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The Expat Files

**I am doing a little catching up here in the blogsphere, so will actually be posting two entries somewhat close together for a change.

The arrival of the fall season ushers in a rash of fall ‘holidays’ that are, in my mind, quintessentially American. Fall in Cairo, where the temperatures have plummeted into the mid-seventies, has been a somewhat odd mix of our converging and diverging worlds. As the Cairenes huddle in their heavy jackets and thick sweaters, our family is sporting shorts and t-shirts, swimming on the weekends, celebrating harvesty type events like Halloween and Thanksgiving, and dreaming of a dusty, sandy Christmas. Expat life is bizarre. There have been many instances over the past several months where the juxtaposition of our two worlds and identities has been comical, jarring, or a mix of both.

In October, Halloween came upon us with just as much intensity as it does in the United States. We managed to avoid it for the most part last year, but Emma is of age now and nothing gets past her, so our Halloween involved multiple events and is still being kept alive by her bag of candy that is slowly being consumed, one piece per finished dinner at a time. We kicked off the Halloween ‘season’ with an open house at Dan’s office, which apparently the consular section does every year. They took an entire morning off to decorate the place, put on their costumes, and invited colleagues and their families to stop by throughout the afternoon. To be honest, I have never understood why ADULTS do Halloween or why this phenomenon is growing and apparently spreading on a global scale. Dan reluctantly donned his Yemen garb and our family made a late afternoon appearance. Emma was a dragon (from last year) and Theo went as a baby. Emma’s costume stayed on for as long as it took her to make the rounds of the various desks to grab her candy, then it came off quickly, the better to eat her candy with.

Prior to Halloween, the commissary followed the time-honored American tradition of stocking holiday goods far, far in advance, so we were stepping over pumpkins soon after Labor Day and skirting around enormous displays of ridiculously oversized bags of candy. We eventually caved and bought three pumpkins for a fun afternoon of pumpkin carving with the cousins. The pumpkins lasted about one week before turning into grotesquely moldy, hideously deformed
creatures.



Halloween weekend seemed to be a big party weekend here in town. As I was playing with the kids in our play area on the Thursday afternoon before Halloween, a woman in our building who was on her way to a party asked one of our Egyptian guards to take her picture. She was dressed as a ‘sexy’ cop, complete with a tiny mini-skirt, skin-tight shirt and handcuffs. Um. What can I say?? The guards looked a little shell-shocked. On my way back from a meeting on Halloween night, I ended up wading through crowds of Egyptian teenagers who apparently turn out in force in the expat sections of Maadi, with the sole intention of egging cars and harassing party goers. Ah, the wonders of the global village.

A few weeks later, we took a quick trip to Sweden during the Muslim holiday of Eid al-Adha (Feast of Sacrifice, which comes at the end of the Haj season.) We left sunny skies and warm weather, and in one travel day, arrived to snow on the ground and about six total hours of sunlight. More accurately, ‘graylight.’ But to us, it was heavenly to put on fleeces and jackets and actually feel chilly. We enjoyed five wonderful days with Dan’s family doing things that aren’t quite on the radar in Egypt: a morning trip to IKEA and lunch; a cold walk through a park in downtown Stockholm, followed by a stop for warm beverages and pastries; the essential Saturday afternoon excursion for Lorgdasgudis (Saturday candy) where Emma had the mind-boggling experience of choosing and eating her very own bag of candy; a lovely morning reconnecting with a dear childhood friend of mine who now lives in Sweden and who I hadn’t seen since high school; a trip to the mall where the kids had a blast at the indoor play area that was the essence of that genius Scandinavian design that so perfectly intuits the mind and engagement of children. Our kids received not one single shred of attention from anyone while we were out and about, a far cry from the usual paparazzi effect that happens whenever we go out in public here. I think they blended in a bit more! We were very sad to leave our Swedish family, but look forward to returning to Stockholm, though hopefully next time during the summer months. Our world shifted dramatically again in our return travel day as we shed our fleeces upon our arrival at the Cairo airport and white-knuckled the car ride home.


