EverAfterLand

A Happy {Honduran} Halloween!

{Your eyes do not deceive you - this really is a post about Halloween!  And your calendar does not deceive you, either, I am just very, very, VERY late getting this one posted.  Enjoy!}

I don't think it's any big surprise that Honduras has their own set of holidays.  Or that they don't celebrate all the same holidays that we do in The States.  They are a whole separate country, after all.

But, being the true 'Mericans that we are, we insisted on finding a way to celebrate Halloween, even if the rest of the country was clueless as to what we were doing!

Essentially, there are three main components to Halloween:

1. Costumes
2. Trick-or-Treating
3. Pumpkin Carving

Checking off this list in a Central American country is not always easy, but we were not going to be deterred!

Pumpkins

The big Jack-O-Lantern pumpkins that are the mascot of Halloween just plain don't exist here.  In fact, I still don't know what the word for "pumpkin" actually is in Spanish.  Hondurans call them simply "calabaza."  Which means "squash."  Technically true - a pumpkin is a squash - but so are a lot of things.  Acorn, spaghetti, and butternut, are some of the others, to name a few.  The lack of a separate word was made woefully obvious today when the Lunch Menu in the Embassy cafeteria boasted a side dish of "Pumpkin and Vegetables," only to be dissappointed by a tray full of baked zucchini.

The few actual orangey pumpkins that can be found stocked at the beginning of October are imported. 

And Imported = Expensive.

Miss Priss, Lil' Miss Sunshine and I were at the local PriceSmart (the Latin American Costco) when they spied a display of pumpkins.  Giddy, they ran over and each picked one up.

"PUT THOSE DOWN RIGHT NOW!"  I ordered, as if they were tossing around Fabrege Eggs.  "Those pumpkins are $30 a piece, and I don't want to pay for it if you drop one!"

Gingerly, they placed the fruit back on top of the pile.

Nope, no pumpkins for us this year!

But that doesn't mean we can't improvise. 

After all, a squash is a squash is a squash, right?

I found these little beauties at The Mercado one morning.  They're cute, they're little, they're very, very green, but with a little paint, they are just perfect!

PUMPKINS......... check!

Costumes

There are a few stores here in Tegucigalpa that sell some Halloween things.  Most, of course, are leftovers from Halloweens Past, as in "the stuff that didn't sell in The States."  Want the latest Frozen or Ninja Turtle costume?  You're probably not going to find it here. 

No matter, because my little princesses didn't want to be either of those things! 

Instead, we had a Rainbow Butterfly....

And Toothless the Dragon from the movie How To Train Your Dragon.

Fortunately, I'm not afraid to break out the sewing machine, or take on the task of creating a costume from the few working brain cells I have left.

COSTUMES...... check!

Trick-or-Treating

Trick-or-Treating is much tougher to accomplish in a country like this.  Not only do most of the population have no idea what you are talking about (or even why you are wearing a costume), there's that whole walking-in-the-streets-at-night-is-probably-gonna-get-you-shot thing to contend with.

Fortunately, we are part of an outstanding U.S. Embassy who takes care of our Holiday Yearnings!

The CLO (or Community Liason Office) managed to put on, not just one, but TWO fabulous events to entertain the kiddies!

The first happens on a Saturday in October, and fulfills the need of a traditional Trick-or-Treat experience.  The Embassy uses one of the gated communities (they're almost all gated around here!) in the area.  First, there's a little party, akin to an elementary school's Fall Festival, with a bounce house, face painting and little crafts.  Plus a potluck of tasty desserts (gotta get the kids hopped up on sugar before they go find some more sugar!)

After a little Costume Parade,  the Trick-or-Treaters are let loose into the small neighborhood to fill up those candy bags - only to the houses that previously agreed to participate, of course. 

The whole event is about the closest you can come to a US-style Halloween in all of Honduras!

Our second event is held during the week, and is a Trick-or-Treat throughout the Embassy.  Each department decorates their section of the four-story building, and then the kids are escorted through to get their candy! 

The CLO holds a Decorating Contest, so some of these displays were pretty creepy!  Twice, Miss Priss refused to get her candy.  And, yes, Miss Priss is the older one!  One display in particular had a man dressed as Frankenstein's Monster.  An already tall guy, he taped styrofoam boxes to the bottoms of his shoes, to make himself even more intimidating.  He didn't use a mask, utilizing make-up for his green monster face.

