We have plane tickets (again)

This summer we're going back to the US to visit family.  If it seems like we just got to Baku - you're right, we did.  But that's life in the State Department - living from plane ride to plane ride.  As soon as you're done with one, it's time to plan for the next.  And since I grew up with a mother who likes to book tickets at least six months in advance, I was sweating bullets as soon as we recovered from jet lag.  Because I still remember what happened last time I tried to schedule an R&R flight. 

So I started bothering Brandon about dates in January.  Then he submitted them in February.  They got approved in March.  And in April I started talking to our travel lady, I.S.  In Cairo, they had a whole Carlson Wagonlit branch office in the chancery, but here things are a little more simple.  That's why I like it here.  

Theoretically, scheduling plane tickets is pretty straightforward.  You give I.S. the dates and places you're going to, or perhaps the flight numbers you'd like to take, and she gives you the options, you pick one, and she books the tickets after you give here some approval form (Brandon does that part).  She even completes the evil E2 for you.  The chain of approvals is much shorter - two people.  I.S. and somebody else.

However, my life exists to cause people trouble that costs them lots of money.

Brandon's family lives in Missouri.  My family goes to the beach in North Carolina.  Last time we flew The Triangle, post paid for tickets in to Missouri and out of NC.  We used miles to cover the flight between the two.  Pretty simple.  This time, however, I decided to be greedy and see if they could pay for the middle leg so that Brandon and I could save the miles to go somewhere fabulous instead - like horse trekking in Europe.

Begin complicated manoevers. 

I contact I.S., ask about four different itineraries.  She provides the itineraries and the prices.  I ask her if the one I like fits within the allowance.  She provides me with the allowance price.  My flight doesn't fit.  I ask her to tell me about nine other itineraries.  Five fit within the allowance.  I pick one, swap out a flight or two that works better, and ask her if this one fits within the allowance.  Repeat four or five times.  I finally work out a schedule that does not involve ten-hour layovers or five legs, and tell her to reserve the tickets.

She reserves the tickets, and then gives me the allowance price.  It is $500 less than the initial sum she had told me.  I go back to the list of nine itineraries.  I swap out a few more flights.  I agonize about paying money for schedules that are more liveable.  I finally work something out that is just barely out of our allowance.  I tell I.S. to book the !$@#$ flight.  She books the flight.  The price has jumped.  Instead of costing $150 extra, it costs $2500 extra.

I start looking for United award tickets between MO and NC.  The only ones available will cut our time with Brandon's family for several days, cost us several hundred dollars in extra rental car days, and make us crash for several days at my sister's house.  I tear my hair out.  Rant to Brandon.  Watch as the reward seats disappear.  Finally we decide to fly out of St. Louis, after visiting Brandon's sister.  While showering the next morning, I realize that we might be able to fit a flight from St. Louis into our allowance.

I email I.S. with four more itineraries.  Half fit in the allowance.  I tell her to book the one that leaves at 8:30 from Baku, instead of the one leaving at 3:55.  She books the tickets.  The price has jumped (over the one and a half hours it took to exchange emails).  I tell her to book the 3:55 flight.  She does.  It has jumped, too, but it's will only cost us $150 extra.  I tell her to book anyway.  She does, and then asks for our signed travel thingy.  Which needs to be signed by Brandon's boss.  Who is out of town.

Thankfully, Brandon's boss came back into town a few days later, and the travel form was delivered in time to buy the tickets at the same price.  

But I'm not complaining.  After all, we don't have to pay for the tickets.  So I'm not complaining, anyone who thinks that I whine too much about all of the wonderful perks the State department gives us.  It's very wonderful.  I'm marvelously grateful.  And I'm not whining.  I'm just telling a funny story, that's all.

Payoff, eighteen years later

Twenty-two years ago, I learned to play the piano.  I was eight, and excited to begin playing beautiful music that would fill the house with melodious wonder.  Four years later, I quit.  Diligence wasn't my strong suit (I would like to make it now, if only I had the time to be diligent about anything), and my older sister played much better than I did.  So when I started playing the flute, my mother let me quit piano lessons.  She always told me, however, that one day I'd be glad I had learned to play.

Today was the day.  

We have a very small church branch here in Baku.  There are only twenty adults, and so everyone generally gets an opportunity to help out.  I've taught Relief Society, helped out in Primary, given a talk, borne my testimony several times, and taught the sisters how to make bagels and English muffins - and we've only been here four months.  

Normally we have a very accomplished pianist for our meetings, but she is in the US enjoying her R&R.  Another member of the branch also plays quite well, but he conducted the meeting this morning, as the branch president is in London for training.  His wife plays well also, but she had to tend their five children while he conducted the meeting.  A very sweet sister who plays for the Primary usually fills in when needed, but she wasn't feeling well and had to stay home.  