As soon as the Halloween candy was cleared, out came the turkeys and the Wall of Thanksgiving Fixings at the commissary. My sister was out of town at a conference, so I got to host the Kennedys boys and another family at our place. I was a little nervous that I was late in the game to pick up the goods for the meal, but had the wonderful experience of shopping the day before in a fully stocked store with no lines or crazy shoppers. I will NEVER have it this good for Thanksgiving again. Except maybe next year. The sign over the commissary reads “The Cairo Commissary. Where Your Dreams Come True.” Heck, yeah!! They had EVERYTHING, down to the fresh cranberries, prepared pie crusts, and Pillsbury crescent rolls. (You can see that my Thanksgiving dinner is a mix of ‘from scratch’ and convenience items.) It all came together beautifully. I have to say that the monochromatic nature of the truly traditional Thanksgiving meal is something I can really only stomach once a year. It is good, but all so very beige/taupe/khaki. The turkey, the stuffing, the gravy, the potatoes, the bread, the various other casseroles and nary a shred of fiber or fresh vegetable in sight. Thank goodness for cranberries to cut through it all and add a splash of vibrant color.

The fall also brings with it the family birthday season. Five out of the possible eight birthdays between the Wright and Kennedy families take place between the end of September and the beginning of December-- which works out to a birthday pretty much every other week. I think Emma has come to expect cake-presents-balloons as a standard part of every weekend. We have been thrilled to celebrate these family occasions together, as something we haven’t been able to do in many years.


And now we head towards Christmas, of course. The Coptic Christmas isn’t until January, but there is enough stuff around, at least in our neighborhood, to make things feel mildly Christmasy for our Western Christmas. The commissary (here we go again!) is packed to the gills with candy canes and other holiday goodies. Several of the floral shops are hawking their poinsettias and imported Christmas trees, the smallest of which goes for a cool $150. Thanks, I think we will stick with our lovely fake one. We've enjoyed some fun times already making our own gingerbread house, decorating our tree, and participating in our church's Christmas pageant. We look forward to a Cairo Christmas this year, with my parents coming from Jordan for a quick visit. One of the highlights for me has been the surprise birthday/Christmas gift that Dan got me of a commissioned Nativity painting from our favorite artist and dear friend. It has been an wonderful addition to our Advent season.



The very ‘Americanness’ of this fall has got me thinking a lot about this new brand of expat life I am experiencing. It feels quite odd to not be straining for cultural integration at every turn and so my knee-jerk reaction is to view my own life as somehow less authentic or culturally relevant. But doing so really diminishes the depth of our experience as it is, which is wonderful in its own right. We’re not meant to be here for the long term and to spend the bulk of our time in a state of extreme disorientation and culture shock because we’re trying to be fully immersed would be a disservice to ourselves and our children. Our life will necessitate that we run a strong thread of ‘sameness’ through everything, if we want to maintain sanity and a sense of any rootedness through the many worlds we will inhabit. That sameness will be our American identities, though hopefully expansive and curious ones. It will include things like kitschy American holidays (minus the risque costumes) and beige turkey dinners. The great thing about it is that the backdrop will always be interesting and never boring. I am learning to accept that life in the Foreign Service will be more about cultural exposure than cultural immersion.

I remember having a conversation with a dear friend last year about how I would ‘market’ our life to our children as they grew older, wiser and more malcontented. What would be the upside for them of being uprooted every few years and tossed into a new cultural dynamic? Good question, and one I struggle with myself. What I hope they learn from their lives as diplobrats is that they are part of a large, fascinating, and multi-hued world and that the country they represent has the power to do very good things (along with some very wrong-headed ones.) Most importantly, I pray they will come to know, in some more nuanced way, the vastness of their Creator and the glory of His Creation and that that knowledge will make them more engaged, loving and grace-filled creatures. Here’s hoping the same for me and Dan too.

Brace for the Cure

Last Saturday, our family had the unforgettable experience of participating in Egypt’s version of Race for the Cure out by the pyramids on the Giza plateau. The picture above shows the glory of the finish line as we sailed past the Sphinx with the magnificent pyramids behind us. Darren Kennedy, who took all the fantastic pictures that you will see, managed to capture this fleeting shot as we raced by. What a moment. What a day.