Miss Priss made fun of the packing tape on his shoes.

And then refused go near him.

Not even for C-A-N-D-Y!!

After we were safely home, plopped on the couch, sifting through candy buckets, I asked Miss Priss if she knew who the Frankenstein was.

She thought for a while, made a few guesses, and then cried, "Just tell me who it is!"

"It was your best friend's dad!!  I can't believe you didn't recognize him!"

TRICK-OR-TREATING....... check!

There was a lot of fun to be had this past Halloween!  Still, I'll be glad when we are back in The States, where this holiday can be done properly.  I mean, what kind of decent Trick-or-Treat bag DOESN'T contain one single Snickers???

 

An Ode to Summer

First off, I should probably apologize for my lack of communication the past few months.

But it was SUMMER! And things just get squirrely when it comes to summer!

Normally, I feel a bit guilty when I've neglected my blog for this long. Regretting that I did not "buckle down" and "get to work."

Not this time! I have ZERO regrets this time around. Why? Because every second of our summer was spent having fun! If summer was an orange, we twisted up that rind until we had squeezed out every last drop of juice, gulped it down so fast we wound up chugging the seeds along with it, and then licked the glass until every speck of sticky sweetness was gone.

In the history of every summer vacation we have ever had, this one ranks at the top of the list. In fact, when they came up with the word "epic" it was THIS summer vacation they were referring to.

It had everything...

Adventure....

Drama.....

Romance....

But mostly Adventure!

And lots and lots of family and friends!

This is the vacation that all other vacations will be held up to in comparison.

This one will be tough to beat.

But like all great novels, all great films, and all great bars of dark chocolate and tubs of Ben & Jerry's Phish Food, it had to come to an end eventually.

School is in session now. The adventure has ceased, silently returning to a routine of early morning buses, loaded down backpacks and after-school homework.

Which is good, I suppose. Just like too much orange juice, there is such a thing as too much adventuring.

Kids need stability, right?

Sti ll, I can't help but wonder - if Miss Priss is in 2nd grade, but doing coursework at a 3rd grade level, doesn't that technically mean she could skip a whole year of school and still be on track??

Hmmm, that might be something worth looking into.....

Observations on Memorial Day

This is a photo of Miss Priss I had taken when she was a bitty three-year-old at a Fourth of July parade in Bristol, Rhode Island. 

I had pretty much forgotten about the photo altogether.  But the other day, as Memorial Day was looming, the image popped back into my head and I knew I had to post it. 

Memorial Day is all about remembrance.  Remembering soldiers who sacrificed everything they had to give to help our country maintain freedom and equality and the pursuit of happiness.

I don't think anyone can measure what those things truly mean until you have lived in a world where they barely exist. 

Our home is in Tegucigalpa, Honduras.  A place that is still learning what it means to be good to its own people.  Where every parking lot has an armed security guard, and a truckload of rifle-bearing soldiers driving down the street is commonplace, and the noises we hear at night could be either fireworks or gunshots. 

We do not dare walk down the city streets here.  And we have our car windows (as do most vehicles in the city) tinted as dark as our eyes can stand it.  Not because we look like gringos, but because, in looking like gringos, we also look like money. 

The pursuit of happiness in this place is something that is much too far out of reach for most of the people here. 

But it is something they continue to dream for their children and their grandchildren.

(Because, thank God, dreams are still free.)

I heard some chatter up in the States, as Memorial Day Weekend was approaching, that the holiday had become synonymous with "party" and is celebrated for having a day off of work.

Not enough people, they said, were using it as a time of solemn remembrance.

(Shoot, even my husband, just now, got on my case for almost titling this post "Happy Memorial Day!"  "It's an observance," he said to me sternly.)

But I beg to differ.  Relish in your extra day off, walk down the street with your family, knowing that you are safe.  Maybe not safe from everything awful in the world, but safe from most. 

Because the people we are remembering, those brave soldiers who came before, who won't make it to barbeque's and family picnics, did what they did so you can do what you do.  So you have the opportunity to be happy.

And free.

I hope all of you had a very happy, blessed and safe Memorial Day.