A few weeks earlier, when I was filling in for the same sister in Primary, I foolishly told them that I could play the piano if they needed.  My calling in Cairo was primary chorister, and I can understand the value of having a piano when children are learning songs.  

I should have considered before I said I could 'play the piano.'  Our piano arrived about two and a half months ago, a new piano we had bought in Virginia and promptly packed off to Baku without ever opening the box.  So to say that I could 'play the piano' after two and a half months' practicing following an eighteen-year lapse was perhaps a little... ambitious.  

One day I'll learn to stop talking so much.

When I got to church this morning I told the branch president's wife (who is the Primary president) that the Primary pianist was going to be out (because I fill in for her when she is gone) and asked if she needed help in Primary.  No, she didn't need help, but could I play the piano?  Sure, I told her, I could play the piano.  Primary children don't notice a few missed accidentals or incorrect chords anyway.

"Great," she told me, "the hymn numbers are up on the piano."

Hymns?  Like for sacrament meeting?  To accompany everyone?

Thankfully, if you play quietly enough, those missed accidentals and incorrect chords can't be heard that well.  Hopefully.  But I will be more diligent in practicing.  Because now I'm the backup-backup-backup-backup branch pianist.  I hope my mother's happy.

Further Adventures in Driving, and Why I Live Overseas

Most days, I stay home all day with the children.  I wake up a five, go to bed around nine-thirty, and often spend every single minute between those hours inside my house.  If we're feeling especially indulgent, I will take the children for a walk around the neighborhood and we might stop and feed the turtles some lettuce.  But that doesn't happen every day.

I don't clean my own toilets, but I feel like I spend most days keeping quite busy schooling the children, exercising, cooking dinner, sewing, painting, managing our finances, and keeping the fights to a minimum.  I know that sometimes stay-at-home-mom conjures up images of women sitting around and watching soap operas, but that's not me.  We don't have a server-thingy that lets us watch Netflix or Hulu, so even if I wanted to watch soap operas, it wouldn't be an option.

Some days, however, I get a break.  And although I don't deserve a break - after all, I don't clean my own toilets - I certainly enjoy a break.

So today when my housekeeper showed up, I told her my plans for the day: leave to go out to lunch at twelve, followed by a haircut, and then a trip to the grocery store.  I would probably be back around four-thirty.  And hopefully the children wouldn't be too terrible.

After a morning of school, I fed them all lunch, put the boys down for a nap, put the girls upstairs for quiet time, and got in my car.  All.  By.  Myself.

I found the restaurant fairly easily after only running one red light (the traffic lights are on small upright poles by the side of the road, so if you're not looking they're very easy to miss.  That's when I'm grateful for dip plates).  I went to park, found an open space near the restaurant that looked like it could be used for parking, and pulled into a side road/alley to turn around.  While slowly backing up and looking out for passing cars, I suddenly came to a crunching halt.  I had looked out for cars, but not for random light poles.  After parking in a different space (everyone here follows you so closely that backing up to parallel park is almost impossible), I inspected the damage.  One slightly cracked light on the bumper.  A little ding.  Nothing to worry about.

Lunch was fairly unremarkable/somewhat inedible, but I was perfectly happy to sit and enjoy the rare, rare company of fellow adults.  Company that did not include any children trying to interrupt, or have part of my chocolate-frosted brownie, or whine about how long it was taking, or bothering other people.  I enjoyed not having to tell anyone to finish their food or just sit down instead of standing on your chair.

I know I will miss the days of sweet kisses and cuddly story time and hugs that make just about anything better, but I will not miss telling people to sit down.

Lunch was followed by a haircut.  When I got into (my now damaged) car and pulled up the address on my GPS, I was told that my destination was 2.8 miles away.  I looked at the clock.  Nine minutes past two.  My appointment was at two-thirty.  Plenty of time.

I'm still not sure of the legality (although I probably shouldn't care.  Gotta love those red plates) of mid-street U-turns, and my car was parked the wrong direction for my route.  So I thought I would be clever and loop back around on a convenient side street that looked like it should take me where I wanted to go. But after ten minutes of squeezing past cars, getting stuck in a tight spot that involved me, a Mercedes driving towards me, a Nissan driving diagonally away from me, and a car that was perpendicular to the Nissan and trying to back out into the Mercedes (all surrounded by parked cars), I found myself in a dead end.

After turning around (with no light poles in sight this time), I was back on my merry way, with plenty of time.  Or so I thought.  