What a day indeed. What a thoroughly Cairene event, complete with the usual chaos, crowds, congestion and camaraderie. In the interests of full disclosure, I should tell you that while the background in the above picture is entirely real, the moment being photographed is completely staged. At no point during the ‘race’ were we running along a clear path with smiles on our faces. What you can’t see here are the several kilos of dust in our hair, our state of utter exasperation, and the condition of our lungs after breathing in exhaust fumes for several hours. Intriguing, huh? Exactly what kind of a race was this?

The day started off bright and early with the temperatures in the very manageable 80s. The Kennedys had spent the night at our house, partly to babysit for us the night before when Dan and I got to go to a charity dinner, and partly to be able to be ready for the early start to our day. One of Dan’s colleagues, God bless her, had organized the embassy participation, which thankfully included easy sign-up and bus transportation to and from the site. We marshalled the troops, got everyone into their running shoes, and made it to the pick-up point with time to spare. We had to wait a bit on the bus, but it was easy to pass the time with the general excitement that kids seem to have whenever they board a form of transportation that doesn’t involve the usual car and car seat combination.

We eventually took off in a convoy of various sized buses and a security escort and made good time along the Corniche, over the Nile, and into Giza. At one point, I wondered out loud if we should have just skipped the bus thing and taken our own cars to allow for more independence. What on earth was I thinking??? Things started to slow down markedly as we got closer to the pyramids and we ended up creeping at a snail's pace towards the entrance. Our organizer had told us that the bus drivers had instructions to drop us off at the top of the hill closest to the smallest pyramid, which was the start line of the race. Under no circumstances were we to get off the bus before that, no matter what. As we entered the vicinity of the pyramids, there were hordes and hordes of buses jockeying for position to head up the very narrow road to the top of the hill.

As we inched our way forward, we eventually came to a complete halt and the bus driver told us to get off. WHAT? No, no, no, we protested. No way. We’re not supposed to get off here. My sister launched into a stream of commands in Arabic, assuring him that this was NOT the arrangement. Poor guy. It turned out that we did indeed need to get off the bus to go through pyramid security, and he would pick us up on the other side. Off we got and pushed through the security turnstiles. The metal detectors were beeping wildly, but no one stopped to check a single person among the hundreds thronging through. Miraculously, we found our bus again in the melee and started the trek up the hill.

The race ‘course’ was all of 1.5 K, but it took almost an hour to get to the top. Yes, 60 minutes to move slightly more than a mile due to the amount of foot traffic and bus traffic. Along the way, we counted no fewer than four first aid stations, set up no doubt to assist fatigued runners as they made their way down the hill. When we finally arrived at the top, we disembarked into a crowd that was just milling aimlessly about. It was past 10am at this point, the scheduled start time, but nothing was happening. We heard someone over the loudspeakers telling the crowds that the food vouchers were to be used later (we all would need refueling after the grueling run) and that we were waiting for the remainder of the buses to make their way up the road because that same road was also the race course. After all, we couldn’t actually run DOWN the road that the buses were currently chugging UP. Could we?



So we waited. And waited. And waited. We passed the time taking some pictures of various groupings of our family running around in the billowing sand, keeping the glorious pyramids as the backdrop. Every so often, the guy would come back on over the loudspeaker and announce that it would just be a few more minutes, while the stream of buses continued endlessly. As we trotted about, we looked over at one point and saw the crowd surge down the hill. There had been no warning or announcement of any kind that the race had officially begun. Just a stampede of people in a cloud of dust. We conferred together and decided that we would wait for the bulk of the people to go first, then bring up behind. That proved to be a mistake.


As we sauntered over to the start line and began our descent, what had appeared to be an end to the bus traffic suddenly reappeared. Confused, we wondered what was going on, since the race had started. Not only were there buses, but there was also every other kind of vehicle, packed with people who were clearly not part of the race. As we walked (since running was impossible), we were constantly getting honked and/or run off the road by what turned out to be the regular visitors to the pyramids. We found out later that while the Department of Antiquities allowed the race to take place at the site, they refused to make any other accommodations, meaning that the road up to the top remained open to all the regular tourist traffic. And camels too, apparently.


