rincon, puerto rico

A long time ago Bryan’s friends (our friends I mean. It’s been 11 years for the love) decided it would be fun if we all went away together. Somewhere warm. Somewhere fun. Somewhere family-friendly. Somewhere that could be as easily traveled to from Seattle, Washington and London, England and all points in between and somewhere we could rent a house on the beach.

And that place turned out to be Rincon, Puerto Rico- a gringo surfing town on the west coast of the island. So there we were the week before last. The location, the house, the people, the weather… everything turned out perfectly. There were 13 of us + 2 babies + 1 in utero baby + lots of outrageous sunsets + beer pong competitions + hot tub convos + surfers + hammocks + warm ocean water + palm trees + rice & beans + 25 cases of Medalla Light + a lot of other fantastic things. Thank you Dix Hills, Long Island for spawning this crew. In spite of yourself.

don’t call it a comeback

I missed you, too.

So we had two weeks of travels. The first was Master Jonah and myself to Virginia, with a one night voyage to Long Island. The second week was joined by Bryan and with friends in Puerto Rico. I am impressed that in just one week Jonah could see all 8 grandparents, and that he didn’t fare too badly in three time zones and on planes, trains and automobiles. Of course I want to give myself props for perfecting holding a v. heavy baby in a bathroom stall on a moving vessel all by myself and my stellar packing abilities (all our clothes for two opposite seasons in one suitcase… sorta). But then self-congratulation is so 2008.

It was great times, so nice to see family and how do I say this: I think I love Target so much it hurts. I walked in to an empty, brand new one in Fredericksburg and I may have shed a few tears. I didn’t want to leave. Ever. Why, why, why, WHY can we not import this great invention of mankind to England? Why? Why do only the Swedes get the monopoly on saturating the European market with genius and affordable clothing and home furnishings?

Btw, at Baggage Claim I always wonder who the crazies are that travel with suspect-looking packages. Now I know the answer: ME!

Arlington with NeNe and the Buyuk Baba/Dede

Virginia came to visit with Logan and Cora (and lent us so many toys!)

Summer brought Luisa and while we tried to jump-start her and Jonah’s decades-long courtship, they had a fat roll-off (look how she can’t keep her hands off him!)

a baby shower for the bun in Becky’s oven

on Long Island there was Nanny, Charlie, Poppy, Buggy, Aunt Lindsay, Uncle Michael, cousins Aidan and Shea, great Uncle Gary and great Pop Pop. Those were back in the days when the Jets beat San Diego in the playoffs and Miami was just a dream away.

this is what the keyboard looks like in a house with two little boys

Fredericksburg with MiMi and BDPPB. And Jonah met Michele’s sweet “littles”, Raelynn and Ryanna.

and we were never far from Bry

Tune in next time when I post pictures from our week in Puerto Rico. And then maybe after that I might even continue to blog. Someone has to. It’s a dying hobby with all this competition from Twitter and sexting and telepathy.

7 months

Dear Jonah,

Wow. There is something about the moment a baby can sit up unassisted that is pretty phenomenal. And I don’t mean that in an every-new-skill-you-acquire-is-phenomenal kind of way. Because truth be told, I am purposely not helping you learn to crawl. In fact, I sort of stopped tummy time altogether. The other day, these moms (they’re American so I can spell it that way) were droning on and on about the studied connection between crawling and ability to read. Which annoys me on two levels. One, how can those two things possibly be related? Two, who cites studies?

So sitting up. It’s amazing. You’ve been doing it for a month and I still get such a kick out of it. I guess your languid lying-around months really had an impact on me. Now you sit there on your playmat or in the bath with approximately 100 toys in a semi-circle before you, and you just RULE the land. The Ikea stacking cups are your favorite (note to self: spend less on toys) but you don’t discriminate. If a sock ends up in the pile, fair game. This makes you independent and it makes me realize what a happy baby you are. Content to self-entertain but you’re always sort of keeping track of me on the periphery. I like that, my son. We have our eye on one another.