I have a GPS.  It is a good thing.  Without it, I would rarely go outside my neighborhood, and when I was forced, I would be in a cold sweat the entire time.  I'm grateful that somebody here decided that making a GPS was a good business venture.  It blesses me with the gift of mobility.

But it doesn't really give it in any kind of intelligent way.  After all, it's just a software program and can't reasonably be expected to realize that although going through town is a shorter distance, it is in no conceivable way going to take less time than going the longer, faster route.  However, I'm no one to talk because obviously I don't know anything either.  That's why I'm relying on a GPS.

So through town we went, together.

This picture doesn't do it justice, but look at the road on the left.  It fits several cars beside each other.  Look at the roads in the middle of the pictures.  It fits one.  Maybe.  Now imagine driving through those roads for 2.8 miles.  Well, to be fair I had driven some, so by this point it was less.  Perhaps 2.3 miles.  And that is how it takes from 2:09 to 2:48 to drive 2.8 miles.  And of course you have to park, too.

By the time my hair was trimmed, blow-dried, and newly fabulous, the afternoon was coming to a close.  I knew that Brandon was trying to come home early to have a conference call, so I rung him up.

"I'm in the area.  Will be you be leaving soon?"
"Yes, in about twenty minutes."
"Great, I'll be there in about that amount of time."

Yes, it really does take twenty minutes to drive that far.  But when you're trying to avoid people backing up in the middle of the road, narrowing down from four lanes to two because of double- and triple- parked cars, swerving around others turning right from the left side of the road, and of course pedestrians, it gets a little hairy. And don't forget one-way streets.  It takes awhile.

But it was all okay.  Because I was doing it all in my solitary lonesome self.  I love living overseas.

Seven Years

Seven years ago today, Brandon and I got married in the Raleigh North Carolina Temple.

Seven years ago

It's been a busy seven years.  In the last seven years, we have:
 owned two cars
 bought one car
 had one graduation
 had three jobs (between the two of us)
 lived in overseas three times, in two countries
 flown ten trans-atlantic flights
 lived in ten different homes
 had one sibling get married
 sent seven family members on missions
 had one traffic ticket (mine)
 been to seven different countries
 had four children

And been in love every minute (of course I had to say that last part)

Eight months ago

He Smiles!

The last week, Joseph has decided that six o'clock is really the best time in the world to wake up on the weekend.  And maybe five o-clock when Brandon and I are trying to sleep in until six on a regular day.  And on the days when the alarm goes off at five, four is a perfectly reasonable hour to start crying.  Or perhaps just start at two and don't give up until mom comes in at four and breaks her rule of no-feedings-before-sunrise.

But, he's still cute so he hasn't gone out the window.  Yet.

I'm glad they're using all of that oil money for something useful

Everyone who lives overseas has a slightly different agenda.  Some go for cultural events.  Others love museums.  Brandon had a professor who scheduled his study abroad trips around where he could get the best food.  Another set seek out wild, remote places.

Me?  I go for parks.

Maybe in another life, one where my children are grown up, I'll start enjoying the other things too.  But for now, parks are a large factor in my enjoyment of a place.

So after being in Cairo where we spent every. single. Saturday. at Maadi House, I was thrilled to hear that they have parks here.  That aren't crowded with every single local who can possibly fit.  And don't have trash all over them.  And have playground equipment.

We have had our car for a few weeks, but haven't had the opportunity to go seek out these mythical parks until last weekend.  Brandon was gone with the Boy Scouts enjoying those wild remote places (notice that nobody under the age of twelve can join the Boy Scouts), so I decided to take the children somewhere new so that they could bleed off their energy playing instead of squabbling.

Going off half-cocked with a GPS like I usually do, we initially ended up in the wrong place.  It was lovely, but the children were not going to be bought off with a beautiful view and a walk when there was playground equipment to be had.

So back in the car everything went (where we were maybe parked in a not okay spot, but that's what those dip plates are for, right?), and we kept searching for the park.  Past the construction site and dockyard cranes, we found it.  And everyone had a great time.

Driving in Baku (when you're the one driving)

Two weeks ago, our car arrived finally got registered and plated.  Brandon drove it home after an interminable event, and came in at eleven at night.  He parked it in our garage, and it fit, but just barely.

Good thing we don't own a minivan.  And it's probably fine that we have no door from the house to the garage because we wouldn't be able to fit through it anyway when the car is parked in the garage.  Which it is for most of the week.

But on those times it isn't....

I'm driving it around.  And I love it.  I've always been somewhat partial to driving; if nobody else wants to drive, I'm happy to do it.  But it's not like I've got driving gloves or anything.  When we went back to the US and got our car, however, I discovered why everyone owns those big, gas-guzzling SUVs.  It's because they have big, gas-guzzling engines!  And they're really fun to use!  And it doesn't hurt to be up high able to survey everyone around you.