9 Tips To Stay Sane While Hubby's Away - Advice From A Navy Wife

Being married to a military man all these ten long years (seriously, has it really been that long?) I have had my fair share of Hubby cutting out on me, leaving me alone with two monstrous children and a misfit dog.  We have made it through four deployments on a ship, one deployment on land and countless numbers of work-ups and work trips that lasted anywhere from a few days to eight months.  During all of these absences, I have picked up a couple of tips here and there that help me make it through on my own with some semblance of sanity and without strangling anyone.  Or running away from home.

Although I came awfully close a couple of times!

I pass my Survival Tips onto the rest of you.  Hopefully a few of them will help….

1. Close and lock all the doors and windows and draw the curtains BEFORE you put the kids in bed (preferably before it’s dark outside). – Security is the #1 issue for anyone that is home alone, especially a woman with her young kids.  Anyone who has watched a couple of ADT commercials or an episode of Law & Order: SVU knows that.  But I get it.  On a nice spring day, who wouldn’t want to have a few windows open?  Who hasn’t had kids run inside from an afternoon of play and not think to lock the door behind them (let alone wipe their feet)?  However, there’s nothing worse than coming downstairs all by yourself, in your dark, silent-as-a-horror-movie house, all creeped out that anyone outside could be watching your every move.  It won’t just keep you safer to make sure everything is locked before tucking the kids away, it’ll also keep you sane while the Hubs is away.
2. Keep your feet up! – I don’t hate all bugs.  Most of them I either don’t mind cohabitating with or feel completely competent squishing into oblivion.  But there’s one bug that is my Achilles heel.  Cockroaches.  (Ohmygosh, it makes my skin crawl just to type the word!)  When we first moved into our house in Virginia, we didn’t realize there was a whole colony of roaches in the crawlspace underneath.  Nor did we know that they were using an enormous hole below the bathroom sink as their portal into our home.  But we found out – right AFTER Hubster left on a deployment.  If you hate creepy crawlies as much as I do, make sure to stock up on the bug spray.  And be BRAVE!!!!
3. Do not fall asleep on the couch. – I really dislike going to bed at night.  In my heart, I am a Night Owl.  But in Real Life I am forced to be the mom who has to wake her kids up at 5:30 in the morning to get them dressed and off to school on time.  Even in the years before they went to school, my eldest had the habit of waking up at 6 am.  Every. Single. Day.  Do not discount a good night’s sleep.  Your rest is crucial!  A bad night’s sleep may mean the difference between keeping your cool under pressure, or screaming at the kids like a maniac.  I know it’s hard.  I know it’s cold and lonely in there.  Get your butt to bed anyway.
4. Plan on making kid-friendly, short prep meals. – First off, you should probably understand that I am NOT the cook in this family.  Hubby is the one who lives for the kitchen.  I live for chocolate chip cookies fresh out of the oven, and that’s about it.  But even if you are a chef du jour, I promise, by the end of the day you will be too wiped out to cook anything that takes longer than 15 minutes from start to finish.  And if you do have the wherewithal to cook an actual meal, make sure you’ve made enough to have leftovers for at least one more dinner (hopefully two).  And, when you’ve hit your wit’s end, I’ve got three little words that’ll not just save you, but make you a hero in your own home: Breakfast. For. Dinner.
5. Go easy on yourself. – It’s tough to keep up the same routine you have when Hubby is around.  The kids may not get their baths every night, you might use paper plates more than you’d like to, maybe you’ve hit McD’s often enough that your kids have duplicates of the same toy – it’s OK.  When Hubs is gone for several weeks or less, I consider the house to be in a state of Guerrilla Warfare.  You do whatever you gotta do to make it through the day, while also keeping your dictatorship from being overthrown by a coup.  Trust me, as long as those mini-monsters are fed, dressed and loved, they will be just fine.  (And they can always use their College Funds for therapy later – not that they’ll need to!)
6. Set the bar low. – Now is not the time to begin working on that new novel, decide to go Paleo, completely reupholster the couch by yourself or start on that quilt for your cousin’s baby shower, which happens to be next weekend.  Going from a two adult household to one is stressful.  The time you think you have for extraneous projects will be quickly eaten up by unforeseen events, or just plain ol’ exhaustion.  Not that it’s impossible to find time for extra activities when Hubster is away – it is!  It’s just that it takes several weeks for the family routine to adjust to the absence of those extra pair of hands.  Again, it’ll be OK.  I promise!
7. Don’t forget to feed the dog! – Same goes for taking out the trash, mowing the lawn, and whatever else it is the Hubs usually takes care of.  During Hubster’s last deployment, I taught myself (well, more like the wonderful store clerks taught me) how to clean and maintain our pool completely on my own.  For your Hubby’s household chores, you may need to hire some outside help.  Take a look at the finances and decide on what to do beforehand.  You really don’t want to figure this stuff out after the Homeowner’s Association has already left you a nasty notice because your weeds are waist-high.
8. Remember your support system. – I can’t tell you how many times other wives will say to me, listlessly, that their hubby has to go on a work trip for the first time since they had kids, and then add, “But I shouldn’t complain to YOU.  He’ll only be gone for a week, your husband leaves for months at a time!”  Actually, you absolutely should complain to me, because I know better than anyone what you are going through.  Yes, it could be worse, but just because it’s not at the level of “the worst” doesn’t mean that you should minimize your feelings.  Whether it’s two days or two weeks or two months, any amount of time apart that means something to you is completely valid.   And no, you never really get “used” to it.  You can get used to living as a single-parent family.  But I know I will never get used to feeling that half of my heart is missing.  Nor would I want to.  Things will get stressful and harried, and you will still fall asleep on the couch, even after I told you not to, and you will not always act like the A+ Parent you think you should be, but that’s how it is for everyone.  Make sure to talk to your trusted friends and family, the ones who will listen and try to understand (and know better than to throw a“well, it could be worse!” at you) when you are feeling stressed or overwhelmed. 
9. And please, please ask for help. – There are many people around you right now who would like nothing more than the opportunity to help you out with the kids or the groceries or the yard.  In fact, they’ve probably offered already.  Attempting to do this alone is not going to prove anything to anyone.  You are already strong.  Sometimes it’s a true show of strength to recognize when you need help.  It's like Blanche Dubois said, "I always depended on the kindness of strangers!"  Well, maybe not STRANGERS, necessarily (See Tip #1), but definitely the kindness of the good people you already know.