I guess the other momentous change is that we moved your cot/crib out of our bedroom. We did that sometime in the past couple weeks and the moment we did it marked the first ever night of your life when I didn’t sleep in the same room as you. I cried as I carried the stupid crib from our room to yours. It was such a precious feeling to fall asleep each night just paces from you. To steal you away to our bed in the early morning so that we could feel your little hands reaching all around for us, smell your sweet breath next to our heads on the pillow. But you know, in the end I hope we have all adjusted quite nicely. I am not unhappy (I like double negatives, Jonah) to have my room back in the evenings to put things away, read in bed, stare at the extra few feet of floor. And I am pretty sure you are happy to be in a truly quiet space. I love that at last you have claimed your room.

It’s hard to really articulate the nuanced and yet dramatic way in which I think you have changed. All I know is that I am pretty sure every day I think you are the most fun person ever, even more than the day before. Let’s just see if I say that when you’re crawling. I doubt it.

We celebrated the winter holidays and passed into a new year. We traveled more and tomorrow it continues. You and I board a plane to the U.S. Once again. Adventure-seekers. Your grandparents are counting the seconds until they see you. As they should. Because you are a smiley, hysterical laughing, sweet smelling, animal sound-loving, humming-while-eating 21+ pounds of the purest form of love and happiness I know. With the belly of Buddha, legs like turkey drumsticks, fat rolls for saving bits of food for later, tiny little sharp fingernails you inherited from your daddy, a nose that invites all to have a peak, downy hair that is sill deciding what color it is, eyelashes engineered for learning how to butterfly kiss, blue blue eyes and that big, drooly, still gummy smile that totally, completely, utterly guts your daddy and me. In a good way. In the best way.

A few weeks ago your daddy looked at you, looked at me, and then said “I don’t want Joney to grow up.” It put a lump in my throat, and I asked him what he meant. “Because he’s my buddy. He laughs when I tickle him.”

So my Jonah, you have to always promise to be his buddy and to laugh at his jokes. And then we’ll let you grow up. Just the other day you started pushing your feet back and forth real hard when something made you happy. And if that’s what growing up means- new miraculous things you reveal every day- then we’re ready.

Love,

Momma

easy to get used to

There is a common arc to the story of an American expat here. But of course the Chapter 1 always depends on why someone moved. I suppose we can distill the possibilities down to two main categories: Desire or Job Requirement. Because I am in the Desire camp, the first many months of getting settled and sorted and accepted were easier to swallow. Not that they were easy. Just easier. It was my/our idea to move after all.

Jessica, on the other hand, is in the (spouse’s) Job Requirement category. Her common story arc is in the appreciation phase, after a (hopefully short-lived) homesick period. And I am glad her mom found me in the blogosphere. Because sister, I hear what you’re saying: this country just doesn’t get the whole salad bar thing. Their loss. And ours as expats.

So I am reminded… what quirky things can I write about today?

Well, for starters- have I ever mentioned that 99.9% of all greeting cards for sale in the UK are wrapped in plastic?

It is so strange, environmentally destructive, needlessly time-consuming and yet, I am so pleased to have crisp, clean cards (always connected to their envelope mate) to purchase. Oh England with your plastic-wrapped cards. I heart you, I do.

I also heart you because if you ask for tea at a pub, you might just get this brought to your table.

Also, have I mentioned the texting thing?

Europe has always been lightyears ahead of the U.S. in all things cell/mobile phone. Here we pay for street parking by text, top up phone minutes by text, can speak to doctors/get prescriptions by text, get confirmation of babysitters by text and probably hundreds of other things I don’t even realize/realise yet.

My favorite/favourite of course is movie tickets by text. You just show the cinema staff your phone for entry.

Our little local cinema got a refurbishment (is this an English-y word?) recently and we decided to see Sherlock Holmes there. So fitting as the theater is on Baker Street, the famed fictional home of Mr. Holmes. They took advantage of that fact as you can see. Does this look like a typical movie theater? Gosh bless Marylebone.

i wish england was a u.s. territory

I tried to watch the season premiere of The Bachelor on abc on my computer and was greeted with the expected:

You appear to be outside the United States or its territories. Due to international rights agreements, we only offer this video to viewers located within the United States and its territories.