So when we came to Baku, I mourned the temporary absence of our car, daydreaming of the day when I could take it out and conquer the mean streets of Baku.

Over the last two weeks, I've gradually been widening the area of my vehicular wanderings.  First I took it to the grocery store a mile away.  The I took it to the grocery store and a store a little further afield.  Last week I volunteered to drive on our monthly visiting teaching visit.

And so today, with Brandon far away on a Boy Scout campout, I decided to go on An Adventure with the children.

I've heard about various parks, parks with things like playground equipment and slides and swings, from friends.  We have a 'park' here, but it is more like a landscaped green space that my children use for whatever ends they choose.  It doesn't have any playground equipment, so today we went in search of one (post to follow).

I've heard about parks closer to our house, but I decided to go to one down by the Caspian, pretty much right in the middle of downtown Baku.  Like down the street from the Four Seasons, across the street from the J.W. Marriott and on a four (or maybe five or six, depending on what you feel like) lane road.  Which is of course why I waited until Brandon was gone because I don't think he would have approved of the outing.

We arrived without much trouble, having left around nine - an hour when any decent Azeri who can is still in bed - and so not encountering too much traffic.

But when we left around eleven thirty, there were plenty of people on the road.  Coupled with missing a few turns and having a road or two closed, we really got to experience driving in downtown Baku.  We even passed by the Eurovision stadium.

The highlight of my Baku-driving skills test was when we hit an area of construction where five or six lanes of traffic turned into one or two without any warning.  At one point Kathleen probably could have stuck her arm out and touched a bus next to us (and I'm really not exaggerating.  She might have had to unbuckle and lean out, but I think she could have done it).  Some poor guy in a Lada got his tire stuck in a pothole and couldn't get the car out.  I'm not joking.  It was sunk down to the front bumper.  If I wasn't trying to avoid being run over by a bus, I would have taken a picture.  I even tried, but I would have had to look through the viewfinder, and that is unsafe driving practices.  So instead I tossed the camera to Kathleen, but she wasn't very good at getting pictures of anything useful.

So now I can say that I've driven in Baku.  And really, it's not that bad.  No, really.  I think that maybe if everyone was going forty miles an hour and trying to navigate some of the things they pull off, that would be dangerous.  But when you're going five miles an hour, pulling in front of someone unexpectedly is only going to annoy them, not cause an accident.  People drive their cars here they way you drive a shopping cart - going where you need to go and keeping an eye on the carts around you while you're doing it.  If everyone in Safeway were running at top speed while picking up diapers and pickles, it would be a problem.  But they're not, and that's why you don't hear of deadly supermarket pile-ups.

And now I have a confession to make.  The reason I like driving here most of all is because you don't have to obey the rules and being aggressive is okay.  I guess that makes me a jerk.  Because I like ignoring the rules and getting away with it.  And I like pulling out in front of people.  I always thought I was law-abiding until I started driving here.  Oh well.

And those diplomatic plates?  They're awesome.

Lessons learned from classic literature

This afternoon I went, for the first time, to the airport bazaar.  Since Wal-Mart and Carrefour don't exist here, everyone who wants anything goes to the airport bazaar.  Need a massaging hoola hoop?  Check.  Fifty-inch flat screen TV?  Of course.  Completely tacky/bizarre baskets covered in tulle and flowers?  What color and size would you like?  If it is made in China, they have it at the airport bazaar.

I wasn't looking for anything specific; I had mainly accepted my friend's invitation to get out of the house and leave my children with the housekeeper.  Sometimes I need to do that.

While strolling the aisles, I saw a scrub brush on a long stick.

"Hmm," I thought to myself, "our back patio is pretty dirty.  And even though it gets hosed down every fed days, it doesn't do much to actually get the dirt off the deck.  The children's feet are filthy every time they come in.  That place really needs a good scrubbing."

A few hours later, I walked in the door and called out to the girls.  "I've got a present for you!  It's so exciting!  And I bought two - one for you Sophia and one for you Kathleen.  Come and see!"

Within a matter of minutes they had filled a bucket full of water and were contentedly scrubbing away.  "I can be Cinderella," Kathleen informed Sophia.  "And me too!" Sophia replied.  "Yes," I told them diplomatically, "you can both be Cinderella.  You're twins."

I went inside and started dinner.  A few minuted later, Sophia came in howling and sobbing, "Edwin!  He stole my brush!!  And he won't give it back!!!"  I quieted the tears by giving Edwin a mop and all three went back to work, happily scrubbing, while I enjoyed cooking dinner without any 'helpers.'

