Who Has Time To Think of a Title?

I do not have time to post. I only have time to stress.
This is what I have done this week:

• Ordered new glasses and sunglasses (prescription). Yes I had all year, theoretically, to do this. No I didn’t do it until Sunday afternoon, so that there is a small possibility that they won’t be in before we leave. Sigh.
• Still not gotten my ring sized. It is a size and a half too big. I have already lost 2 wedding rings in the 18 years we’ve been married; wouldn’t a wise woman get this one to fit? You would think.
• Spent a fair amount of time drinking Heather’s coffee while we snatch moments to talk; being late to places as a result.
• Gone to a going-away party for myself. Sorry you weren’t invited. It was fun though.
• Bought new tennis-shoes for the twins
• Decided, after much time looking, that surely we can just get them new sandals in Morocco
• Decided, after much stressing, that I guess we can take out some books and pack school clothes instead. Who wants to send me books? (Shameless, I know)
• Bought new t-shirts for all the children. Several. Also, one pair of shorts for Elliot, who has managed to ruin the only other 2 pairs he has with chlorine bleach. Sigh.
• Checked temperature averages for Rabat, again. I just can’t believe it, after Nouakchott. Doesn’t it seem freakishly cool to you? Me too. Maybe all my shopping is wrong.
• Gotten stressful emails. The people who were going to meet us and our 10 suitcases plus many, many carry-ons just wrote and told us, guess what, they can’t. Maybe we can get several taxis to take us between cities, it was suggested. There is no way we can take the train with this much luggage. But taxis are small and we are large (I mean, us with all our cases) and it is another wrinkle. At least we’re never bored.
• Stayed up late pretty much every night, talking to Heather and Paul. We love them so much.
• Gone to see “The Dark Knight.” It was fun. Not bad. Dark, yes. I told Elliot, who counted the days till it was released and then was disappointed when we said not now, that it is basically an R movie and he can see it when he’s 17. Which I thought was nice of me.

Our to-do list is getting shorter. It includes some fun things like going to see a new baby, delivered by my friend Maggie on Tuesday and weighing 10 pounds! That’s as big as both my twins put together, so I can’t even imagine producing that at one time. I can’t wait to meet her.
In other happy news, I got an award! Laurel at Mamasphere (who I have only just discovered and this is why you should leave me comments, people! How can I know about your blog if you don’t tell me?) kindly awarded me this award. Thank you! I can’t tell what it is; can you? But I’m very honoured, even though I have no intention at this point in my life of passing it on. Eventually, insha’allah, as they say where we’re going in just a few days now.
Please continue to tell me what you would do if you had only a couple of days left before you moved.

And here’s the award:

The rules are:

1. To accept and show the distinct image

2. Show the link to the blog from which you were given the award

3. Choose 15 blogs to give the Darts Award (Premio Dardos) yeah right….

News from the North

Sunlight filters down through shades of green; pine, birch, maple, fern. I’m sitting on the couch looking out the window, next to my friend Mary, who’s feeding her baby. Round us the children swirl, demanding trips to the park, to the woods, picnics and lake visits. We’ve spent the last week traveling, last-minute visits to family and friends. We saw my brother, took my mother on picnics and to the mall to people-watch, stayed up late night after night just chatting and catching up.

We leave this country soon. It’s been very strange, returning for a year and knowing it was temporary, to this place that in spite of our travels we still call “home”. We tried not to settle in, not to put down roots, but to a certain extent it was unavoidable. And so this feels a bit of a wrench, this move. Everyone feels a variety of conflicting emotions–excitement, concern, apprehension, sadness, joy.

We live out of suitcases, knowing for certain where nothing is, only that it’s there in one of those cases. We say goodbye to forests and trees and houses and people. Right now, we’re visiting friends in Bellingham, meeting their new baby and getting reacquainted with their child. Earlier we stayed with a family of 3 kids living far out in the country, a peaceful place guarded by tall firs, passing boats on Puget Sound still audible although not visible.

I love visiting families. One boy showed us his room. “It’s not as clean as it should be,” he informed us. The twins love babies; at one house, Abel puts the baby in her little swing and reads to her earnestly in French. Elliot carries a 5-year-old across the little stream in the woods behind the house.

We’ve been without internet all week, until today. Tomorrow we head back down to Portland, stop by to see my mother one last time, before we fly across the world.

If you had one week left in America before you moved back to Africa, what would you do?

Goodbye, Purple Rap Candidate

Donn and I have been spending quite a bit of time at Barnes & Noble lately. He was given a $25 gift card as a thank you for some work he did, and for some reason wouldn’t give it to me.
I have explained to him that I’m sure the nice people at the airlines won’t mind if our suitcases are overweight. Airlines are casual about these things, I tell him. But he won’t be convinced, and is really adamant about No More Books.
While we were there, he was perusing photo books he wanted and didn’t get (he’s nothing if not consistent), and music CD s that were too expensive, and I was browsing and adding titles to the mental list I keep yet always manage to forget if I‘m in a library or actually have money in a bookstore. I came across a book called My Mercedes is Not for Sale: From Amsterdam to Ouagadougou…An Auto-Misadventure Across the Sahara” Fascinated, I picked it up. I flipped through, found the chapter on Senegal (called “All Africans are Cheats”), went back a bit knowing the previous chapter would be on Mauritania which borders Senegal to the north, and sure enough, found it in the chapter titled “Heart of Darkness.”
This guy HATED Mauritania (in case the chapter headings weren’t clues). I can’t quote him exactly, but he went on and on about how dusty and ugly and backward Nouakchott was, and how terrible the driving was. (Actual quote: Drivers there fear neither God nor man.) Considering that this guy drove from Europe all the way down to Benin or Togo, through many African countries, and that he singled out Mauritania for traffic comments, makes me feel somewhat vindicated in my own complaints. Now do you believe me when I said you had to experience it to be able to even imagine it?
Mauritania can be hard to love, with the exception of those remarkable individuals who thrive on sandstorms and being cheated by random strangers. I have added this new book to my list of things written about Mauritania in English, mostly travel books by people who visited most of the North African and Saharan countries, all of them negative reviews. That’s one of the reasons why I want to write a book about our experiences there. Yes, there are a lot of things to dislike; the dust, the desert, the trash, the habit the general populace has of viewing the streets as their toilet, and squatting down right in public wherever or whenever they feel the need. But there’s a lot more to the country; there are treasures lying just below the surface for those who take the time and interest to find them. The warmth and hospitality of the people; the pace of life where a friend takes precedence over anything; the determination of my students to succeed in spite of the odds stacked against them; the fascination of having a glimpse into a culture that has changed very little since the time of Abraham–all these things are there and available to discover.
Mauritania has been in the news this week. There was another coup, and the country’s first democratically-elected president was deposed in favor of another military junta. Coups seem to be a habit in Mauritania; in our 6 years there, we experienced several coup attempts and one other successful one. I have written of this here and here. Now, the “Purple Rap Candidate” is gone and there’s yet another stern-faced guy in camouflage taking his place, promising elections, promising transparency and proclaiming that this was necessary for the good of the country.
According to reports, the streets are calm. One article mentioned people joking in the airport, which made me smile as we made many of our own jokes during various coups and coup attempts. We’ve heard from friends, who report that their lives are continuing as normal under the wide and desolate desert skies.
When you lived for a while in a place, it will always hold a place in your heart if for no other reason than the place it holds in your own personal history. The patina of time adds a luminescence to even the intensely negative times, times that were fiercely experienced yet reluctantly lived through. Our memories of Mauritania hold plenty of those times; the murder of a close friend, the uncertainty that permeated our lives during the first few weeks of the Iraq war, the 3 weeks of sandstorms, triple-digit heat, intestinal parasites and camel hump dinners we endured one summer in a desolate desert village, the locust plague, the constant dishonesty and corruption we encountered. But there are many good memories too; beach barbecues, cool evenings in our gazebo, desert camping trips lit by a million distant stars. Times with friends when we made connections that transcended barriers of nationality, religion, worldview. Connections made over newborn babies, over feasts, over shared language trials. There’s a lot more to Mauritania than frequent coups, sand-filled meals, suspicious strangers. There are friends there, and for their sake, I wish this country peace, safety and prosperity.

Who are the Transients in YOUR neighbourhood?