I could be wrong but I am pretty sure last year I got rejected only because I wasn’t in the United States. I am glad to see the “territories” called abc out on its unPC-like behavior. Get yours, Guam!

So anyway, it’s times like these when I wish England could be a territory too. Then I could watch my tv shows legally, digestive biscuits would be called graham crackers, and Target would miraculously appear.

The New York Times ran a book excerpt column New Year’s Eve day titled “My American Friends” under the column name Letters from London. You can imagine my trepidation at reading what Geoff Dyer had to say. Instead the article shocked and awed me, calling Americans “friendly”, “polite” and “charming”! The cherry on top? Finally an explanation I like of why we speak so loudly, and why British people mumble (I’m sorry, but some really do.). Check it here.

I didn’t even realize that it is a uniquely American thing to address a serviceperson as “sir” or “ma’am”. What else would you say? And to think all along I thought the British trumped us with their fork and knife eating of french fries. Brutes.

…..

It’s sort of, oh I don’t know, sad (for lack of a better word) how wise Americans here get to the inefficiencies that abound. This week was apparently “the longest cold snap in thirty years.” To put this in perspective for my American friends in wintry climes, what the BBC means is you have to wear a coat. So off I go on my merry way wearing a coat and yet, and this is where I kid you not, many other segments of the population and large operating systems are unable to cope. Just three true-life examples we observed yesterday:

• The cafe at my department store was closed due to “much of the staff having to leave early because of weather conditions and cold.” (The weather condition being you have to wear a coat. If I may repeat.)
• Gymboree announced on Wednesday that it would be closed on Friday due to “weather conditions and poor heating in the room.” Gymboree is inside a mall. And somehow they could see into the future.
• Some people do not go to work. It’s possible they don’t own a coat. And it’s wrong to discriminate against people who don’t own coats. You get 25 days of holiday, 8 bank holidays, 12 sick days and 4 too-cold-to-not-wear-a-coat-but-no-coat-can-be-procured days.

When England becomes a U.S. territory I hope that we can have one really big coat drive.

Dad, Happy Birthday. You are my favorite Bill Bryson-loving Anglophile.

in bruges

I always thought that Italy represented that perfect Yael double whammy in all of Europe: pasta and red wine. But that was before I went to Belgium.

BEER AND CHOCOLATE. CHOCOLATE AND BEER. BEER. CHOCOLATE. BEER. CHOCOLATE. BEER. BEER. BEER.

And waffles. And frites.

And can you conjure up a better combo than potatoes, cream, bacon and cheese? Before and After.

And fine, mussels. If you’re into that.

We spent 3 days in Bruges, Belgium between xmas and NYE. It’s a little city known, among other things, for an explosion of charm around Christmas so it was a great time to visit. Bruges is a canal-based city, like Amsterdam, and so everywhere you walk is likely to be picturesque. It’s also known for having held on to much of its medieval architecture. And where not authentic, pains have been taken to replicate the medieval look. And as a bonus, you can keep an eye out for settings from the eponymous film.

And look at this sweets shop, will you!

One of the many great things about Europe is the ubiquity of Nutella. And a street-side crepe maker if you’re lucky.

It was a perfect little trip. Even despite our growing suspicion that the Belgian people might hate Americans. Or just us. Here is but just a sampling… an actual conversation between Bryan and an older Belgian (gentle?)man who wanted the same table at a restaurant:

(Bryan waits for table to clear and asks server if we can sit there. Server confirms yes. Despite this, when table is cleared a man shoves ahead of Bryan.)

Bryan: Excuse me sir, we are waiting for this table.

Man (he’s Belgian, remember): No.

Bryan: That’s fine if you sit here but you’ll have to eat alongside my family.

Man: What, are you American?

Bryan: Yeah but I live in London now. What are you, Belgian?

Man: Americans. Very aggressive. Just like Iraq.

Bryan: Well we may be aggressive but we’re still the number one country on earth.

(Man leaves table in a huff and 10 minutes later when I whip out my b–b to nurse Jonah, he leaves restaurant in a huff.)

Me: Why didn’t you just tell him you were Canadian?

But this table was worth the international conflagration.

Okay, they like us a little.

But great trip. For reals.