Moral of the story: anything is fun if you can present it as a "surprise."

Now How's That for Procrastination?

Today the girls went to their first birthday party.  Kathleen is five and a half and has never been to a birthday party.  I suppose that says something about how easily we make friends in the Sherwood family.

After the girls received their invitation earlier this week, I realized that with the fun of a birthday party comes the responsibility of bringing a gift.  Not knowing what to do, I asked the girl's mom who I happen to be visiting teaching partners and next-door neighbors with.  "Oh," she replied, "I always keep a closet full of gifts for whenever I need them."

I have a closet full of chocolate chips and lard, but I'm not sure how happy a seven year-old girl would be with lard.  Or even chocolate chips - even if it is a three-pound bag.  And Ghiradelli.

So I asked where one might buy gifts if their closet didn't have any ones that a seven-year old girl might like.  "There are some toy stores around town.  But they can be really expensive - like thirty-five manat for something you'd pay fifteen dollars for in the States."

Hm.  I'm all for birthday parties, I suppose.  But I've never been that excited about the gift part of it.  And especially not paying over forty dollars for something of dubious value to the recipient.  If my children ever have parties (and I know what you're thinking.  Yes, my day is coming and soon), I swear I'll at least make threatening noises about not allowing presents before Brandon overrides me.  He seems to do that when it comes to birthdays.

So, I talked to Brandon, and thought about what to do.  A few days went by.  I brought up making some dress-up thing out of the fabric I have in another closet.  Brandon pointed out that my sewing projects always end up being stressful and time-consuming.  I admitted he might be right.  He suggested going to a toy store near the embassy on his lunch break and looking around.  I thought that might be a good idea.

Fast forward to last night, at ten o'clock.  I was at home, having finished The Candy Shop War and a handful of chocolates waiting up for him.  Wondering if he had disappeared into the night of Baku, I called him to see if the latest event he was pressed into attending was thinking about wrapping up.  It wasn't.  I asked him if he had stopped by the toy store that day.

"No, I thought that you didn't want me to do that," he told me.  "I can go tomorrow if you want, what time is the birthday party?"

"Three-thirty."

I hung up the phone.  I thought about skipping the present entirely, or maybe picking one up tomorrow on our way to the embassy Easter party, or delivering it late.  Then I went upstairs and looked up former college roommates on Facebook.

Fast forward to 1:30 this afternoon.  I looked up my new dream vacation, horse trekking, on the internet.  I told Brandon that he could really make me happy by taking me to Spain to ride horses on the beach.  He asked about the present.  I told him I'd get back to him.

Finally at 2:00, I climbed up to the third floor, looked through my bin of fabrics, thanked my sister for sending me quilting fabric she wasn't going to use, pulled out the sewing machine, the iron, the ironing board, the transformer, and headed down to the dining room table to get to work.  But first I picked up Joseph and fed him, broke up a fight between the girls, and stuck Edwin on his potty.  And then dumped the contents on another pass.

Then I got down to work.

And at 3:45, the girls headed out the door by themselves with a completed pink, seven year-old-sized apron haphazardly wrapped in brown butcher paper, tied with yarn and topped with their home-made cards.  Sophia said that hers was a picture of the birthday party.  With everyone in purple.

Then I got to on work lemon bars for tomorrow's party.

Living in Baku: General Conference

After waking up Sunday morning, I checked Facebook.  One of my cousins had posted a picture, in which she mentioned her husband's priesthood session tie.  "Oh!" I thought to myself, "that's right, it's Conference weekend, isn't it?  And priesthood session just ended.  Time to go start breakfast."

As a child, I was obviously not too excited about spending several hours on Saturday and Sunday listening to church leaders give me counsel that I felt didn't apply much to me.  When I finally grew up, I started to enjoy Conference weekend and actually look forward to it.  I enjoyed having an entire weekend set aside to forget my worldly concerns and listen to the wise and prophetic counsel on offer.  And it was a perfect excuse to invite family over for fabulous brunches.  Who doesn't love french toast, eggs benedict, asparagus, sausages, and bacon?

Then we moved to Cairo.  With the time difference, we were able to listen to the morning session at six in the evening.  With the weekend shift, we got to do it after Brandon got home from work.  But I was thankful that we got to watch Conference in real time, even if sometimes the internet connection made it a little jerky.

Now we have the regular weekend back (which I've decided that I prefer), but with an eleven-hour time difference, the morning session starts when Brandon and are getting ready for bed.

I'm sad to be missing out on the weekend-long spiritual feast.  And maybe the french toast, too.