Question: Can one typical American family of 5 fit everything they might need to live in another country, minus the stuff they keep leaving in friend’s garages all over the world, in 10 suitcases?
Please discuss and offer suggestions.
I’ll give you a hint. Before you attempt to answer this question, find out if any of the above-mentioned family like to read. Or like Legos. Or like heavy photographic equipment. These will all make a difference.
Me, I want to be a 13 year old boy. NO! I didn’t say that! I would hate it, in most ways. I’m just a little envious of Elliot, who on Tuesday packed one suitcase, got it in under 50 pounds, and is done. It has his board games, his books, a couple cool little items. He doesn’t care if I bring any of his clothes. He will buy a new soccer ball there. Abel’s carrying the GameCube in his carry-on. Life is simple, and he doesn’t quite understand the agony and sweatiness of the grown-up part of the family.
On the other extreme are the avid readers, the Sick Ones, the ones who think they need to bring 6 different books in their new laptop case/tote bag so that they can decide what to read based on their mood at the time, although a practical person could pretty much know ahead of time what sort of mood she was likely to be in at 3 a.m. Also, the Sick One realizes that the more books in the carry-on, the more books make it to Morocco. I’m not stupid. Ilsa, on the other hand, wants to not only bring piles of notebooks with only half the pages blank, but wants to bring the notebooks she made herself out of scrap paper. Also the painting of the horse that she did at art camp, although our recycling is full of horse paintings, and this one is, in my eyes, nothing exceptional. The realities of an international move continue to elude her. And don’t even get me started on the twins’ stuffed animals!
In brighter news, we did manage to get through all those berries. I made pies, Ilsa made muffins, we ate berries on cereal and ice-cream and by the handful, and we powered through. In spite of how I look after helping to eat all those pies, I am ecstatic to report that, according to a borrowed scale, I’m down to 113 pounds. Of course that same scale also tagged me at 168 pounds, but that was earlier. If I’m to be completely transparent here, I must say that the scale never gives the same reading twice, which should make things interesting when we lug our 10 suitcases up to the airline counter to check them all in. But I like living on the edge. My case is either 22 or 67 pounds, and we’re allowed 50 so we should be okay.
We have even gotten someone who has agreed to take all our stuff–couches, TV, beds, dressers, etc. Apparently, a friend of a friend knows someone who just moved here from Australia with 10 suitcases and they want our furniture. I’m not making this up!
The furniture starts going out tomorrow, and Monday we’ll move most suitcases to my friend Heather’s, where we’ll stay for the last couple of weeks. Tuesday we clean (want to help?) and say our last goodbyes to this house and neighbourhood. It’s been fun, but I knew going in that it wasn’t going to last.

Spanish? Finito

Well I’ve learned some Spanish this year in spite of myself. Tonto means idiot. Silencio means PLEASE BE QUIET RIGHT NOW. Hasta la vista means hurry the view, I believe.
On our summer vacation, we did the following:
Spanish.
More Spanish.
A whole lotta Spanish.
We did Spanish till our eyes crossed. We learned the names for many animals and colours; we practiced rolling our rrrrrrs. About the best thing about it was that, since we’re out in the California desert, it was good to stay inside during the day, dropping our h’ s and hiding out from the brutal, baking sun. And when we’d finished, in the cool of the day, we’d go swimming, plunging into the turquoise water and letting the conjugations of the verb hacer just float right away, which, yes, meant we had to learn them again the next day. At night when I lay in bed, I would hear Spanish words and intonations floating through my mind, without understanding them. (Don’t panic: this happened to me when I was first learning French too.)
On Wednesday, we finished the last exam. We posted it to France. And then we went straight on to see the new Indiana Jones movie, then took the kids out for ice-cream. We’re on vacation! (blah blah except for Arabic blah blah mutter)
Last night, I had the first of what I’m sure will be many CNED nightmares, but at least on waking I knew it was but the stuff of which dreams are made–all in my head.

So, you want to know, what did I think of the new Indy movie? It rather reminded me of the newer 3 Star Wars movie–more emphasis on special effects than on plot. The acting was sometimes stilted. Parts of it were downright silly and made absolutely no sense, such as why the red ants were eating some people but then just magically vanished when it was time to move on to something else. Also, I wondered how present-day South Americans would feel to learn that their great architectural past was provided by aliens, not by their ancestors. Teensy bit racist, anyone? But in spite of its flaws, it was still a fun movie. I’d give it a C, if I still gave out grades, which I don’t since I’m on vacation now (see above).

Yesterday, the grandparents took us all to the San Diego Zoo, which would like you to know that it is world-famous and more than just a zoo, also a research and breeding facility. It was a great, but exhausting, day. The weather was perfect; sunny but not too hot, with a refreshing breeze. We tramped all over, saw lots of animals, and took lots of pictures. Including some of camels! These were a different kind of camel though; they had 2 humps and hanks of hair hanging off them.

I’m not going to post any more of Donn’s until I figure out how to add a watermark, as I’m tired of finding pictures stolen from my blog popping up unattributed on other people’s sites. In an attempt to show you some of mine, I have spent over an hour now deleting and reloading software and sizing pictures and trying to upload them, but wordpress is apparently having issues. I will try again tomorrow.
Today, we are preparing for tomorrow, which is the family celebration of my in-law’s 50th Wedding Anniversary. It’s low-key, a fun family barbecue and swimming party (how red can we get? Any guesses?), and then for their actual anniversary, in August, we’re sending them on a little cruise, just the two of them. It’s what they wanted: no big parties, nothing too formal. Ok by me, although I’ve already let Donn and the kids know that if we make it that far, I want the big party and I want to get a new dress and shoes out of it.

Memes R Us

My good-but-busy friend Nancy tagged me for a meme. I tend to not like memes, since I harbour a secret conviction that no one else likes to read them, even though I am quite happy to read them when other people do them.
But right now is a perfect time for me to do a meme, and if you really don’t care to learn anymore about ME! you can skip this post. Best of all, I won’t even know. How’s that for guilt-free?
I’m sitting in the in-laws’ living room, playing an extract from the opera Carmen on my laptop. The twins are supposed to decide what instrument the voices of the women are imitating. Yes, we are finally taking that last music exam for CNED, and since I’m stuck sitting here playing them extracts off their music CD, I might as well type rather than just stare at the flowing colours of the Windows Media Player. My in-laws are sitting in their two stuffed armchairs, between them a marble-topped table with a lit lamp now cluttered with today’s paper, which they are sharing between themselves. They are discussing Dobie Gillis, a TV show that aired before I was born and starred Gilligan, only before he was Gilligan. I don’t know what prompted this, but it makes for an interesting time; the CD playing, the twins asking questions and writing industriously, the in-laws discussing 60s TV shows and then telling each other which comic strips are good today.
So, on to the meme.
Here are the rules:
1. Each player answers questions about themselves.
2. At the end of the post, tag 5 people by posting their names.
3. Go to their site/blog and leave a comment telling them they’ve been tagged. Invite them to your site/blog so they can read the tagged post.
4. Let the person who tagged you know when you’ve completed your tagged post.

Right, I think I can handle that! Onward and upward! (Kids are reading Narnia again; NOT going to see the movie if I can help it!)

1. What were you doing 10 years ago?
Let’s see, it’s 2008 now. So 1998. Um…the twins were one so that wasn’t the year we took them to Hawaii when they were only 4 months old to meet the in-laws, who used to live there before they moved to Hemet (pronounce Hemet with proper disgust tinged with amazement…they left a tropical island paradise for a small dusty town in the California desert? Yeah).
1998 is pretty much just a blur, to be honest. Elliot turned 3 that year and the twins were one. All 3 were in diapers. Do you mean 10 years ago to the day? Cuz I have no idea.
2. What are 5 things on your “To Do” list?
Finish CNED; celebrate in some way
Go swimming
Pack up my house (after returning to it). Have AWESOME garage sale. Want to come?
Spend significant time with my mother
Move to Morocco (which has a whole subset of things underneath it, including finding a house, getting the kids into school there, learning Darija, meeting the neighbours and making new friends, etc)
3. What are 5 snacks you enjoy? (In no specific order)
Chips and salsa (esp. Kettle Tias and Emerald Valley med salsa)
Kettle chips, especially salt and vinegar or Spicy Thai
Dark, dark chocolate, sometimes with orange peel or coffee beans in it
Popcorn
Handfuls of Honey-Nut Cheerios snuck shamefully from the box
4. Name some things you would do if you were a millionaire.
Hire a really good Arabic tutor for Elliot, a professional. Fly them in from Lebanon or someplace like that. Find a better situation for my mother and pay for it. Go shopping. Move to Morocco by cruise ship instead of cramped airplane. Stockpile rice and give it to poor people.
5. Name some places where you’ve lived.
Nouakchott (Mauritania), Chambery (France), Swansea (Wales), Three Hills (Alberta, Canada), Alturas (California, US), Bonney Lake (Washington, US), Tacoma, West Seattle, SE Portland, Tigard. (you should know where Seattle and Portland are)
6. Name some bad habits you have.
I am terminally disorganized and flaky. I have good intentions but then I forget to carry them out. I am hopeless at thank-you notes, follow-up phone calls, and other forms of adulthood. I spend too much time reading/on the computer.
7. Name some jobs you’ve had.
I worked at a Hallmark store in the Tacoma Mall during Christmas breaks from college, during which I was forced against my will to wear an apron that said “Santa’s Helper.” (Woman: Do you work here? Me: Would I be wearing this apron if I didn’t?) That was the only year I sent Christmas cards, so it wasn’t a complete loss (see number 6)
I cleaned houses in college–it paid well and the people I worked for were really nice. I also was a nanny for a while; pay was room, board, and use of a sweet little blue pick-up. Also, I loved the family I worked for.
8. Name those whom you are tagging.
You know, it’s gotten kind of hot here. Some time has passed since I started this; my sister-in-law is doing Spanish with the twins, who are going crazy because it’s 4 now, the time I said they could venture outside into the hot, hot sun. (They inherited my fair skin and light hair yet I could not convince them or my darker husband that even with sunscreen, people that look like us will burn if they go swimming at noon two days in a row) So I want to go swimming now and I don’t feel like tagging anyone. And, quite frankly, even though it means I’ve broken about 3 of the 4 rules, I can’t see what anyone is going to do to enforce it. Not tag me again? Ooooh. I’m quaking in my flip-flops here.

