The new Backyard

Kind Eyes - color
Originally uploaded by Christiane B

Newly acquired husband loves this guy. He is extremely popular with camera toting tourists (like me). 

Allergic to the Suburbs

Last year about this time, fancy and I make a trek out to the suburbs to meet up with our only truly english friends in England, which in itself is a sad admission. Upon returning from where the commuter rail takes you, I got so violently ill as I have never experienced before. No bolivian water or Egyptian Nile fish had been able to keep me in such a spell for so long. 

Last Thursday we did our annual pilgrimage to the burbs and now I am sitting on the couch, the window open, feeling the breeze of the very first and potentially last spring day in London, agonizing whether to bother with Day Nurse or just skip right ahead to Night Nurse. It's a different kind of sick, but I think it's official: I am destined to live in large polluted cities, where real estate prices barely allow you more than a studio flat, where the sheer mass of other bodies gobble up the germs, where dogs must trade a backyard for your shoulders and where I get to live in peace. 

At least it's the shortest day of the year. 

Landmine Victim Beauty Contest

Man, this is messed up. Unfortunately it's in German, but I will summarize briefly: apparently someone in Angola is hosting a beauty contest for landmine victims who lost a limb. The first price is a new limb. Maybe I am gullible and someone made this up, but it feels wrong, very wrong. Maybe educational? Maybe a way to make women who lost a limb feel beautiful? I don't know. I think it's a bit sick.

A Real Girl

A girl just walked into the office to be interviewed. A real girl. A smiling girl in an awkward suit. Not ancient secretary's caliber, but a real girl. So exciting. If I wasn't getting the hell out of here before the first day of summer or maybe even Memorial Day (make that Spring Bank Holiday for the Euros), I would start dreaming up lunch dates and Starbucks bitching sessions; I would get excited about someone else having a stack of lotions on their desk, someone else talking about nonsense in a eerily quiet office filled with middle aged men (and I am using middle age generously here); I would make sure that girl got hired on her girl credentials only provided she passes the basic test of human kindness. Worse than no girl in the office may be a mean girl in the office. I mean one other than the little self. I may have failed Hilary in her moment of need, but this is closer to home. I would come through.

But it's not quite worth it now, is it? Besides, to share the undivided attention as the only girl, the only kid for that matter which as I have spoken about before, does pay off nicely in piles of chocolates from various foreign countries?

My heartfelt excitement of having a potential work friend walk into the door makes me think I need to come up with an immediate plan of how this whole working from home wherever home is, shall work out. Maybe I need to find an office space full of free lancers, not so much for the copy machine, but to have a place to go to, a reason to put on real clothes, a way to actually have a conversation (other than with the little self), a way to actually meet people. How the hell does one meet people in a new country of residence if not by going to school/work/other non-sitting-on-own-couch-activity? I will not, repeat, will not join the German beerhouse round that surely takes place on Tuesdays in every country in the world and the American budweiser round that is probably on Wednesdays to be rounded up with the "all expats welcome" round on Thursdays.

How do people take advantage of the freedom of the virtual office without drowning in it? How do you motivate yourself to think beyond boundaries the way only a nice person to person discussion can facilitate? How do you stay interested if it's just you and a pile of papers?

I might just need a cat. A smart one that rejects shitty arguments and sweat pants and then we're all set.

That Land by the Equator

Still don't want to jinx things, but lets just say we are sending newly acquired husband off to a land by the Equator where little me spent her more turbulent late childhood years and he has strict instructions to come back with a long list of employment opportunities in that city or preferably in a city that I would call the NYC of Asia.

Thinking of this land by the Equator brings back such strange memories. The last time I was present in that country I had just started the phase that is sort of slowing down right now: the drinking too much and running around the city at 4am and always wanting to do one more thing, one last dance, one last shot. I distinctly recall the last week in that city when my family was already shoved into a hotel, awaiting visas for the land of the free, when I was allowed my own room, my own key and for one week only, a curfew beyond whatever pathetic and thoroughly restricting curfew was the norm in those days. Unfortunately I ended up strolling through the breakfast lounge on Sunday morning, on my way back from my big night out, where my parents were finishing omelets, ready to start the day. That morning was the first in a long series of teenage dilemmas of always getting caught no matter how small the mischief. I always have been and always will be the worst liar in the world. In that instance, I was completely unable to come up with a credible story as to why I was not in fact coming home from the bars but instead from my hotel room/the library/the movies/coffee with my grandma. Ah, sweet memories.