And that’s it!  Nine items to (hopefully!) assist in saving your sanity for however long your spouse is absent for.  Good luck!

Have a few "Home-Alone" tips of your own?  Leave them in the comments, I'd love to hear them!

31-Day Blogging Challenge: Week 2 Review

O. M. G. G.

(Which, if you don't know, stands for "OhMyGoodnessGracious!")

What a week this has been!  After surfing the high that was my Mother's Day post, I had big aspirations for getting all kinds of amazing writing and posting done!

But I was wrong.

Life interfered, throwing in a couple of events with the Embassy and the kids' school, that are not normally present in my week.  These additions threw everything off.

Still, I kept writing!  I continued posting! 

I had evil thoughts of skipping just one little night. 

"Who would even notice?" reasoned the devilish voice in my head.  "You're too tired, you should go to bed."

This was true, I was tired.  So I took a 30 minute nap on the couch, then planted myself in front of the computer. 

There was no way I was gonna let a little thing like "sleep" get in my way!

Besides, I was pretty sure there might be a couple of people who would probably notice.

And by "a couple of people," I mostly mean my mom. 

Hi, Mom!

Still, this was huge part of the whole reason for this challenge.  (I know, every other day I talk about another "point" to this challenge, it is multifaceted, just do your best to keep up!)

Life is always going to get in my way.  It's inevitable.  Not only is life just a snarky trickster like that, but being military (Go Navy!) we are extra-guaranteed to have multiple wrenches thrown into our gears at any given time.  After all, every two to three years we wind up in the midst of another move, where it feels like I am living inside of a snow globe that has just been flipped upside down.

By a toddler.

Who gives it several rough shakes for good measure.

And then almost drops it.

Anywhooo!  Getting into the habit of writing means feeling the need, the urgency, to have to put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard!) no matter how turbulent my snow globe is.

So what are my goals for Week 3?  I plan to work on writing more in the morning.  Because these late-night sessions are starting to eat at my brain (turns out sleep is actually pretty important to me) and continue my efforts to write a day or two in advance of posting. 

And that's it!  But for your viewing pleasure, here's a picture I snapped of a painting in a little Italian restaurant just outside of Tegucigalpa. 

It's a replica of a painting by Colombian artist Fernando Botero.