We’ve Already Started Our Sunburns

At midnight, I was at the library returning the books they wouldn’t let me renew, since they CLAIMED we had already renewed them 3 times. Whatever, Library. I’m sure it was only twice. And couldn’t they have made an exception for us, since we were leaving?
At 1 a.m., I was online registering Ilsa for summer camp. Ilsa decided in January that she wanted to go to summer camp for the very first time this year, with her best-friend-in-America Mariah. Ilsa gives a stereotypical Jewish mother a run for her money, being an A-class Number-One Nag. I had to forbid her to mention it to me again, under pain of Not getting to go to camp, because otherwise I might have gone insane. She nattered on and on and on about camp and could she go to camp and she’d better save money to buy candy at camp and could she ride horses at camp and Mariah said that at camp this happened and this other thing happened too and was I sure she could go to camp and Mariah wanted to know what week worked best and was I sure that she could go to camp? Cuz she needed to know.
This was January, so I got a little impatient. But we’ve had lots of conversations about it since, and eventually I promised her she could go.
But what with one thing and another, plus my extreme flakiness, I forgot to register her. And it was getting a wee bit late in the year, and I could not even imagine the repercussions if, through my own forgetfulness, she didn’t get to go to camp, ever, in her whole entire childhood. So, at 1 a.m. I got her registered.
At 2 a.m. I finished getting all the CNED stuff ready to mail. On Friday, all 3 kids took 5 tests. But Saturday and Sunday were jam-pack booked; Elliot had no shorts or sandals, for one, and Ilsa had no swimsuit, for another, and I still had only one tshirt, and there’s no sales tax in Oregon but there is in California. Plus we had to be at several social events, including one in which I had to clean my house. So I got all the tests ready to mail and packed them in a bag. I will mail them soon. They are still in the van, outside.
I was mostly packed, so after I had done all these things, I just had to fold one last load of laundry and then I was snug in my bed by 2:30 a.m.
They wanted me to get up at 6:00 a.m. but I didn’t want to. So I didn’t. I was up soon afterwards, eyes sore, head aching, to gulp down some coffee and load up the suitcases.
We only forgot one thing (CD for Elliot’s final music exam, which is missing the piece he is supposed to listen to and write his emotions), but we were finally on the road by 8:30.
Some of you might remember that we usually don’t leave till 10:00, but Monday was different. We had to make it Santa Cruz, a 13 hour drive, by nightfall, where we were to reunite with a friend of ours that we hadn’t seen for 10 years or so.
This was Monday; now it’s Thursday. We spent Tuesday in Santa Cruz, hanging out and getting caught up with Bud. Wednesday we headed down Hwy 1 on our way to Hwy 101, but we missed Salinas, we let it get away (just for you Janis Joplin fans out there, presuming you’re there), and we ended up spending an extra 3 hours on the curves and swerves of that cliff-hugging ribbon of asphalt, the one with the spectacular drop-offs that freaked out my younger son. “I can’t believe they don’t have walls!” he kept exclaiming. “If I was doing it, I’d make a tunnel.”
Sure, why not? One of the most beautiful stretches of highway in the nation, and he’d just hide it away.
The extra time on the slow road meant that we hit LA at rush hour, which is exactly like you would imagine it being. So instead of Wednesday being a day with 6-7 hours in the car, it was a day of 12 hours in the car. Eventually, though, we did arrive. We’re here, in Hemet. We have a suitcase full of CNED stuff to mail, and we still need to finish up a couple of things, but we’re here.

Good Deed for the Day

Before we moved to Africa, we got a lot of shots. We went to a travel clinic and pretty much got everything they recommended. We even considered getting rabies shots, just in case, because of the packs of wild dogs that roam the streets. I’m glad we didn’t, because it wouldn’t have been necessary. This is also how we found out I’m allergic to thimerosal, and the resulting puffiness and red welts on my face are why I can’t wait for my current passport to expire.

We also bought enough malaria medicine to last us for a while. As is our wont, we read the information on it, and were somewhat amused and horrified to find out that the side effect of that particular kind of medicine is insanity. That’s not an exaggeration. Paranoia, hallucinations, and some suicides were mentioned. Nonetheless, we bought quite a lot of it and then never took it. We ended up donating it all to a clinic in Nouakchott.

There isn’t a lot of malaria in Nouakchott, where it’s dry enough most of the year that mosquitoes aren’t a huge problem. The doctors I knew who lived there took prophylactics all the time, but they’re doctors. Doctors are paranoid anyway, even without being on malaria prevention meds. We only took it when we went to Senegal or to villages in the south of Mauritania along the river, buying the medicine in syrup form for children, this really nasty coffee-flavoured syrup. As they got older and as more medicines have developed, we got to the point where we only had to take one pill a week for a month after returning from an affected area. No one in the Nomad family ever got it.

But I’ve seen plenty of others who did; enough to know what a horrible disease malaria is. It kills, quite unnecessarily, 1000s of people every year, mostly in sub-Saharan Africa; people who, unlike us, can’t afford to pay a few dollars for medicines to cure this preventable disease. The UN declared Friday, April 25, as World Malaria Day, and has started a big push to get treated mosquito nets into the hands of those who can’t afford them. This simple step goes a long way in preventing the disease. Compassion International is joining the effort, and announced Bite Back, a program to get these mosquito nets into the homes of the poor. For only $10, which you must admit isn’t much, you can donate one. And, if you donate one while thinking of Shalee and her birthday, and then leave her a comment and let her know, she’ll enter you to win a prize. I mean, not only can you help the poor, but you can possibly get a prize for it.

$10 for a treated net. If you were at risk, you’d get one in a second.

Going Home

Do you read Scribbit? If you don’t, you should. She’s a very talented woman who lives in Alaska and blogs about everything from recipes to rainy-day activities to travel to motherhood; she’s also extremely organized and gives great blogging tips. She’s the one that put together all the mom blogs in one easy-to-find location. She also sponsors a monthly writing contest, with prizes!
This month’s theme is Going Home, and I’m the judge. Details are here. If you’re interested, get your entry in soon. And although it might be possible to sway me with gift cards from Amazon or Starbucks, or with bouquets of spring flowers, I probably should mention that the entries are sent on to me anonymously. So go ahead and try to bribe me, but I make no guarantees. My preferred form of chocolate is dark, 72% cocoa, just in case you were wondering. I don’t mind things in it either, like nuts or espresso beans or bitter orange peels.
In the meantime, here is a post I wrote on this subject in June 2006, right before we left Mauritania for a summer trip to Portland.

You Can’t Go Home Again

first published June 2006

The other day, we were talking about our upcoming American summer with a Mauritanian friend. “Will you go back to your old house?” he asked. We shrugged. We sold it when we moved here—figured it would be WAY too much hassle to have to worry about renters, leaky roofs, backed-up toilets, etc from half a world away.

“We have that idea,” he told us. “We call it atlal and it’s very important in our culture. There’s a lot of poetry written about it.” He went on to describe a nomad passing by an oasis where he spent time several years previously. Maybe a bit of his old fence is left, uneaten by animals, and he sifts through the sand to find the 3 stones on which he balanced his cooking pots over the flames and the ashes of an old fire. This is good. He sits there in the sand, enjoying the evening breeze on his face, thinking of the past. Maybe he makes a pot of tea, balancing his pot on those same stones, remembering. Bouka atlal—tears on the place where you had a good time.

It is actually painful for me to visit our old house. I lived there the longest I have lived in any single house—6 years. It is where my children were babies. It is an older house for America, and it had issues, but also ancient, fragrant roses, original hardwood floors, the biggest camilla bush I have ever seen—it was more like a tree. The morning light through the windows was beautiful. Leaving it was difficult. But now others live there, have filled the garden with new plants, built a different fence, made new memories.

Unlike the Mauritanians, we say, “You can’t go home again.” “You can’t step in the same river twice.” We don’t even try. We, as a people, tend to look forward. We glorify youth, and want always the latest things. We move on. Seek closure. It’s over now.

Going back to a familiar place after several years away is strange. Memory has shifted, solidified, and the layers are no longer discernible, so that I may remember things—not as they were when I left them—but as they were several years before that. Does it have more to do with building those layers, with seeing a particular building on a particular corner over and over again until it is fixed in the mind? So that if a building was changed only a few months before I left, I won’t remember that. Chronology can also be abstract.

I have started packing. We leave tomorrow night; our flight takes off (insha’allah) at 3 a.m. After traveling about 31+ hours, we’ll arrive at my in-laws in Southern Calif. We’ll go to bed around midnight their time; 7 a.m. for our body clocks. A few hours later we’ll get up, dazed and groggy. Happy Father’s Day Donn! I’m planning on giving him a nap, and maybe some Thai food later on.

On the Train

I’m sitting on a train, swaying back and forth as we glide northwards. We roll through forest filled with the bright new green of spring, past swollen creeks and gnarled branches heavy with moss. Small-town stations feature people huddled against the rain and the backs of dull apartment buildings, cheap because of their location near the incessant train whistles, painted in shades of tan and faded green. On the outskirts of these small towns, abandoned houses with sagging roofs have gardens filled with bright daffodils, probably planted 50 years ago when living near a train had its advantages. At the train crossings, a lone car idles.