At this point, the carefree joking and laughter disappeared and it became an exercise in survival. The Kennedy boys decided that they wanted to actually try to run, so they got off the road and started going down the rocky, sandy slope. About one minute in, Sammy bit the dust and it was over for him. By then, our two families had gotten separated by the sea of people, since we (the Wrights) had to stick to the road with the double stroller. We trundled along with our poor children, cheek-by-exhaust-pipe-jowl with all the tour buses, trucks and cars. Most of the crowds seem to take all of this in stride, if the singing, clapping and incessant whistle-blowing were any indication. This was clearly a social moment for everyone else except for us, those crazy Americans who turned up to this event actually expecting to run.




We finally got down the hill and joined up with the Kennedys after several shouted cell phone conversations. My sister had been almost run over by a taxi and was fuming. Sammy was a little teary after his fall, Emma was hot and bothered, and all of us were choked with dust from the vehicular traffic and human stampede we had just endured. Thanks to Darren, we managed to rally for that final glory shot that started this blog entry. We stumbled towards our bus and ended up having to wait almost another hour before we got on the road. At that point, we were just grateful to be out of the din of the crowd, sitting in air-conditioning and chowing down on some snacks. We were all ravenous from the sheer effort of surviving the onslaught. We headed home after we took bets on how long it would actually take our bus to get out of the parking lot. Miraculously, it only took about fifteen minutes and we were on our way.

Once we arrived back at our house, we all collapsed in varying states of exhaustion, desperately needing a cure from the Race for the Cure. Showers, naps, and more food brought us back to life and by the afternoon, we were able to start laughing about the whole thing. Theo managed to get in some stretching too, since riding in that stroller had really taken it out of him.



In spite of the total and utter chaos of the whole thing, seeing the brave survivors in their pink t-shirts, making their way down the hill, gave the whole ordeal a significance that far outweighed the bedlam. in a country where there is no preventive care or routine mammograms, where breasts are certainly taboo in casual conversation, it was pretty amazing to witness the turnout to this event. So, will we do it again next year? Hmmm. I’m not sure. The men are up for it, but I think my sister and I will just take a spa day.

Cairo Lite

I realize that when I restarted this blog, I mentioned something about posting more frequently. Hah! I think I need to resign myself to being a more sporadic blogger. The problem is that when enough time passes without writing, I get too overwhelmed trying to figure out what exactly to write about or focus on. At the same time, life is most mundane in Small Childrenville, so there often isn’t much to write about that would be interesting to anyone other than me, and perhaps Dan. Who really cares what pureed food Theo is now eating or who Emma is playing with at preschool? (The answer to those questions, lest you be left hanging, is mango and Ameera.)

A couple of weeks ago, Dan and I had climbed into bed with our books to wind down at the end of the day. As usual, Dan tried to read while I interrupted every ten seconds with some conversational tidbit—an unfortunate side effect of not having enough adults to talk to during the day. That particular conversation reflected on the relative ease of our current life circumstances, with many of Cairo’s difficulties blunted or cushioned by the perks of working for the US government. As we talked, Dan mused “Really, we’re living Cairo Lite.”

Indeed, we are living Cairo Lite. I first visited Cairo about ten years ago when my sister and her husband were doing their seminary field work at a church in Shubra, one of Cairo’s poorest and most populous neighborhoods. All of my cross-cultural confidence evaporated instantly the second I emerged from the airport and was faced with the hyperbolic nature of the city, the craziness of public transportation and the sheer amount of noise. I was literally numb for the entire ten days I was there. Subsequent visits over the years have chipped away at my culture shock, but being here with the government is a completely different experience. Tucked away in Maadi, living in an apartment complex with reliable maintenance, a back-up generator, filtered water, strong AC, and a play area in the courtyard has meant that life is quite manageable. Yes, the dust and noise and pollution are right there at our doorstep and on our windowsills, but our home is a calm and cool oasis and the rhythms of our life are basically pleasant and regular. So here are some highlights (and lowlights) from our Cairo Lite Life.