In any case, omelets in a hotel restaurant and an all-nighter- that was the life and I could only imagine how much better life was going to get from then on because that land by the Equator was known to be boring, but the land of the free; that land was known for badness and adventures and I could hardly wait. I was so optimistic until I realized that land of the free had curfews and a tight grip on booze for underage seekers and way too many people interested in preserving their virginity.

Woops. How did we end up there? Lets just say, I am not worried about newly acquired husband's virginity and so I am tempted to send him to my old places of worship (hilarious bars called "Fire", "Zouk", "Rayders") to see if those still harbor hoards of expats brats or worse yet, if my old drinking buddies have grown roots back on the corner of Scotts Road and Orchard Road.

Easter Sunday - Vodka and Garlic

After just receiving a rather unexpected rebuff by the parents of Miss Chris at the audacity of not having called them to wish a happy easter on easter sunday, no, not today, that's too late, I must say I feel somewhat clueless of what I may have done wrong. I love chocolate easter eggs, I used to love making easter stuff back in the days - like 20 years ago (ouch, I AM old), but I always avoided having to go to church and I have probably spent as many times celebrating passover as I have easter while at university if and when those two holidays fall on the same weekend. It has completely slipped my mind that it's a big deal back in the homeland and a big deal to the parents of miss chris. I am a bit torn between feeling like I should apologize, if nothing else for hurting someone's feeling, and staking my claim to the world of someone approaching the end of their 20s who sees easter as a long weekend to engage in the following activities none of which have any resemblance of what the mother of miss chris may have expected: Good Friday: A day to meet up with a photographer in my area, who does the most awesome, spooky portraits of people who hang out in the coffee shops or who run the little stands of Portobello market and who was so kind to lend me one of his super duper expensive lenses. Unfortunately his pictures are still better than mine, but I take that as inspiration.Better Saturday: Focus on doing very little and some photography with fancy lens and follow that up with pierogis and vodka shots. Sort of goes back to the roots I guess. Easter Sunday: Excessive pub lunch followed up with a march through Soho bars and too drunk to care Chinese food to round up the evening. The result of that can be summed up by the attached photograph. Easter Monday: Another day of focusing on doing very little, but staying off the booze and finishing romance novel 400 of the year while consuming easter candy by the fistful, considering replicating the vodka honey concoction of Saturday. I guess nowhere in that plan is there much space for easter egg painting and solemnity of any kind. Worst of all, I don't even remember what I would have been supposed to be doing in the first place, other than calling the parents of miss chris that is. And on Sunday, not Monday. I guess these little things, although annoying, don't mean too much to me, so I might as well just remember to do them, because they do seem to mean a lot to someone else. Well, off I go to make that  vodka honey and keep your fingers crossed for newly acquired husband. More on why later when I don't feel like I am jinxing it. 

P.S. Can someone explain to me why every time I try something as daring as paragraph breaks the whole blog neatly divides itself into random sections all in different font? So unfortunately the only other option is one large chunky run-on thought paragraph. 

The OTHERS won

I am not sure if it's because I got my American passport and then swiftly left the country for what seems to be an undetermined amount of time, but I am all about American politics, especially the kind that goes on in nicely furnished and wine equipped bars in central London.

Yesterday the newly acquired husband, the sex columnist and book nerd friend and the little self attended a Young Democrats vs. Young Republicans debate, proudly desplaying our DEMOCRATS stickers until our fellow Democrats opened their mouths. I drank Malbec and buried my face in shame. How can it be that a young un-Republican looking surfer dude Republican with baggy Jeans and a dirty t-shirt can shut up the two sweater combination wearing banker mom Democrats? How can it be that free points (Gore, environment, drug companies, health care) are laid in front of the not so young Democrats , ready to be picked up and converted into major shrapnel wounds on the part of Republican party policies, but instead they are gently cradled, wiggled around a bit and then thrown out of the window with statements that echo something akin of "but we care about the people". Well, isn't that nice. How about you spit out some idea of how you intend to do something for the people in a way that is better than the people can do themselves (a Republican argument for lowering taxes). I mean it was right there. We were all picturing the old granny on medicare, the evil drug company CEO at his posh mansion looking like Dr. Evil, the dying dolphins, the stolen election of 2001, we had the moral highground, so please do learn to use it.

How can it be that minus the "we must win in Iraq at any cost and if it takes a century to do so" the young Republicans argued as if they had some decent sounding plan, but all we can get out of the not so young Democrats is "but we are nicer". We can do better than that. We need to stop relying on the fact that everyone around us happens to be a bleeding heart liberal of the most left leaning sort and learn to argue with people who fundamentally disagree. Just because we think they are wrong, does not mean they have no good arguments. Come on people, sharpen your claws.