I’m on my way up to Tacoma to visit my mother, who’s 84, has Parkinsons, and recently broke her hip. It’s a sad visit. She’s just gotten the news that the assisted living place where she’s been for the past 4 years won’t take her back. They say they can’t keep her safe; they can’t trust this stubborn frail woman to stay in her wheelchair and not get up on her own in the night. I understand this and they are right; she is not to be trusted. There’s something about old nurses, not to mention women of her generation. They think that, having survived so much already, they ought to know what risks aren’t really risky. They are used to being in charge.

She has already gotten the news. My brother and his family broke it to her the other night. I haven’t talked to her since–I don’t even know if she knows I’m on this train, wending my way up through strands of trees still barren and grey on this leaden afternoon in early April. Since the fall and subsequent surgery, she’s been in a nursing home. It is impossible to call her there. I try most days; ask for her extension and let it ring and ring and ring; ask to be transferred to the nearest nurses’ station only to face the same situation.

So here I sit, on a leather seat with plenty of legroom and an outlet for my laptop (although of course no internet connection). Train travel is nice. It’s cheaper than driving, given current gas prices, and it’s relaxing. The station is nothing like airports in our post 9/11 world, and carries a sense of the romantic past that airports can’t pull off.

It won’t be a long visit–just a couple of days. The kids are doing well with school but they still need me. Elliot’s going to make my recipe for spaghetti. He’s done it a couple of times already and it’s very good, and he’s only a little obnoxious when he gives me his tips on improving it, ironically making it the way I actually do. (I never measure spices, just add generously; turns out he does too)

The rain slants against the windows, but after we emerge from a long tunnel, we see the Puget Sound sparkling deep blue under a cloudless sky. That’s just the view from one side of the train, however, and by the time we pull into the station it’s raining again. The nursing home isn’t as bad as many of them are, but it’s not good either. Mum’s room-mate lies on her bed just staring at the ceiling, and doesn’t respond to any attempts at greetings. At meal-time, residents must wear long bibs that reach their waists. The walls are painted a depressing pink. The radio blares non-stop, a soft rock station that probably none of the residents would have chosen. Mum is dressed in clothes that are not hers and that are comically large on her; although to be fair, it’s hard to imagine clothes that would fit her. She’s shrunk drastically, losing 15 pounds in the last month and a half.

We talk of the past. I ask her questions–when you first arrived in Addis Abbaba, Ethiopia, in 1954, what was it like? Were you scared? What did you think when you first met dad? What was in like when you moved to Beirut in 1963? Tell me about the time you and Dad took my two brothers, then about 2 and 3, on a tramp steamer around the entire coast of Africa and then on to England! And she does, her memory holding steady. She tells me about having tea with the governor of the Ile de Sainte Helene, who was a distant cousin of hers. It’s a good visit. She is lucid, only getting the days mixed up a few times. (And, frankly, I do that too sometimes)

Afterwards, Phil and I stop by her old place to pick up some of her clothes, although he has already brought some to this new place. Where are her things and why have they dressed her in those ghastly pink sweatpants? I determine to find out tomorrow. I collect her old knitting and sewing things for Ilsa; Mum hasn’t had the fine motor skills to use them for several years. I gather photos of family members for her new room; the one of her wedding day, where between she and Dad and the best man and maid of honor, 4 nationalities were represented; the one of all the grandchildren crammed onto a couch, all wearing pyjamas. 

I think I’m too young for this, but I’m wrong. None of us are ever too young or too old for any sort of tragedy, any sort of life event. I may feel cheated, but frankly, without her surprise unplanned pregnancy, I wouldn’t have been born. At least I made it to adulthood with her–my dad died when I was 15.

So instead, I’m thankful for this visit, these connections, these memories. I always meant to record her life and write a book about it. She lived through bombing in Wales in WWII and helped evacuate some children to safety in the countryside; she was a midwife in Ethiopia in the 50s where she delivered the Emporer Haile Selassi’s grandchildren; she met and married my father in Addis Abbaba and they literally circumnavigated the globe for their honeymoon. And that’s not all. But I always put it off, and now I face regretting it for the rest of my life. But I’m going to get what I can out of her, now, before it is too late.

Guest Posting Today: My daughter, Ilsa

Today’s post was written by Ilsa, age 10 and 11.5/12ths.

This is what I miss about Mauritania:

• The good old Sahara heat!
• Not wearing seat belts.
• Going to the beach every week, and the water actually being warm.
• My friends! (Hi Bethany and Haley and Aidan and Esther and Matthew and Erik, etc)
• My school–I miss my nice teacher from last year especially
• Throwing sand-balls at the boys
• Weston, our dog

What I don’t miss about Mauritania:

• I do not miss the jellyfish at the beach
• I don’t miss the boys throwing jellyfish at me while I’m trying to eat my sandwich. Also dead fish and fish bones. We took revenge, though.

What I like about being in America this year:

• There’s delicious candy
• Halloween.
• Christmas presents that don’t break the second you touch them
• my friends here
• there are better puppies and kittens here; cuter and different kinds
• good old air-conditioning!
• And now, heat.
• Fireplaces!
• Hot chocolate w/o skin!

Here is a still life I drew with my pastels. I used a creamer and sugar from the 60s with a really fun shape, and I added fruit and drew a frame with patterns copied off the china. My dad scanned it:

Edited to add: In wordpress, this shows with a complete frame. I can’t figure out why the blog itself shows it cut off. *frustrated sigh* 

Geography

I have a pet theory about geography and it is this:  if you travel to a place, you will always be able to find it on a map. Geography can seem abstract and difficult, but once you’ve actually sat in a plane or a car and crossed a border, seen buildings and people and eaten food of a particular place, it will be seared in your memory.
This worked great for me. Any place that I have gone in cognitive memory I can find on a map. (I went to 7 countries before I was 2 but I only remember the ones visited later, or grown up in. However I can find all 7 on a map, so my theory still holds.) It seemed to be working great with Elliot, too. When he was 3 he went to a little Montessori-style preschool, and they were heavy on learning geography in a really fun way. They also had puzzles that taught algebraic concepts, which were frankly beyond me. By the time he was 5 he knew all the continents and oceans and could find quite a few countries, especially the larger, easier ones.
The twins blew my theory out of the water, as they have done with pretty much everything else. To be totally honest, I’m still not sure they could quickly find Mauritania on a world map. I think they could, but I wouldn’t swear to it–and this is where they grew up! They have been to Senegal and Morocco, the countries that border Mauritania to south and north, but in spite of several very memorable border crossings, they’re still pretty shaky on location.
When Abel was in CE1 (Grade 2), his teacher decided to take advantage of the fact that she had a population representing major areas of the globe in her very international school, so she asked parents to come in with their children and present something about their countries of origin, followed by a question and answer time.
I presented Thanksgiving, since it was November. I talked about the Pilgrims coming, traced the basic route of the Mayflower, pointed out New England on a map, then opened it up to questions. A little girl raised her hand. “How many states are there?” she asked.
I prompted Abel to go ahead, since this was such an easy one. “25,” he replied confidently. Uh, yeah. That’s my boy. I was appalled and hurried to correct him, although in retrospect I should have protected his dignity. Like they would have known enough to catch us out!  Although that would be an awfully easy fact to check up on, so maybe it’s just as well.
Then, another girl asked who was the first president. Abel knew that one too. “George Bush,” he told them.
I was highly embarrassed and realized the need to teach my kids something about American history and geography.
Then they asked me  some questions about the population and size of my country, and I didn’t know. I remembered learning in school that the population of New York was 8 million so I told them that, and that the population of LA was 5 million, and they were all very impressed. When I got home and told Donn, he choked with laughter. Apparently I was right to remember learning that–the population of New York was probably about that when I was 13, but now it’s over 19 million. Yeah.
So you can see that growing up (mostly) in a country does not indicate later knowledge of certain basic facts.
But I really do find geography a fascinating subject, and I’m glad that my kids can confidently identify all the major regions of France, along with what each region is famous for (cider, sausage, a type of wine, etc). And just what exactly did you expect them to study in a French school?
I’m enjoying a new blog that celebrates geography. It’s connected to National Geographic but it’s aimed at parents who want to help their kids go beyond being to identify all 32 states. (Or was it 42?) Since I know that many of you are parents out there, I thought I’d mention this. If you can convince your kids it’s fun to play geography games on the computer, maybe you won’t have to learn the hard way, like I did, that travel alone does not teach to geography to everyone.

