhausted.

We get the chicken and catch a taxi. Traffic is pretty smooth, for a change and we actually get to the Continental Hotel terrifically early. Early enough that the Information Desk doesn't know who we are or why we are there. All attempts - Chabad Vietnam? Jewish group? Rosh Hashanah? Jewish New Year? Happy New Year? - are met with blank stares and quizzical looks. The third employee summoned finally consults the schedule book and manages to say the rabbi's name in a form that we can recognize. I practically leap over the counter in recognition, having begun to doubt myself that I have the right night and wouldn't THAT just frost my cupcake?

The room is still being set up by the Vietnamese staff and nobody official is there yet. It being somehow an hour before the dinner is set to start. Hopeful that I can pay my money before sundown, which according to the Chabad website is 5:32 pm, I want to linger until someone Jewish looking comes. I contemplate leaving it on the table outside, but my worries about the rabbi forever thinking we ate a free dinner stop me. The kids are bored in about two minutes. Having never read Graham Greene's, The Quiet American, they are not sharing my awe at the architecture and history of the Hotel. They want to go outside. So we go.

Elia wants to go shopping. Elia can't go shopping without wanting everything in sight. And I am still spent by the pants and the money and the taxi. I am SO not going into services with shopping bags.

We go towards a park that is about a block away and sit by a fountain. That's good for about 5 minutes before they are bored again. I try to get them interested in a "spy the Jew" game, but they are having none of it. We get up and start walking through the display of interpretive signs about environmental initiatives around Ho Chi Minh City. I try to engage them in the signage. So not having it. Until we find the Dam Sen Waterpark sign. And then it is all about where is it and why haven't we gone there yet? I very cleverly do not let on that I have know about this park since February so we can extend the conversation with speculation about the where and the why and the how-do-you-get-there and who-can-we-ask's. That takes up 3 more minutes.

We see a bunch of tourists taking pictures of a fancy building across the street so we decide to investigate. Asher gets yelled at by the local police for something. We're not sure what. Walking on the stairs? Having weird hair? Being white at a National Monument? After a group of boys who are trying to take a photo on the stairs also get yelled at, we decide with clarity, "Ah". It's for being on the stairs. Well, or for being a boy.

"Hey", I say enthusiastically, "let's walk around the block and see if we can figure out what this building is."

"My pants....." Asher whines.

"NO!" Elia yells. "My feeeeeteet," she whines.

I keep walking and smiling, hoping no one is noticing my ill-behaved children. In a dark alley behind the building, we decide that it's the Opera House. The kids are unimpressed. We drag around the block and return to the lobby of the hotel. Asher is by now scuffing his shoes along the floor and flops into a chair like the boy with no bones, his head hanging down over his knees and making not-so-small groaning noises. Across from us on another couch are some older, white people speaking English. I smile politely, trying not to interrupt while surreptitiously trying to crane my neck to see if the man is sporting a kippah behind his head. One of the women tries to engage Elia in conversation. Elia groans disgustedly and throws herself behind my back, bonking her skull on one of my vertebrae. "OUCH", I erupt. Elia bursts into tears, rubbing her head as though it's all my fault. Asher looks up briefly, before flopping over his knees again (with no small amount of dramatic flair) and groaning in an exaggerated fashion.

I so wish I was kidding.

It did get better from there. Sort of. More on that in the next post.

Middle Age

You know you are a middle-aged, white woman when you move to a foreign country and every time you get a haircut, you end up looking like Hillary Clinton.