The only highlight of the evening was the following Republican quote (and I am paraphrasing) "yes, it would suck to be a prisoner of Guantanamo bay". Wehaa. I do bet it would suck.

Also, not to go all economist on everyone, but I do wish people would do some math once in a while. Republicans: Lower taxes and spend those 5 billion on Iraq a month? Democrats: Free health care for everyone, while not raising taxes on anyone but the top 1%? Oh AND balancing the budget?

It's nice to have dreams.

Most Awesome Puppy

Yeah, so I am a cat person, but this puppy I would take home, brush and pretend he was a cat.

Storm-scape

Did some heavy-duty spa-sitting, windy beach dog petting, pre-noon German beer and sausage eating and very little else, except I realized how much I like whisk(e)y and despite my best efforts how little talent I have for telling the good ones apart from the bad ones. I do know that I like to sip it and I like the fact that they come in separate menus.

Now if you'll excuse me, I am a bit too relaxed to keep moving my fingers.

Poor Us

What is it about families going abroad, engaging in behaviours they would not engage in while at home and then ending up with a murdered kid while the journos eat it up like bacon?

I won't warm up Maddie, but you know what I am thinking. I see a pattern.

Not trying to discredit a victim or her family here, but come on, do we see a problem with this?

Location: Goa, India
Victim: 15 year old nymphet
Verdict: Murder
Situation: Left alone with 25 year old man (boyfriend) while family travels onwards without her.

Goa, people. What is Goa known for? Partying. Great partying, great beaches and a lot of adult fun. What are 15 year old girls with lip piercings known for? Partying. Loving great beaches. And adult fun. What are 15 year old girls with lip piercings and an affinity for partying to dudes? God's gift from heaven. What will happen when the two meet pina colada in hand on a starry night? A lot of adult fun.

I am not a mother, but I remember vividly making many a great argument when I was 14 years old and situated in Singapore why it would be an awesome idea for my parents to let me go to Thailand for a few weeks with an older boyfriend and all his friends. And he, I assure you, was as decent a dude as they come. But turns out, I didn't get to go. Wanna know why? Cause you don't let a girl who just realized the impact of her sexuality on men and who thinks it's awesome and hilarious to use it cause damn, who knew getting attention could be so easy, but who has no idea that a night of blue balling guys and then going on a beach walk will be interpreted as something other than an innocent, fun end to a night, go somewhere, alone, where people might take her actions as face value and nobody is around to check whether she makes it home or not. As a parent, letting that happen is not murder, but it's certainly stupidity. But that's the fabulous part about these stories. They happened somewhere else, so one does not ask these questions.

First off, the blame may be applied both generally and specifically. This has the welcome side effect of making us feel even better about ourselves and we will go through great lengths to show just how incompetent they are. The locals are all crooks, the police especially, the bartenders too; savages really. After all, all those people are far away and don't scream "libel" as an English investigator/cop/bartender would and could. So that's easy. We got an obvious victim and a truck load of bad guys. I mean, we really do have a victim and there is no excuse for murder, dah, but the story, man, the story is just too easy.

It confirms what we already know. We are good. We are innocent and we just always get shafted. Poor us. Going abroad is dangerous, because them peoples are all savages. Things like this would never happen back home because we are decent and oh, maybe if some kid didn't show up at school for six months because she is living with her adult boyfriend on some beach maybe we'd be like, oh, ooops, lets talk to her parents to see if they are still all checked in. Or maybe we would not, but that is so not the point. The point is the opposite: these stories sell oh so well because we are not to blame. Naha, no blame in sight. Just victims. Poor us.

Sub Point A Section A and a Long Way to Go

Wooooow, someone just lit a firecracker under my ass and I have been running around the office like a chicken with its proverbial head cut off, except my head is still on and trying really hard to do the things people do when they actually have to use their head. It's hard man and I have not done it in a while. Juggling the thinking, the list making, the writing, the running around frantically only to be disturbed by the email that negates everything this chicken just started doing, making her have to start over, getting a bit frantic about the output, shit, no work product to show for all those hours, so work has instead of producing a product produced only empty coffee cups and a fit of laughter at the little self for using a gossip magazine on corruption in the coal market as a valid source. Yes, lets stop there. A gossip magazine on coal prices? Yes, but only in the Philippines. This is so great, well, not so great, but pretty great given the general not so greatness of the topic on hand, if only all economizing papers were written in comic style irony with big pictures and bigger margins. They are not and somehow every valid point that I squeeze out of a dry as sherry (and not the one little old ladies drink) sentence splits into thousands of every so relevant sub-points and next thing you know I am on third order bullet points (yes, we have those) and so very far removed from that original overview of all the big and important issues because holy shit how am I agonizing about bullet 19 of subpoint k of point 1 of section A of country 1?