Thankfully

Well, here we are in sunny Southern California. We are east of where the fires burned so savagely last month, but driving through we saw a few traces of burned hillsides. The in-laws are in fine style; as I type this, my father-in-law is refusing to partner with one of my kids for Taboo in case he loses. He is only partly joking.
I’ve been reading a lot lately. I read Angels of a Lower Flight, about a former playboy playmate, abused as a child, who now spends her life in meeting unspeakable challenges in heartbreaking conditions in Haiti. Then I read Those Who Save Us, a novel about Germany in WWII.
I highly recommend that you read both of them, preferably this week. Neither of them are easy books, but both are excellent. This is the perfect week to immerse yourself in the very real sufferings of those around us. I would come out of the world of these books blinking, bemused, staring around me at my perfect family and nice surroundings, and being just so very glad that I’m not leaving my children starving to death in Haiti as I die of AIDS or am stabbed in the streets, or watching them gunned down in front of me by heartless Nazis, or having to make impossible choices to keep them alive.
It’s just a good reminder that, even though some people already have their Christmas lights up, the founders of this particular place where we live wanted their descendants to take some time to remember, to thank God, to be a people who are thankful for all that we enjoy. I always wondered why Thanksgiving was so late in the year–so far after harvest time. I found out last year, doing research to explain to my Mauritanian ESL class, that it was moved from September to November–I forget why, I forget when. Google it if you want. It doesn’t really matter. I’m just so glad that I get to celebrate it.
So I’m grateful, sitting here listening to my kids trying to play Taboo. Thankful that I’m not playing. Thankful that I finally got a chance to get on my computer after all these days. Thankful for my whole comfortable, crazy life.
(And I’m planning to do a more in-depth review of these books tomorrow. Possibly later)

Bored? No, thanks.

Some people have a pathological fear of boredom.
I wouldn’t think I was one of those people. I like quiet: calm rooms with soft light; books and journals; the clicking of computer keys; extra cups of coffee; rain on the windows. In university, when they told me, “The life not contemplated is not worth living,” I believed them wholeheartedly.
Then I had 3 kids in 2 years. Then I took them all to the Sahara Desert, where on any given day you might or might not have electricity or be able to buy butter or be served goat intestines boiled without salt. So one might wonder if I don’t have some issues myself.
Given the chance to have a quiet year back in America, I leaped at it. I envisioned spending my mornings curled up on the couch staring out at those golden leaves and watching the rain fall while I wrote the Great American Travel Book.
Instead, we ended up home schooling. For those of you who have never tried it, it’s crazy and time-consuming. It takes up huge chunks of time. I sit next to Elliot and “teach” him Arabic (really we’re both learning; I speak some Hassiniya but this is classical Arabic, and we’re learning to read it too). Meanwhile, the twins, impatient with their questions, write them on paper airplanes and bombard me from the open upstairs hallway. We are barely into a semi-routine. We are behind in education musicale and arts plastiques. The twins have tests coming up in 8 subjects plus Spanish. (Yes, I’m teaching Spanish too. That’s even funnier than me teaching Arabic–at least I know a little Arabic. Before this, my only Spanish was casa, manana, and hasta la vista, baby! And I don‘t even know what that last bit means.)
So we decided to go to California for Thanksgiving, leave early so that this could be an extended visit with eager grandparents, and do school there. We can’t afford to take this time off, since we started our school year late.
Am I certifiable? I mean, what am I thinking?
My in-laws are great people, generous to a fault, welcoming, never ever taking my husband’s side over mine or making me feel less than a true daughter. But their house tends to be cluttered, in the sense that the pope tends to be Catholic. (Also, if I could ever manage to faithfully reproduce their interactions, I could make a million selling it as a screenplay. No one would believe they were for real. But that’s another story) There is no clear “workspace“ for the kids. My father-in-law watches TV from about 8 a.m. to about 9 p.m.–covering most prime school time hours. My children are very distracted by TV, in the sense that teenage boys are distracted by the presence of a supermodel.
Their curriculum is complete and extensive. Each subject has at least 2 workbooks, plus a cahier de broullion (notebook for them to do extra work in), plus a folder of the tests, plus they have to take oral exams and record their answers on audio cassette. It’s complicated, and you have do everything exactly so.
Nonetheless, we’re loading up the mini-van and taking off for sunnier climes. We’re packing roller blades and scooters for EPS (Physical Ed), swimsuits in a forlorn hope that we‘ll be able to use them (the in-laws don’t heat the pool), and, of course, stacks and stacks of French curriculum. In back-packs. With STRICT instructions NOT to spread it out all over the floor and lose bits of it under the tottering piles of old magazines and papers.
Yes, the chances of us leaving an absolutely essential workbook, say for Maths or Science De La Vie et De La Terre, underneath a chair are absolutely astronomical.
No the chances of finding said workbook left under a chair before, oh, April or May, are not good.
Yes I apparently do have a pathological fear of boredom.
And, another long car trip?
Yep. Another long car trip.
I thrive on stress.

The Mouse that Roared

Note: I wrote this last month but didn’t have a chance to publish it till now.

“YOU went to Disneyland?” said my friend Debbie, her disbelief evident in her voice. “However did they talk you into that?”

I was a little surprised. My mental self-image tends to be subtle, someone that keeps her opinions to herself because they are so nuanced and well-thought-out that I can’t just blurt them out at random. (I have other delusions too) And while it’s true that I haven’t been what you’d call a big fan of Disneyland, I still end up going there all the time because I am completely outnumbered by my kids, my husband and my in-laws.

But I’ve made my peace with the Big Mouse. And I’m going to tell you about it. But first, my issues.

I didn’t grow up with Disney. 8 ½ years younger than my next sibling, I grew up in a small town on the Canadian prairies. We didn’t have a TV. I spent most of my time lying on my bed reading reading reading. I grew up on A.A. Milne’s Winnie the Pooh, J. M. Barrie’s Peter Pan, and Kenneth Graham’s Wind in the Willows. I read and re-read the Grimm brothers and the Little House books. And so I was unprepared for life in our current American culture.

I did not respond well to my first introduction to “adapted” books. I remember visiting a friend’s house and watching Little House on TV. I was shocked. “That wasn’t in the book! That’s not right!” I kept saying, until they finally sent me home. I reacted similarly to Disney’s movies; their Pooh was bumbly and dorky, their dwarves in Snow White without dignity.

I also have not reacted well to Disney’s usurpation of other people’s perfectly good tales. They take other people’s creative impulses and squeeze them into yet another one-size-fits-all bumbly, dorky, talking-animal, curvy heroine, oversized-chest male, happy ending movie. They messed up Little Mermaid, Hans Christian Anderson’s dark moralistic tale.  In the original, the prince marries the other girl, and the little mermaid dies of a broken heart—but is rewarded with a soul, so she gets to go to heaven, which is about as happy as Anderson gets. And whatever possessed them to decide to make The Hunchback of Notre Dame into a children’s movie? It’s not like Disney is hurting for money. Why can’t they hire people to come up with original stories? Ok I’ll stop now; I could go on for pages. (Maybe it’s not surprising Debbie knew my real feelings?)

Donn, of course, grew up in Southern California. They had a TV in every room. His parents love Disney and Disneyland, and took him to the park all the time. One time he went on Space Mountain 11 times in the same day. That’s the kind of legendary figure he forms in our family.

3 years ago, my inlaws took all of us to Disneyland. I went under protest. I find the whole enterprise amazingly cynical. It costs $63 to get in if you are over 10. A Belle dress, for your 4 year old to play dress up in, costs $60. Yet they bill themselves as “the happiest place on earth.” For who? Just people with disposable income? Just people who speak English? Just people who LIKE Disney? It’s so cynical.

“It’s just an advertising slogan,” groaned Donn, rolling his eyes at me. “Get over it.”

My mother-in-law’s favorite “ride” is that one which in kindness to your mental processes I will not name; the one in which animated figures shriek that same annoying song over and over at you, until it’s stuck in your head for days. Far from promoting world peace, that “ride” seems to ignite hatred and homicidal tendencies.

At least I think so.

Last year, we went again. Donn’s parents had a harder time keeping up with us, but at least Ilsa was finally tall enough to go on all the rides—that was a sore spot during her first visit, when her twin was deemed tall enough but she wasn’t.

But I’ve made my peace with the House of the Mouse. This year, the in-laws couldn’t come, said they just don’t have the stamina anymore, but they sent us. Everyone else was excited, so I put on my happy face (sarcasm) and off we went.

And while I still wouldn’t call it the happiest place on earth, even grumpy cantankerous moi had a great day. (Wouldn’t this make a heart-warming family movie?)

Going with older kids makes a difference. We didn’t even see any giant cartoon characters. Instead, we rushed from ride to ride; Space Mountain, Thunder Mountain, Splash Mountain, the Matterhorn. (Do you think Disney’s in a rut?) We would get our Fast Passes for the future, then hang out in those long lines—the happiest lines on earth!—until we could experience our 2 minutes of pure joy. Fortunately we all love roller coasters.

We went on most rides twice, but we went on Thunder Mountain four times! That’s because we went on rides instead of joining the enormous claustrophobia-inducing crowd watching the light-and-smoke show about the history of Disney. We would stagger off the roller coaster, run round, and ride again. It was awesome. We discovered that for this ride, which has a long train, it’s best to sit in the very back, where you get whipped around. For Space Mountain and Splash Mountain, you should sit in the very front row.

I like sitting next to Ilsa on rides. She’s so tiny, and she shrieks and puts her arms up and has so much fun that it intensifies the experience for me. Even the biggest rides that Disney can offer hold no fear for her.

We haven’t been back in the States all that long, so we’re still getting our cues about ways things have changed since our last time home by watching our fellow-Americans. It was interesting to see that, even in this affluent nation of ours, many people apparently can’t afford full-length mirrors. It’s sad.