In early September, Emma got to accompany her cousins to the Aqua Park (or Aqua Bark, as it is pronounced here) for her first water slides experience. Given that she has managed to work it into conversation EVERY SINGLE DAY since then makes me think it was a fun and memorable experience. Almost every imaginary role play moment since that Saturday weeks ago has involved some mention of the Aqua Bark. We have rigged up many an Aqua Bark slide with mattresses and cushions. In addition to the Bark, we’ve also benefitted from several more trips out to the Kennedy beach house. We always manage to make the trek on the hottest days of the summer, when the sand is literally burning the soles of our feet, but last week, we got to enjoy somewhat more temperate weather out there. We look forward to more days like that as the temperatures start to ease off ever so slightly. We’re still hitting the high 90s, but some days are pleasantly 80s-ish.

The latter half of September saw us descend into a bit of an illness tunnel, which contributed to some sleepless nights and general malaise. Poor Emma had it the worst with a sore throat one week, followed by fever and an ear infection and roseola the next week, followed by throwing up the third week. Since Dan and I have been accustomed to never being woken up at night by her, it was a bit of an adjustment to deal with two children during the wee hours of the morning. I managed to pick up a stomach bug myself along the way, and hit the floor in a faint one early morning on the way back from the bathroom. For whatever reason, Dan found this highly amusing. I guess part of what keeps our marriage strong is not taking each other too seriously.

An October highlight was our visit to Jordan to see the grandparents and breathe some clean air. In just a few short hours, we were transported into what felt like a totally different world with just a mere 2 million occupants, as opposed to the usual 20 million to which we have become accustomed. The weather was cool, the air was clear and the food was wonderful. Emma enjoyed painting with Tayta while Theo just rolled around and continued practicing his perpetually surprised expression. We made a few quick forays to some fun spots, like the Citadel and our favorite café, Wild Jordan. We also got to connect with friends who had been crucial to my sanity during the Awful Yemen Year. My parents gave us the wonderful gift of some nights of babysitting so that Dan and I were able to get out and be on our own for a few hours. All in all, the four days we were there felt tremendously refreshing, aside from an underlying crankiness from our three-year-old, who went on a bit of a food and sleep strike.


The highest drama of my days comes from my trips to get Emma from preschool. The morning run is pretty low-key, as most kids are in school by then and people have generally made it to work. The afternoon run is a different story. The world around me basically goes mad between 2 and 3pm, with millions of children being picked up from school on every possible street corner. Just getting down our street can take forever as I wade through a sea of kids and jostle around several buses and twenty cars all stacked at the intersection. The preschool’s side of town is even worse, with narrower streets, more kids and angrier drivers.

A few weeks ago, as I attempted to slalom around several cars and a parked truck, I heard the horrible sound of a scraping along the side of our car, followed by the even worse sound of a deep gouging up behind the passenger side as the taxi cab whose bumper I was crunching popped its trunk lid. I couldn’t bear to see the damage I had caused to our car or the other car so I just kept driving until I arrived at my destination. It was as bad as it sounded and par for the course here in Cairo. At least now our shiny, sleek car isn’t so shiny and sleek any more. I’ve been observing other cars around town and have noticed identical dents and scrapes in similar spots, so am comforted that I am not the only uncoordinated idiot on the roads.

A few days after that, I emerged from the preschool and stepped right into an enormous street brawl among about thirty young guys who had emerged from their schools, apparently ready to rumble. They were going at each with boards and rocks, and unfortunately, the only way out for me was through. So through it I went, leaning on my horn, flashing my lights, and hoping I wouldn’t be adding more gouges from flying debris to my already scarred car.

Two days ago, the afternoon pickup involved skirting around a face-off between a bunch of school boys and the pack of wild dogs that roams around that part of town. That had me pretty nervous, as I am not current on my rabies shots and don’t particularly have it in me to fight off crazy dogs. The boys were trying to provoke the dogs by chasing them and throwing rocks at them, then running away with the dogs snarling in hot pursuit. I ran inside, hoping that by the time I got back out, they would be done. No such luck. And of course, as I tried to hustle Emma into the car with Theo in my arms, she became completely obstinate, wondering why I was forcing her into the car and wanting to see the dogs. Um, no. At least I can say that her preschool helps me to keep it real.