And, unlike the ACTUAL Mona Lisa in France, this one was a LOT bigger, and I was NOT stampeded by a busload of Asian tourists in order to see it!

Enjoy!

Adventures in Español, Part 2

I bet you thought I forgot about making a Part 2, didn't you?

Oh, Ye of little faith!

If you had missed Adventures in Espanol, Part 1, or you just want to enjoy the humorous, clever and witty writing over and over again, click here.  If all you have time for is this post currently on you're screen, then let me give you a quick synopsis of what you missed.

(I understand, we're all busy!  I'll try not to be offended.  Much.)

Basically, I had a bunch of Spanish classes during High School and College that I neglected to put much effort into.  Now we are living in Honduras, a country where Spanish is not just the "official language," it is pretty much the ONLY language.

¡Qué lástima!

Now, on with the show....

The idea that I might actually - finally - be able to speak Spanish fluently was one of the reasons I had been looking forward to our overseas move.  But once we had existed in this new foreign land for a couple of days, I realized just how handicapped I was.  I found that something like reading a menu wasn't too bad.  I knew enough words in the description of the item to get the gist of what was entailed. Pictures were an added bonus.  But the outside world did not occur in written menu format.  I had to speak to people and (worse!) they had to speak to me!  The slow, overly-enunciated, perfect Spanish that I had been listening to on my Pimsleur Audio Course was not the way actual Spanish sounded coming out of a live, native speaker's mouth.

I know, I was shocked, too!

Despite my lack of language skills, I was still pretty optimistic that everyday transactions, like ordering at a restaurant or checking-out at a grocery store, would be easy.

After all, how different could it be?

So when our Social Sponsor, JC, offered to bring the girls and me along for a trip to McDonald's a scant two days after we had arrived, I wasn't fazed one bit!  First off, the McDonald's here (as with the majority of fast food restaurants, of which there are many) looks almost exactly like a McDonald's you would find in the States.  There's a drive-thru.  There's a Play Land.  There's molded plastic booths and tables.  And there's an LCD menu screen posted above the little identical cash registers, shuffling through pictures of featured items.

All I needed were two things - whatever they call a "Happy Meal" and whatever they call "Chicken McNuggets."  The rest, I was sure, I could handle.

The screen flashed with the festive red and yellow box and I quickly memorized whatever words were around it. "Cajita Feliz."  A moment later, the same screen now showed those preformed, deep-fried, chicken-ish contraptions that all children are so fond of.  And the name?  "McNuggets." Ha!  Easy to remember!

I marched up to the counter, determined to feel as normal as possible in this strange new world, leaving JC startled by my abruptness and over-confidence.

"Quiero dos Cajitas Feliz con McNuggets," I said, my chest puffed up with pride.

"¿Blahblahblah, blah, blah, blah?"

Huh?  I wasn't prepared for her to talk back!  What was she saying?  Oh, it must be about the drinks!

"Leche, por favor."

She looked at me like I had grown an extra nose on my forehead.

"Dos leche blanco," I tried again, asking for the white milk that my kids prefer with their Happy Meals.

She went to get a manager.

Oh Holy Hell, I broke her!

A minute later, the manager strode over, looked in a couple of silver mini-fridges, then turned to me and said, "I'm sorry, we don't have any milk."

"Oh.  Alright, botella de agua, por favor."  OK, good, we're back on track.  You've got this, Jennifer, stay calm!  I ordered a fried chicken meal for myself, because the picture looked good and I could pronounce whatever was written under it.

The girl behind the register put a 9x12 inch board imprinted with pictures of plastic Smurf toys on the counter in front of me, then scurried off to fill our tray with ketchups and boxes and bottles of water.

"¿Blahblahblah, blahblah, blah?" she inquired when she returned.

What????

I was totally clueless.  "No entiendo," I said, trying to tell her I didn't understand.

She did everything but roll her eyes at me, her irritation written in capital letters across her body language.

Finally, JC had finished up her order and wandered over to check on me.

"You have to pick out their toys," she explained.  "Around here, you get to choose your own toy.  That's what the board is for."

OOOOOooooohhhhhhhh!!! Well, why didn't she just say so?

The girls picked out their Smurfs, and we were on our way.

After we were seated and had unpacked Happy Meals, um, I mean, Cajitas Feliz, I told JC how they had freaked out over my milk request.