Last year, we couldn’t go on the Pirates of the Caribbean because it was closed for remodeling, so we were excited to try it this year. We tend to view Pirates 2 & 3 as basically theme-ride movies anyway, considering their serious lack of a comprehensible plot. We patiently waited in the long line, excitedly boarded the boat, and then sat, bored, for the next few minutes. It’s the exact same ride as before, except they have changed the dialogue to add in a few ‘Capt. Jack Sparrow’s’ and ‘Davy Jones’.” Pitiful. We all hated it.

We endured those terrible animated animals on Splash Mountain for those few microseconds of pure, unadulterated terror when you come out on top of the mountain, get that breathtaking view of the park, and plunge down, down, down that 50-foot drop. It’s so cool. It’s worth it. I love that ride. (except for those annoying animals, which no one likes.)

The fireworks show was incredible; it turned night into day. We went on Thunder Mountain one last time while craning our necks upward; the booms and sparkles were a fitting expression of our own exuberance.

By the end, we were limping in exhaustion, beyond hungry. (We had cleverly outwitted the infamous Disney greed by eating RIGHT before coming in and bringing enough snacks to keep us all going all day; we hate paying $30 for a pizza worth about $5) It was after 11 p.m. We staggered towards the gate, foregoing one last time the joys of Space Mountain when we saw the after-fireworks crowd all standing in line. We drove around Anaheim, looking for an open restaurant, ended up eating cheap tacos from Jack in the Box in the car. Ilsa fell asleep between each and every bite.

I’m still not what you’d call a Disney fan, but Disneyland’s all right. If you like all that happiness, that is.

Season of Mists and Mellow Fruitiness

Yesterday, I woke up to a strange noise. What was it? It sounded vaguely familiar, like a vacuum being operated several stories away. It would go for a while, then stop, then, several minutes later, start again.

It nagged away at my semi-consciousness. Also, the room was getting hot. I couldn’t sleep. I got up, and realized that the sound was caused by hot air blowing out of a vent. My friend had turned the heat on.

Indoor heating. Now there’s a concept we haven’t had to think about in a while. The weather today is gorgeous—deep blue autumnal sky, leaves started to change colour and fall, twisting, from their parent trees. But even in the sunshine, we’re comfortable in long pants or a long-sleeved t-shirt.

Several days this week were cool and cloudy. It’s started raining, just a little bit. “You’re going to learn a whole new vocabulary,” I told Ilsa the other day. It wasn’t really raining—it was sprinkling, or misting, or just sort of moist outside. Oregonians have as many words for precipitation as the Inuit have for snow, or the Maures have for camels.

A friend asked me the other day how I’m doing with my reverse culture shock. The answer is that I’m doing great. I’m really happy to be here. I love autumn, and I’ve missed it deeply. Also, we’ve been taking advantage of the fact that our lives are still sort of on hold. In other words, we’re not really working yet. We’re sort of homeschooling, doing some English workbooks (The kids are so happy with how easy English conjugation is!), but we haven’t officially started CNED yet. We’ve found a really cute house and signed the lease, but we won’t move into it for another week or so, and we’re still living in one room in the basement. Andersons live halfway to the Columbia River Gorge. Why not go hiking?

On Tuesday afternoon, we set off with our 3 plus two of the Anderson kids. We decided to do a hike called Angel’s Rest. That name should have been a clue. Angels would come down from heaven, right, so they would rest on a pinnacle of rock or someplace high up. We didn’t think it through, just looked at the distance (2.5 miles) and set off. Soon, as Abel put it, “We started to need to take a lot of breaks.” We would string out along the edge of the trail, so when other hikers came along they could get by. It was early enough in the afternoon that we got a couple of odd looks but, much to my disappointment, no one asked me why the kids weren’t in school. (I’ve got my answer all ready: “Me an’ Bubba just learns ‘em at home. Werks real good!” This would have been even better with a couple of extra kids thrown in the mix!)

The trail comes out at the edge of a cliff with a great view east and west along the Columbia. It also has a really impressive drop off. One little slip, and that would be the end. I tend to have a somewhat morbid imagination, and was running through the phone call to Heather if something happened, especially to one of her kids. It wasn’t enjoyable. They managed to stay back from the edge, and when we were scrambling up some rocks only one fell and she even managed to fall towards the bushes rather than towards the cliff side. Phew!

If hiking with 3 kids is fun, hiking with 5 kids is doubly cool. Make that triple. First comes the whining. “I’m tired; my legs hurt; when are we gonna get there; is he (Donn) taking ANOTHER picture?; why, why why.” There’s the bickering. There’s the being too tired to walk, yet having energy to duel with sticks the minute we stop for a break. There’s the singing of annoying songs. There’s the noise. There’s the top-of-the-lungs comments on the other hikers—“ooh! Her dog’s not on a leash! She’s breaking the law! She’s a lawbreaker! Lawbreaker! Do you think that’s a pit bull? What kind of dog do you think it is? It sure is big. It’s cute! No it’s not.”

Me (red-faced): Hi!

Lawbreaking dog-owner: (nods. Looks askance at children)

(Aside: They were actually right, although it was a little embarrassing. Donn asked, and it was half pit bull, not on a leash although it’s clearly stated that all dogs must be on leashes. Over half the dogs we’ve met on these trails are not on leashes. This particular owner insisted that her half-pitbull breed was, exceptionally, a harmless individual who literally wouldn’t hurt a flea and simply adored children. Whatever. I’m not overly worried, but it bugs me that they think they don’t have to obey the rules)

Mariah (Ilsa’s friend, age 11) somehow got us all eating pine needles. She claimed to notice subtle differences. I expect she’ll be a wine expert as an adult. “This one is sweet, and this one has a spicy mint flavor,” she told me, offering me two needles. “You chew them and then spit them out.” I tried them. They tasted exactly like you’d expect—pine!—but perhaps I haven’t developed the sensitive palate you need for this. She and Ilsa collected fallen branches and later brewed them up in a kind of tea. You add a dash of cinnamon, a hint of vanilla, and several spoonfuls of sugar and then, they claim, it’s delicious. They cut and sew tea bags out of coffee filters, label them with Sharpies (not approved by the FDA), and sell them for 10 cents each. I hope this gets me off the hook for college tuition. What do you think?

I think we’re living in one of the prettiest places on earth. I’m happy to be here for now. Even with the kids along for the ride.

Home Again Home Again

An ironic post title, since we have no home. We have stuff in four homes on two continents, but are once again presuming on the kindness of friends to provide beds to sleep in at night. Portland’s not really home anymore, but then where is?

Note to self: do not write posts after yet another fruitless afternoon spent trying to find someone who will rent a decent house for a decent price to really good renters, stable people who like to garden and who take good care of property, a family who will be here for 10 months. 10 months is good. It is wrong to think that renters have to sign up for a whole year, or to say that if the good, stable renters leave after 10 months you will make them pay $2000 that they really don’t have.

Sigh.

Last time I posted, we were in Crescent City, California—near to the Oregon border. It was Saturday night. In the morning, we got up bright and early. Breakfast wasn’t provided, so we needed to leave the hotel earlier than usual in order to make it on the road by our usual 10 a.m. Donn was secretly determined to make it even earlier, but he was defeated.

You may wonder why we never seem to make it any earlier. Part of the problem is the trunk. A family of 5 went to California for 2 weeks in a Dodge Intrepid. We had 2 suitcases, a camera bag, a baseball bat and ball, a bag of books, jackets, a bag of toiletries, damp swimsuits in a plastic bag, a very full backpack with books, paper for art, paper for airplanes, coloured pencils, and a scarf for dressup, and misc other small things. Donn, who is talented at jigsaw packing, had to redo the trunk every morning, not to mention re-strapping his surfboard on top. It took probably 20 minutes every morning just to do the trunk.

Once the trunk was packed and I had gone through the hotel room two extra times, just to make extra sure that we hadn’t left anything tangled in the sheets or behind the bathroom door, we set off to find breakfast. We went to a place where the typical omelette had 4 eggs, but they allowed you to order a “petite” serving. I went with that option, and had a yummy two-egg omelette with ham, green chilis, swiss cheese and salsa. It was plenty of food—I couldn’t quite finish everything.

I asked the waitress if people in general, normal plump good-healthy-appetite people like me, actually manage to eat 4-egg omelettes with hashbrowns and toast and a wedge of cantaloupe, and she said yes, and they finish everything. That’s one thing I’m still in shock about—the size of the portions in American restaurants. Friday night, when we ate in a trendy coastal town while searching for a vacancy, I ordered a “small” size of pasta, and it was more than ample—I could barely finish it. No one has ever accused me of having a small appetite, except Mauritanians who are being polite. But I can’t finish my plate at most American restaurants—or more accurately, I do then wish I hadn’t. Why are the portions so big? My theory is so that people feel they’re getting their money’s worth. Any other ideas? Anyway, I’m not complaining—the twins have healthy appetites and they split a normal-sized plate and were full.

So yes, it was 10 a.m. when we hit the road, tummies full and trunk perfectly packed, heading into Oregon. Finally, we could get Ilsa to stop asking when we were going to get to Oregon! We triumphantly pointed the sign announcing this milepost.