Aside from those blood-pressure raising moments, life is good. The siblings are enjoying each other, particularly as Theo gets more mobile and more interactive. He is crawling now, after a fashion, with a motion that can only be described as a cross between a breakdance ‘worm’ move and the butterfly stroke. No matter, he is able to make a beeline for any dangling wire or cord within seconds of being put down. I am having to up the ante on my vigilance, so I find myself even more tired now at the end of each day. I am grateful for gradual movement towards consolidating routines together, such as Theo eating some ‘solid’ food at the family’s mealtimes, and now taking baths with Emma given that he can sit up in the tub. This means slightly longer gaps between the many competing family needs so that my time is not quite as fractured in meeting the various demands.

















We are looking forward to heading to Sweden next month for a brief visit to Dan’s brother and his family. We can’t wait to see green grass and open spaces, though the viewing hours of such marvels will need to be between 9am and 3pm, given the shorter days. This may be the only time that we wear any of our fall/winter clothes all year.

August and Everything After

The August heat clamped down on Cairo with a vengeance this year, right along with Ramadan (the Muslim month of fasting,) which has made for a cranky and very thirsty country. The Egyptian government conveniently went on daylight savings with the start of Ramadan to shorten up the day a bit, a rather odd move as the overall number of fasting hours remains the same. Oh well, who I am to complain? I’m not the one going without food and water all day in 110 degree weather. We will spring forward again after Ramadan for a few weeks, then fall back again with the rest of the world in October. Egypt likes to stand out, I guess.

Productivity everywhere in the Muslim world declines during this month, but in Egypt, that decline is in a league of its own. People stay up all night after they break the fast and through the early morning, pre-sunrise meal (suhuur), then go to bed. Restaurants have extensive menus for both meals, including delivery options for the 4am shift. The work day, if there is one, looks to me to be about four hours long. The nice thing about Ramadan in Egypt is that there isn’t the total moratorium on eating and drinking that there is in other countries. Restaurant and cafes are still generally open during the day, serving the Christian and foreign community, as well a fair number of non-fasting Muslims. We have managed to maintain our café options, as well as our weekly Papa Johns order.

Life has felt wonderfully ‘settled’, something I haven’t experienced in several years. For once, there is no great change on the horizon, no agonizing wait on jobs, no new baby, no big move, no major family separation, no packing or unpacking. We are here for two years and that feels great. I have been surprisingly content with my current at-home role, aside from the inevitable days when I do not want to change one more diaper, answer another ‘why’ question, or clean up yet another mess of toys. Theo is happy, chuckly and fat, fat, fat, and settling into good sleep patterns. We are within sight of the blessed 7pm-7am uninterrupted night sleep, which means that I have been able to slowly but surely chip away at my sleep deficit. It has never been that bad, since both our children were jammed into schedules from day one, but present enough that I do feel that general fogginess and look forward to it lifting more permanently.

Emma seems very positive about her preschool, which frankly surprises me. Not that there is anything particularly wrong with it, but it is a far cry from what she had in Virginia, and actually a far cry from what she could have here in Egypt if we chose to go the more expat route. She attends a place called Wee Care, run by a lovely woman affiliated with one of Egypt’s main Protestant churches here. We chose it because it came with positive recommendations from non-embassy people, and would give Emma full immersion in Arabic. Needless to say, no one in the embassy community has ever heard of it as it is located on the other side of the tracks in Maadi, so to speak, right on the edge of a neighborhood that feels like a different world. The roads narrow, the apartment buildings get higher and dingier, and the cars get older and more beat up. Trips to and from there usually involve endless jockeying around cars through the narrow streets, and dodging piles of trash, enormous potholes and pools of standing water of unknown origin. There is also a herd of goats, and several donkey carts that make regular appearances outside the preschool. I am a TOTAL anomaly in my SUV with my blond children.

The ladies at Wee Care love Emma and daily ask me to drop Theo off as well for a few hours so they can play with him. They are only half-joking. I don’t know how much Arabic Emma is actually getting, but they tell me she understands most things. I’m not hearing much, though she will randomly start counting in Arabic, or sing one of the songs she’s learned. It is very fun to hear her singing Sunday School songs from my childhood. I’m not sure what exactly is at the root of my reservations. Emma is perfectly content, and whenever I worriedly ask her which ‘hadanah’ (nursery) she likes more, she always says, “I like my old hadanah AND my new hadanah.” I need to just take her at her word and let it go at that.