Better drink more coffee cause got lots more sub points to create.

Priorities

The route
Originally uploaded by Christiane B

So this is where we are at.

We more or less cancelled our lease as of end of May.

Newly acquired husband left his job preemptively as of the beginning of May.

I got some sort of ok to work somewhere in "Asia" pending newly acquired husbands job prospects.

While it is amazingly ditsy sounding to declare that we are moving in May to no place in particular, but that the place is generally east of London unless it's so far east that it's really more west, it turns out that one can re-route ones container of crap or ideally store it somewhere until one knows where one is going.

So with all this vaguery hanging over our heads we decided to make a hard and fast plan for our vacation because it's important to prioritize. No need to bother with dates, logistics and monsoon seasons when one has a clear picture to guide the way.

So, ehm, Rangoon anyone?

Art credit goes to newly acquired husband and I appologize for the bad photographic quality.

The German Beach Towel Reservation System or Lost Crocodiles

Due to my long term status as the German girl abroad I have been target of many German jokes. As long as they are actually funny, I usually take them pretty well.

One stereotype that has been told to me in comical ways many times over is that of the German family hogging the pool in any given resort in any given warm town. Before the great clan of Germans retire to the sanctity of the dining area in order to enjoy a hearty serving of Spanish chorizo or Italian meatballs (one would not want to go overboard on novel food items here) they first calculate the path of the sun in relation to the overhanging palm tree leaf, aptly realizing when the shade will hit what chair and then plop down their towels at the best located beach chairs or a multitude of them just to be sure, thus reserving those for the remainder of their stay. This behavior is known to piss off every laid back, long sleeping, feet dragging tourist from other nations who has not understood that this is a sport and that they are loosing. The Germans are leading by a long shot.

I have known of families who have a rotating, elected family member who is in charge of getting up early, setting up the towels and then guarding the territory while everyone else is having their buffet style breakfast, where they heap as much fake scrambled eggs onto their plates as possible because you know, back home, they really don't have eggs and one better eat ones moneys worth and also one better steal some stale rolls just in case. But I digress.

After a long and warm absence from the homeland Miss Chris' parental unit has now returned to the mothership, thus reversing the route most retirees made. In those years navigating the globe fate had them living in warm, very warm places, gave them an abundance of heat and pools and beach chairs and lazy afternoons by the pool. One could say that the parental unit is saturated by the sun. One could also say that the parental unit has learned to look at their own people in a rather removed way, marveling at the funny, baffling and at times anal retentive habits of their compatriots. Their retirement has been made worthwhile by disregarding that they know how to behave back home(there is a distinct way one is to behave in Germany, there is a true right and wrong you "one" does not do things that one is not supposed to do. As a matter of fact one of the most often uttered phrases in Germany might be "das macht man doch nicht" meaning "one does not do that"). So in order to keep mantally agile the parental unit has made it their grand task in life to push poor German buttons at the small town grocery store (believe me, there IS a right way to wait in line), in a restaurant, at the train station and when gardening in the front yard and especially relating to Mittagsruhe (noon time rest, which means above all else, no mowing your lawn. It's a LAW). Screw Yoga. The joy they have been deriving from other people's anguish over petty incidences is the ultimate Schadenfreude which is keeping them young.

The parental unit is currently on a warm island having realized that winters in Germany sucks. Here they are doing all they can to help teach Germans to be better global citizen. I spoke with the parental unit last night to be told cheerfully that they had to end the call because they had an important task waiting for them. Apparently the German towel reservation system of the pool chairs has been extended and now some super confident Germans are placing towels onto best located chairs in the evenings, complete with the plastic crocodile or dolphin or whatever toy might be the rage in 2008. The parentals self-assigned task is to sneak out during the cover of darkness, remove the crocodiles and dolphins and nicely place them into scenic areas of the well manicured lawns. We may have a crocodile peaking out from behind a palm tree, a dolphin in the shower, and we end up with all the towels in a neat pile on a picnic table. "It is very difficult" the female parental unit informs me "one must be careful because there are stupid people walking around in the evenings when we are hiding the animals". I tell her that the crocodile she may be carrying under her arm at any specific reconnaissance mission could be her crocodile. She paused and then says almost disgusted "we don't look so dumb that anyone would believe we might own a crocodile like that". So apparently the quality standard of beach toys has plummeted along with German towel-pool-reservation behaviors so that the newly Germanized parental unit wishes not be associated with either.

Good to know the unit is doing good for the world: they are goodwill ambassadors in the name of bettering German-European relations. What pisses me off that I would have gotten in trouble for this when I was 14. So not fair.