The Oregon coast looks like what I think a coast should look like. There are rocky crags and sandy cliffs and wind-carved cypress and cedar; the nearby hills are coated with fir and pine and the ground is thick with ferns and brambles. And it was a perfect late-summer day to enjoy it. The water was a perfect blue, crashing white around the black seagull-covered rocks. I wanted more than anything to walk along the edge, filling my toes with sand and wetting my ankles in the surf, but it wasn’t possible, so we continued to drive north.

Heceta Head Lighthouse. Can you see this picture? I can’t, but I’m hoping you can.

When we got to Lincoln City, we hit traffic. We stopped for black-walnut ice-cream cones and popped into a surfboard shop to browse their end-of-summer sale, but the traffic didn’t abate. We turned off the coast highway at that point and headed towards Portland, over the Coast Range of forested mountains, a road whose every inch is familiar because we have driven it so often in years past. We got to Portland about 9 p.m. that night, thankfully emptied out the trunk one last time, and moved, once again, into our friends’ basement, where we remain while we search for a house. Anyone got any leads?

 

Elephant Seals & Elk

Friday:

With great effort, by 10 a.m. Friday morning we were walking briskly down a seaside boardwalk, a full 15 minutes north of our hotel, on our way to view elephant seals, or possibly sea lions. We had pulled over to the side of the road and piled out of our car to stare out at the seagull-covered rocks, but Elliot’s sharp eyes first spotted the moving lumps far down on the beach. We ran for a closer look. The elephant seals lay on the beach as dead, occasionally taking a huge deep breath, or flipping sand up on their backs. The children turned into a flock of seagulls themselves: Dad! Dad! Look! Look! It’s moving! It’s putting sand on its back! Take a picture! Take a picture! Dad! Dad! Loo-ook!

In the water, two seals frolicked. We could see their sleek black heads appearing and reappearing over the clear green water. Ilsa and I thought they looked like they were kissing; Elliot and Abel thought they looked like they were wrestling. Who knows?

We drove on up the coast. The weather was strange; hot sun on our backs, cold sea wind on our faces. Unfortunately, this weather pattern created a lot of sea fog. We were driving along the coast, but could only see the ocean directly below us. We’d stop at vista points, and from that vantage point could look back to see the fog rolling into inlets, but looking westward was like looking from an airplane. It was a little disappointing, and it didn’t really help us make any better time, since we still kept stopping and looking.

 

It was fascinating, though, watching the fog rise from the water. The clouds would appear dense, deep grey or thick white, from a small distance, but as one approached, they would wisp away, soar above us, ephemeral.

Highway One is not for those wishing to make excellent time, even for the many (many) retirees in their sleek little convertibles, whizzing round the curves. It winds. It hugs cliffs. It makes huge hairpin bends round little sea coves and inlets. All this takes time to traverse. We left bright and early (after a very nice continental breakfast with cinnamon rolls and coffee that claimed to be Douwe Egberts and probably was, only with a lot of extra water added), but we did not make good time.

We stopped for espresso at the Ragged Point Resort Espresso Bar, where the kid apparently felt no need to change to coffee grounds between making my double espresso and making Donn’s. Too bad, eh? Just a little bit of effort could have made it worth close to the $3 he charged Donn for the swill he served him. I mention this because, if you are ever driving up 1, I recommend you avoid Ragged Point espresso bar, and if they ask you why, TELL THEM! Donn compared it to the reason why he couldn’t get film processed in Mauritania, which was because they kept on using the chemicals long after their usefulness had expired. But in a trendy, expensive little resort, you might expect something better. You wouldn’t get it, though.

Eventually, we made it to Carmel-by-the-Sea. It was nearly 2 by this point, so we pulled into the mall just off the road to look at lunch options. Carmel is a lovely area, and it’s a lovely mall. It’s the sort of place where just driving into the parking lot makes your clothes suddenly fade, wrinkle, and go out of fashion, but other than that it’s lovely. We bought picnic things (bread, fruit, cheese) at Safeway and went looking for the town of Carmel proper. A couple of wrong turns later, we drove down its charming streets, and ate our lunch leaning against a huge cypress tree on the beach. The weather was clear and warm (well it would be! Those folks would not tolerate fog!) and we had a delightful time. Then we visited Photography West, a famous gallery, where we viewed original prints by people like Ansel Adams, Brett Weston, Paul Capinegro, Morley Baer, Christopher Burkett and Imogen Cunningham—whose portrait of Frida Kahlo was stunning, intensive and thought-provoking. I nearly bought a small copy of it, but when you’re looking at the original, a notecard just won’t cut it.

It’s been a long time since I’ve viewed photographs by someone other than my husband, and Donn and I both enjoyed the opportunity to experience a slice of life beautifully re-created through someone else’s eye. We wanted to visit the Weston Gallery, and spend time looking at other types of art as well. Carmel-by-the-Sea is full of galleries. But it was already well past 3; we needed to move on.

This part of California smells soo good. The air is spicy with the scents of juniper, cypress, cedar, wild sage, and eucalyptus. The coastline is rugged and rocky, the water is shades of aqua, turquoise, and indigo, and the hills are covered in…some kind of plant…in shades of rust and tan and a vivid deep green.

By the time we were driving through the towns just south of San Francisco, it was just before 6 p.m. Too soon to stop. We drove on through the town and over the Golden Gate Bridge. Disappointingly, the fog was so thick you couldn’t even see the top of the bridge itself, much less anything of the bay. We planned to stop just out of ‘Frisco to the north. This was a grave error on our part. You may have already noticed that it’s Labour Day Weekend, but we’ve been living out of suitcases since mid-July and haven’t readjusted completely to life in the US, and we’re fuzzy on dates most days.

Friday of Labour Day Weekend, in a trendy vacation spot, looking for lodging in the small coastal resort towns of Marin County, one of the nation’s more exclusive areas. Picture the Nomad family in their borrowed Dodge Intrepid with a surfboard strapped on top, slowly driving from town to town. In Stinson Beach there were no vacancies to be had at all. (I wanted to ask about the stables, but Donn wouldn’t let me) In Olema, there was one—a mere $150 for a room with two whole twin beds. It was dark of course, and here we were in an area of incredible scenic beauty, driving blind, seeing the occasional deer and a beautiful moonrise, but missing everything else. In Tomales, the Continental Inn (Providing Rest for Weary Travelers since 1889) had a sign saying they had vacancies and please ring for service, but no one came. In desperation, we finally did what we should have done all along—we turned around and headed over to Petaluma and from there up the 101—a bigger highway, more populated, and not nearly so trendy. We stayed in a wonderful, heavenly Best Western with two queen beds in Rohnert Park, checking in just before midnight, and crawling thankfully into our beds with nary a thought of writing a long blog post.

Saturday:

The so-called continental breakfast was like nothing I ever had in France—it included make-your-own waffles, toast, boiled eggs, yogurt, fruit, cereal, muffins, and juice. There was even a bottle of Knott’s Boysenberry Syrup. We all chose different options according to taste, and everyone left happy—even the grown-ups, who still stopped by Starbucks for double espressos.

Today was gorgeous; sunny, warm, the sky that intense blue that presages the hue of autumnal skies. It felt like the first of September, actually. The weather was warm, but there was that hint of heaviness, that slant, to the light, and the vineyards we drove through, full of rich purple grape clusters, were beginning to show hints of red and yellow in their leaves. We went wine-tasting, bought fresh strawberries (that were every bit as good as Oregon berries, I must admit; they were super!) and ate them very quickly because they were so good, and continued up the 101.

We had initially planned to cut back over to the 1, but if we had, we’d probably still be just a few miles north of San Francisco. The 1 is gorgeous, if you don’t get fog, but it is very slow and windy. If your kids get car sick, forget it. Mine don’t, but even they were beginning to complain of tummy-aches. Instead, we headed north up 101, which heads through the Redwood Forest over to the coast, where it joins the 1 anyway.

And really, the 101 is very nice and we’ve decided to never-ever do the I-5 route again. Our road wound through vineyards and up into hills covered in magnificent oak trees, with glimpses of green rivers at the base of rocky valleys. By lunch time, we’d arrived in Willets, self-proclaimed “Gateway to the Redwoods.” We’d enjoyed our picnic in Carmel so much we decided to do a repeat today in the Redwoods; we couldn’t find a picnic table (we could have if we’d kept going, but we were hungry) so we stopped in a turnout in the forest and picnicked quite happily amongst the trees.

The redwoods were terrific; all they were supposed to be. We didn’t do all the touristy things, but you should if you come this way (drive through a tree trunk, visit the Confusion Room where apparently gravity doesn’t work); we just need to return this car at some point fairly soon, so we didn’t take time. That was okay though. The real point of the Redwoods is the trees themselves.

 

I asked Donn to take this picture to send to my friends in Mauritania. They won’t believe it! And this isn’t the biggest or anything; just a fairly typical Giant Redwood, one of the oldest living things on the planet.

We drove down Avenue of the Giants, stopping frequently to get out and admire the mammoth, ancient, enormous, add more adjectives here, trees. The air was fresh and spicy with ferns and redwood; the kids climbed on fallen logs and yanked their heads up to try and see the lacy tops stretching far above us.