I think some of my issues have to do with broader questions of assimilation and education that I know will be dogging me throughout this strange life we will lead. As a diplomat family, we are not expected, required or, for that matter, necessarily encouraged to fully assimilate wherever we go. Our job is primarily to represent our country, not get fully integrated with our host country. This is such an extreme departure from my upbringing where cultural assimilation was my family’s modus operandi. Both Dan and I would like to see our kids get some Arabic under their belts, but realistically speaking, this can’t be a long-term proposition if we’re going to be posted to countries where Arabic isn’t spoken. We’re certainly not going to be able to fling them into a new language every two years. So what really is the point of Emma picking up some Arabic now, only to drop it later? I don’t quite know the answer to that. I do believe, whatever happens, that there is value in our children having experiences in each country that strengthen and expand their views of the world and develop their cross-cultural skills. I’m writing this down now and keeping it, so that when they accuse me later in therapy of ruining their lives, I can show them that I was well-intended.

We enjoyed a fun visit from my mother at the end of August for a long weekend. Another wonderful part of our new digs is our ability to properly host people without having to create sleeping quarters wedged under our dining room table or in a corner of our living room, while standing in line for the bathroom. We have an extra bedroom and bathroom off the kitchen that we refer to as the “West Wing” and it makes for a nice, private guest space.

We had a great couple of days just doing what we normally do, with my mother joining in the family routine. We had some café outings, painting and reading time, fun with the cousins, the usual weekend swim, and lots of hanging out. Dan and I got to spend some time out on the town (hah!) one of the nights, courtesy of her babysitting. Dan turns into a pumpkin around 9:30, so we had a short window to experience some Ramadan night fun. We headed down to a restaurant in our neighborhood, where we were ushered to a table outside with two chairs side by side, facing a wall. We were a bit mystified by the placement, until we realized that there was a flat screen TV set up that was playing the Ramadan soap operas that are so popular. The patio was totally decked out with lights, awnings and flags. Various huge screens were set up in strategic locations so that people could watch TV while they smoked their sheesha pipes, ate, and talked. It was pretty fun, even though we weren’t there very long. My sister told me that the fancy hotels have a whole Ramadan special where you can rent cabanas by the pool that come with flat screens, a PlayStation, and a drinks bar. People spend all night there and have their morning meal before heading home to sleep. I don’t think we will likely be experiencing that part of Ramadan any time soon.

I had a vague goal to be working part-time come September, but honestly, I just don’t see that happening. I don’t have enough fire in my belly to go job hunting, which would also mean nanny hunting. I’m finding that I’m happy to have these months at home with Theo when he is easily entertained and in that golden baby stage of 6-9 months. It’s that stage when people are so charmed with their kid that they are lulled into getting pregnant again, only to have their adorable infant turn into an 18-month-old hellion when their newborn shows up. We won’t be going down THAT road for sure, but I know that I don’t want to miss much of these dear, sweet times. Who knows though? If the right thing came along, I would probably find a way to make it happen. For now, I will embrace my general state of contentedness for as long as it lasts, since it is a rare and fleeting thing for me.

UAB, HHE, POV, among many DOS acronyms

(NB: the pictures I am posting are rarely related to anything being written. They are just some fun ones that we've taken throughout the weeks.)

Two weeks ago, the last of our shipments arrived and so we finally have our UAB (unaccompanied air baggage), our HHE (household effects) from Yemen, our HHE from the US, and our POV (privately owned vehicle) all in one place, thanks to the Department of State’s generous shipping allowances. There are many perks to Foreign Service life, chief among them the DOS’s willingness to pack and schlep our stuff repeatedly around the globe. I will never be able to pack my own boxes or lift any heavy furniture ever again after I have been spoiled with packers and shippers for the past couple of years.


Whenever I feel guilty about the costs of our moves to all you taxpayers, I remind myself that this lifestyle would be untenable if we had to do this ourselves every two years. I know I wouldn’t last very long if I had to personally pack up my kitchen stuff so often. I also feel a little embarrassed by the sheer volume of things that we seem to ‘need’, and that has only grown with the addition of children to our family. There is nothing that drives home my materialism more than seeing towering stacks of boxes all with my name on them. However, once the bubble wrap has come off of everything and the boxes and paper have been folded away, I am so grateful to have all the bits and pieces that make our house a home.