"Oh, yeah, they don't do milk in restaurants," she explained.  "Milk is not used as much here as we do in the States."

And that about sums up my whole experience with Español thus far. I will rehearse whatever it is I want to say in my head beforehand, and feel very confident about the interaction about to ensue.  Inevitably, however, the other person has some sort of question to ask of me, and I am lost again.

But the oddest thing occurred. After we had been here for a couple of weeks, and I had worked my way through grocery stores and restaurants and hotel housekeeping, I discovered that many of my words were coming back. All that Spanish vocabulary that I had memorized the day before taking all those tests, then quickly forgot, were never, really, entirely lost. They were random - probablamente, escribir, edificio, poder, calle, mirar - all of these words that came rushing back into the forefront of my consciousness, flying and swirling and landing like small fruit flies. My hopes for learning this language were bolstered by this sudden ability to recall so much. But, at the same time, a deep frustration. What I had were many tiny pieces to an enormous puzzle, and not one piece fit together with the rest.

I was inspired and useless at the same time.

But one thing I have learned in this old age of mine (how many times is it appropriate to turn 24?) is that life is full of choices.  I can choose to close myself off from this country and its people, stay inside my house, only speak with English-speaking Embassy folks, and basically ignore the rest of the world around me.  Or I can choose to try.  Despite feeling frustrated, despite feeling completely stupid and looking incredibly foolish, I can continue to learn this language, step out into the world, and try.

And fail.

And then try again.

Thankfully, most of the people here, unlike the young lady inside that first McDonald's, are very understanding, kind and polite. 

Don't get me wrong, I still have days where I just want to hideout inside the walls of my compound and watch nothing but my favorite U.S. television shows in English, sans Spanish subtitles.  But then my housekeeper, Mary, arrives and I am forced to communicate. 

Communication that is never as horrible as my initial fears. 

And so concludes Part 2 of Adventures in Español, but my adventure still continues.  I look forward to sharing all the ridiculousness of learning, and adapting to, this beautiful language, although I do not plan to enumerate any future escapades. 

¡Adiós!  ¡Y tenga buen días!

 

 

 

The Sound And The Fervor

Last night was an epic night in all of Honduras. It was the final fútbol game of the World Cup Qualifiers, and Honduras was playing an away game against Jamaica.

Hubby was explaining the points-system and standings to me in the kitchen.

"If they win this one, they'll qualify for the World Cup, if they tie, they still qualify. But if they lose, there's a chance they won't qualify, depending on how Mexico does in their game."

"Oh," I replied, "sounds like a lot of pressure."

"Well, no, they've pretty much got it!"

"Yeah, but if they lose, they might not get it, so they really need to pull off the winning or tying."

Pressure.

Hubs turned the game on anxiously anticipating how this match would play out.

I, of course, headed upstairs, turned on Persons of Interest, and anxiously awaited to see how the killing would play out.

Not that I had no interest in the game, I did! But overhearing Hubby's yelps and gasps (as well as the screams and yells from anonymous neighbors) kept me sufficiently apprised of how the H's were playing.

(And no, I'm not making up the "H" thing. The locals call their beloved Honduran team "La H" for short. But "H" is pronounced "ah-chey" in Español. See, I'm learning!)

I knew the team had done well before Hubby even had a chance to tell me. Judging by the exuberant screams, random fireworks and occasional car horn of those anonymous neighbors, I thought La H had annihilated the Jamaicans.

"They tied!"

"That's it? I thought they won!"

"Nope, they tied. But they qualified and that's why everyone is so excited!"

"Well I could already hear the fireworks from here!"

"Some of those were probably gunshots."

"Yes, but I prefer to call them 'fireworks.'"

Hondurans, as well as many other Latin American countries, love to make their celebrations as audible as possible. Yes, some may shoot guns in the air, but the majority gravitate toward fireworks. They will shoot them off for national holidays, winning fútbol games, and their kids' birthday parties. In our lofty hotel perch, we have had the ability to turn out the lights during dinner and enjoy an impromptu fanciful lights display, put on for reasons completely unknown to us.

But last night, I was tired. My head hurt. My eyeballs hurt. And, after a week of struggling with this illness, I was simply sick of being sick. I was very happy for La H and the pride the Hondurans had for their team, but I just wanted to go to bed. The game was over around 9pm, but I stayed upstairs in our bedroom, thinking that I already knew what kind of ruckus the people of Tegucigalpa were going to make.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The tickle in my throat was more than I could bear any longer. I sat up and coughed.