Traveling for days in a car with your nearest and dearest can be a stretching time, especially when said family keeps buying lots of fruit. I personally feel that I have heard enough jokes about gas, cow herds, methane production, etc. to last more than a lifetime, although I have a feeling I haven’t fulfilled my quota just yet. Overall, our kids are great travelers—which is just as well, since they all took extended plane rides before they were 6 months old, and haven’t stopped for very long since. Donn and I are very sensitive parents. “Look! This is beautiful! Stop reading! Turn off your Game-Boys,” we told them. “Enjoy this! Yes, you have to!” And they did, some of the time anyway.

We arrived at the coast and I saw a herd of elk feeding in a marsh just below us. We stopped but it was too late for anyone else to see them, so we drove on. Suddenly we saw another herd, this one close to the road, near a sign that said “Elk Viewing.” I suppose they must salt the lawn there or something, because the herd was definitely wild and yet used enough to people to not panic when a small child near us slammed the car door and started yelling at his father. We were much more circumspect, and joined the other snapping photos. At first, the leader, he of the biggest antlers, hung out in the background, but then he apparently decided it was time for his photoshoot because he ordered the herd off to the side, then slowly stalked the lawn, turning his head left and right. It was very amusing, and I guess a sign that even here in the north, we’re still in California. “I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.”

We drove through Humboldt County and on up the coast, planning to stop for the night in Crescent City—nearly to Oregon. We got into town just before 8, and drove in dismay past motel after motel displaying “Sorry” and “We’re full” and, often, simply “No.” Finally, we found a small, unexciting hotel with one room left—two double beds. We took it. We’re glad. Abel is sleeping on the floor, his bed made out of two bedspreads, but we don’t care. We went out for some adequate Thai food and everyone else is already asleep. Tomorrow, insha’allah, we should make it back to Portland. The kids will be happy.

Surfer’s Point, Santa Claus Lane, and the Santa Monica Blvd.

All good things must come to an end, but we’ve decided to prolong our vacation as long as we can. We are en route back up to Portland, but instead of booking along the soul-less I-5, we are taking our time, driving up Route 1, which hugs the curves and cliffs of the coast and offers glimpses of the deep blue Pacific.

We left Hemet at around 10 on Tuesday morning (see previous post), and drove across to the coast. We had an errand to run in Beverly Hills (doesn’t that sound exotic? It really wasn’t), and then we drove down the Santa Monica Blvd, fringed with palm trees, to the ocean. We headed north up the Pacific Coast Highway, through Malibu and Ventura. We stopped at Surfer’s Point in Ventura, where Donn surfed and the rest of us hung out on the beach in the late afternoon light. The twins collected rocks, Elliot dozed in the sun, and Donn caught a few rides in the small, rough waves.  We watched kite-boarders float high in the air, and carve plumes through the ocean; we saw brown pelicans diving for fish. That first day, we went as far as Santa Barbara, where we planned to stay 2 nights with our friends Jeff and Bonnie. (They’re friends of Donn’s from when he was in high school. Isn’t he amazing?) We spent that evening barbecuing hamburgers, hanging out around their fire pit making s’mores, and relaxing in their jacuzzi under a brilliant moon.

In the morning, we got up to Dutch Babies (a kind of grotesquely-named oven-baked pancake) with fresh berries and maple syrup. We headed out as a group to hike Cold Springs, approximately 3 miles, half of which is uphill, and half of which is down. (Guess which part we liked?) Last year, we did part of this same hike, and I remember being amazed at the beauty of the area. The hills behind Santa Barbara offer an amazing variety of foliage, mixed with multimillion-dollar homes. (Oprah lives in the area; do you know she has not called me once? And this despite a nice conversation I had with her guard last year) Cypress and eucalyptus mix with palm trees and bougainvillea, and the dusty switchbacks of the trail open up to vistas of blue ocean and distant views of the Channel Islands. The kids clambered on rocks and crossed clear brown streams on pale fallen logs.

In the afternoon, we went to the beach. The water was icy to our Saharan skins, but we braved it anyway, swimming desperately in an attempt to warm up. When I got out of the water, I felt hot, and my skin was tingly and lobster-red. We braved kelp beds, and the kids stuck their fingers into the open mouths (orifices?) of shell-encrusted sea urchins to feel them slurp closed—eww! We walked under ridged sea cliffs, and the kids explored smuggler’s caves (“Mom, look! A Starbucks cup!”) and climbed as far up the crumbly rock as they could make it. We saw dead lobsters and lots of seaweed, in all shades of green and purple, including some that looked exactly like lettuce.  A pod of dolphins passed by, their grey skins (hides?) shiny in the sun as they flipped and dove under the bottle-green waves.

Today, Donn got up early and went surfing with Jeff, while Bonnie and I took the kids on another walk. Then I drove up to meet him, and we headed on up the coast, through San Luis Obispo and Morro Bay and Cambria, to San Simeon, where we are staying. We rolled down our windows to smell the eucalyptus trees’ spicy, vaguely medicinal smell; we drove through groves of cypress and incense cedar and Ponderosa pines. (And there’ll be a lot more of this tomorrow!)

We stopped at a fruit stand to buy 3 generously-stuffed baskets of fresh, just-picked strawberries. California strawberries are not as sweet as Oregon ones, she said loyally, but these were good: enormous, jewel-bright, plentiful and cheap. We gorged ourselves as we drove along, knowing that they wouldn’t keep and needed to be eaten up immediately.

San Simeon isn’t much more than a wide spot full of hotels along a small coastal highway, but it has its own charm—especially in its beach. We‘re approaching one of the prettiest parts of the coast—not to mention a part made famous by, and famous for, its photographers. We didn’t want to miss it in the dark, so we stopped early tonight. We swam in the hotel pool, walked along the beach at sunset, then drove into nearby Cambria for pizza. Cambria is a charming little town, and has several espresso stores—I’m sure we’ll be back for breakfast tomorrow, before heading on up the coast towards Big Sur, Carmel, San Francisco, the Golden Gate Bridge, and then the Redwoods.

I’m going to post this tonight, but Donn’s already snoring. Check back later, when I’ll have added photos and erased this sentence!

Beach Daze

I have a sort of love/hate relationship with Southern California, where my husband grew up, went to high school, and still knows people. (Do you still know anyone from high school? I don’t. I’m okay with this, except I’d like to find Marilyn again someday) Ever since we were dating, we have come down to SoCal at fairly regular intervals.

There’s lots to mock about LA, especially for a girl who calls Oregon home. There’s the concrete rivers, the enormous parking lots, the tendency in general to cover every single little bit of land with asphalt—even when you drive into the enormous hills west of town, you’ll see little dribbles of concrete spilled down their uninhabitable barren sides, as if the locals just couldn’t stand to see all that actual ground! The freeways and the traffic and the smog are famously detestable. We went to Mauritania in 2001, and came back for the first time in 2004. In that time, Humvees had become popular, and I was stunned (and judgmental) as I watched these enormous vehicles whiz by on perfectly smooth, paved roads, as in my mind I could see the streets of Mauritania, full of ancient Mercedes sedans bumping along through sand and dirt. There’s also the focus on superficials, although that’s not limited to Southern California.

But I’m working on being a nicer person; being all sweetness and light about the place, as it were. And so, I’m going to tell you about the nice part.

First of all, palm trees. Palm trees are great. Palm trees are fun. Palm trees look like they were copied from a Dr. Seuss drawing. Add a blue sky as backdrop, a few blown clouds, a sea breeze—life doesn’t get much better than this.

Second of all, the Pacific. It’s a gorgeous ocean.

We spent a day at Huntington Beach. Donn surfed; the kids and I swam; Abel even made a new friend who loaned him a boogie-board. The water temperature was perfect. The air temperature was perfect–not too hot, a little cloud cover.

 

Brown pelicans flew overhead and plunged down into the surf, rocking on the waves as they gobbled their catch. Lifeguards roamed the beach in Jeeps, surfboards strapped on top for them to grab at first sign of trouble in the swells offshore. A pod of dolphins came through, frolicking in the water, flipping their tails up, doing flips, riding the waves with the few surfers. They stayed a while, no doubt enjoying the admiration—no one can be blasé about dolphins.

Afterwards, we wandered the streets. HB is a little surf town on the California coast; as such, expect to see a lot of people in swimsuits, with great tans, and sun-streaked blonde hair—whether the sun did it or not. These people are not all beautiful, but they have a certain expectation of what is beautiful. You will see a lot of skin. If you have just spent a lot of time in a Muslim country, you might not want to go to HB right away. Just a little thought. Cuz your eyes will hurt. On the other hand, it helps us get to know what’s in style in California at least—it’s very different from what’s in style on the streets of Nouakchott.

We cruised the sidewalk sales. I went into several women’s stores, and quickly realized that I wouldn’t fit any of those cute styles. At least, I wouldn’t feel comfortable—maybe I should put it that way, since I saw many women much larger than myself who obviously felt they fit into those cute little styles.

We got the boys some new t-shirts at a huge sidewalk sale. The sun shone; the sea breeze blew. I ate a huge salad at a sidewalk café; we watched the world walk by. A beautiful day, livin’ the life on the beach.

Disclaimer: The photo is in Hemet, not HB; do you KNOW what sand can do to cameras?