Given that we will not likely be homeowners for a good long time, and will be living in government-assigned housing for the bulk of our lives, bringing along books, paintings and rugs will be a crucial part of weaving a thread of continuity through our peripatetic lives. I am so averse to change and transition, which makes it rather laughable to find myself a ‘trailing spouse’ to a diplomat husband. It certainly pushes the boundaries of what defines home, community and rootedness for me, and I imagine I will have to revise my definitions with each new post.


The highlight of last week was getting our paintings and pictures hung on our walls. I had delayed doing this until we had all our HHE shipments, because I felt that putting things up was the final step to being settled and we weren’t quite there yet. Since our apartment has concrete walls, we realized that we needed to call in the maintenance folks, who would surely have to use drills, plastic anchors, and specialized hooks and nails. Hah. Our picture hanger and his assistant Abdo (one of the janitors in the building) showed up with a hammer and proceeded to bash enormous nails into the walls, creating gaping holes. At one point, I showed Abdo where I wanted to put one of our wedding pictures and a Coptic cross side by side, then proceeded to put the cross down on the floor until they had the nails in the place. Abdo immediately dropped to his knees to rescue the cross from the floor and insisted that we hang it first—a funny moment of inter-religious reverence. I keep walking around our apartment, gazing at the walls and reacquainting myself with my beloved things.

As for our POV, we had the interesting experience of going to the Cairo ‘DMV’ to get our drivers’ licenses. We are totally spoiled in that the embassy basically does the whole thing for us, thus sparing us days of bureaucratic wrangling, and it is our job to show up to get our pictures taken and sign in a ledger that we have received our licenses. The embassy shuttle dropped us off at the end of a road absolutely mobbed with cars and people and we pushed our way to the building where our expediter told us to sit down while he shuffled the papers from one window to the next. Our path there took us through the driver’s test course, which consisted of turning once around a single traffic cone. That explains a lot.

We had brought Theo along with us, and it wasn’t long before a very talkative woman spotted him and came over to sit across from us so that she could play with him. For almost an hour, she snapped her fingers, chuckled and waved at him, and he obliged with many ready smiles. She couldn’t really pronounce his name, so quickly shortened it to ‘Tutu’ and I was ‘Umm Tutu’ (mother of Tutu.) At one point, he wriggled a bit because it was stiflingly hot, and she was convinced that he was hungry and kept saying loudly that I was starving him and offering him her bottle of mineral water. Clearly she did not have a good view of his thighs. Then she got hold of his chew toy to shake at him, but repeatedly grabbed it away from him because she was afraid that he would put it in his mouth. Huh? Isn’t that what babies DO? I was completely mystified by this until my sister explained to me later that Egyptians spend the first year of their children’s lives slapping their hands and toys away from their mouths because they are convinced that not doing so will lead to them chewing their fingers and putting objects in their mouths as adults. I guess the concept of an oral phase is just not widely known or accepted here. Anyway, we have our licenses in hand and are now legit drivers.



With that, we took our POV for our first trip out of Cairo last Friday to visit the Kennedys at their Red Sea chalet. There are several resort areas along the Red Sea coast in Egypt, and this particular one is the closest to Cairo, about 90 minutes away. My sister and her husband had the foresight several years ago to buy a small chalet when this particular resort was being developed for what would be peanuts to us in the West. The prices have now soared on similar properties, so they really lucked out. We spent the day there reveling in the joy of being outside in decently clean air, enjoying the sand and sea, and watching our children have the time of their lives together. We hope this will be the first of many more visits.

August is slowly passing with strings of very hot days. We don’t venture out much to anywhere that isn’t air-conditioned except for the pool. Even that is a little toasty. Theo is rolling, creeping and starting to sit up, which means that my days of carefree inattentiveness to his movements are on the wane. This is the delightful stage of babyhood, I must say: ready smiles and chuckles, lots of emerging personality, scrumptious chubbiness, and unabashed joy at the mere sight of me. What’s not to love? With mobility comes the beginning of The Will and Boundaries. I’m in no hurry to get there.