This Blog is MOVING!!

For some reason, I have to change my password every time I want to log into this account.

I refuse to listen to my children scream AND fight technology demons.

This site is moving to:  http://kellyarmstrong.pnn.com

I'll repost everything there; looking forward to seeing you at my new place!

Kelly

On the Outside Looking In

San Jose, COSTA RICA -- For nearly 15 years I've been a stranger -- to a culture, to a language, to a place.  On February 6, 1994, my husband and I moved overseas for the first time, and we've hardly been back to the U.S. since.  My husband's job has taken us to Germany, Israel, Indonesia, Croatia, and now Costa Rica.  I know how to argue with rude people in German, buy cottage cheese in Hebrew, catch a cab in Indonesian, and shop at the farmers' market in Croatian.  And I'm learning I can do almost anything in Spanish. (Did I mention I don't speak Spanish?  This certainly adds an interesting touch to daily life.)

"Wow!  You're at home anywhere!"  I hear this a lot.  "You must feel so comfortable living overseas."  I hear this too.

Yes, but here's the catch:  I'll never be German or Israeli or anything else but American.  Wherever I live, I'll always be on the outside looking in.  No matter how well I speak German or how much Spanish or Hebrew or anything else I learn, I'll always be a foreigner wherever I live.

Even in the U.S.

Overseas, I live life as an observer, trying to figure out how to fit in and function by watching those around me.  Especially at the grocery store:  what American would ever guess you needed to buy sour cream in a plastic bag?!

On my trips home, I find I spend almost as much time observing and studying and trying to fit in:  the signs are strange, the advertisements are strange, and the news on television is really, really strange: It's all about America!  

And of course, I seem just as strange to others.  I mean, what normal person talks about prices in Kunas or stocks a gas mask and atropine injector in her bomb shelter?!

My kids seem to be very, very in tune with this.  They are very aware of who in their school is American, who is Japanese, who is Costa Rican, and who is Canadian.  They know perfectly well that huge, vast cultural differences exist among their friends.  And knowing that, they get past it and get down to the business of having fun.

And I've learned to do the same thing; to laugh at myself a lot; to laugh at others quietly; and to spend a lot of time shopping at Target.  Shopping therapy, I've learned, is the great equalizer.  Because in a place like Target (a thing I've not found anywhere else the world), everyone is on the inside all together:  one, big happy family of consumers.

So, take me to Target and let me give you my credit card!  I'm in therapy.

Maybe I'm not such a stranger in the U.S. after all.

What Happens When Smoke Alarms Go Off in Embassy Housing

San Jose, COSTA RICA -- I hate to cook; let me just be frank.  Eating:  yes.  I love it.  Cooking:  I'd rather listen to children scream.  Of course, when I cook, I do get to listen to children scream.  Maybe that's why I hate it so much.

So I have this theory about cooking:  the hotter the temperature, the faster the thing will cook, and the sooner I'll be done (and the sooner the children will stop screaming).  So I cook everything on my stovetop on heat level "10":  eggs, meat, rice, delicate soups and sauces.  Under my iron fist it all chars beautifully.  And quickly.

Of course, it always burns.  Whatever 'it' is, it always burns.  This week it was pork chops.  And this is what happens when you burn pork chops on the stove in U.S. Embassy housing in Costa Rica.

First, the smoke detector goes off.  Actually, several smoke detectors go off because the Embassy puts them in Every Room.  Not a bad thing, I'm sure.  Unless it's a false alarm.

Second, I shut off the smoke detectors by dragging a chair underneath them, detaching them from the ceiling, removing the battery.... you get the picture.  Several times I do this.  You'll notice that I haven't yet turned off the stove.  Heavens no!  I've got to get that pork chop cooked!  (My housekeeper is smarter than I.  She turns off the stove.)

Third, I hear another alarm upstairs.  I dash upstairs,past my wide-eyed toddler, punch in the code, and cancel the house-wide security system alarm.

Fourth, the phone rings, so I dash back down past my still-wide-eyed toddler to answer it.  It is the guard at the front gate, who fires rapid and very concerned Spanish at me.  With a blank look, I hand the phone to my housekeeper and I learn the Spanish word for smoke:  humo.  I am to hear this word several times in the next few minutes.

Fifth, the doorbell rings.  It is a guard from the Embassy who fires rapid and very concerned Spanish at me.  With a blank look, I step aside and let my housekeeper explain.  Again I learn the Spanish word for smoke:  humo.  They both refrain from using the Spanish word for idiot, which I later look up on my own:  idiota.

Sixth, the phone rings again.  It is the guard at the front gate.  Again.  Who fires rapid and very concerned Spanish at me.  With a blank look, I hand the phone to my housekeeper, and I learn that the guard is a really nice guy.  My housekeeper translates into slower Spanish for me, and I understand:  he was just calling to say that if I ever have a problem, he's just a phone call away.

This does not change the fact that I feel like an idiota, the pork chops are burned to a crisp, and my house is full of humo.

The children come home, see what's for supper, and start screaming.  But I make them eat it anyway:  I worked hard to prepare that charcoal, and by gum they're going to enjoy it, humo and all.