No good. My lungs were not going to let it go that easily.

More coughing. I drank some water and unwrapped a throat lozenge.

Still coughing. I walked into the bathroom, half in an effort not to wake my husband, half in an effort to blow my nose.

The coughing wouldn't let up. I knew I had to take the medicine that I swore I "didn't need anymore" or risk losing sleep altogether. I grabbed my water cup, checked the time, and headed downstairs.

With little light to guide me, I entered the dark expanse of the living room, noticing the noise before I had even crossed over the threshold. My mind, fully encompassed with the task at hand while puzzling to find a way to cough more quietly, took an extra beat to recognize the source of the sound.

Car horns.

Car horns, and people, and booms, and bullets. An entire cacophony of relentless noise blasting through the wall of open windows before me, permeating the slats of bent aluminum blinds.

But mostly, I was attuned to the car horns. Beeping and tooting and bleating, creating it's own kind of symphony in the city that lay below us.

I was momentarily confused, wondering why so many people would choose to be tethered to their steering wheels, using their cars like party horns, when they could be joining the festivities that were obviously occurring right in the street.

Ultimately, I relinquished the need to know and simply stood silent, in that dark room at that dark hour, drinking in the sound of a city boastful and jubilant and wild. The electrical buzz of the people in the streets, the hollers and yelps, horns and music, almost matching the thunder of the fireworks set off repeatedly.

I had checked the clock. By this time, the game had been over for two hours. And here, now, the party was just getting started.

Life for many of the people here is hard. Hard in ways that people who take for granted as inalienable rights things like safety, education and washing machines would find difficult to understand. Yet in this small, overlooked country of immense poverty and overwhelming wealth, on this night the people came together, burgeoning with National Pride. And all of that pride, all of that love for a country that does not always love them back, swelled up from the streets, and burst forth a wave of sound unlike any other I had heard before. A mix of joy, celebration and fervent, undefinable hope.

If this is the kind of party they throw for earning a spot in the Qualifier, I can't even imagine what would happen if they actually win The World Cup.

But if they do, I know one thing for sure..... I plan to stay up, and watch the fireworks.

 

A-Huntin' We Will Go - Part 1: Presidents and Papparazzi

Hubby and I were fresh off the truck, here in Honduras, when it was time to get out there and find ourselves a house!

The realtor picked us up. She sorta had to. We had only been here for two days and we had no access to a car. Hubby sat up front, and I squished in beside an empty car seat in the back. The girls had a babysitter (thank goodness, so we could actually have complete thoughts!) and we were on our way.

As we drove to the first house, the realtor (who also knew English) explained to us which neighborhood the house was in, adding that it was also next door to the President of the Honduran Congress.

Oh, and he is also one of the leading contenders for the upcoming Presidential election.

As in, President of All Honduras.

Hubster's Reaction:

Wow! That's great! I bet The Embassy would LOVE for us to be neighbors with HIM! And the security would be REALLY GREAT around that house!!!

My Reaction:

OH HELL'S NO!!! Presidents need so much security because people not only WANT to kill them, they actively TRY to kill them! And who are you kidding? They don't want to be "friends" with us! We'll be lucky if we get to know their MAID!!!!

But we were almost there, and I was pretty curious to see what kind of a house the neighbor of the maybe-president would have.

The first thing I noticed, when we walked into the living room was not the lighting or the hardwood floors.

It was the sand.

SAND!

Akin to something you would see on an HGTV home-decorating show, there was a cut-out in the floor along one wall, creating an area about two feet wide and a few inches deep, filled with fine, white sand. The whole scene was topped with some sort of iron wall-hanging dotted with candleholders on the wall above.

"Perfect," I thought. "Who will ruin it first? The dog peeing in it, or the kids using sand in lieu of tea - all over the house?"

Nonetheless, it was fixable. Remove the sand and replace it with a bunch of potted plants. Totally doable!

Shoot.

We walked outside and saw that there was water damage in the roof that covered the patio. Did that come from upstairs? Nope. That piece of roof had nothing over it and could be repaired.

Nuts.

As we toured the upstairs, Hubbers was still daydreaming about his new BFF and making up nicknames for each other, while I was looking in every knook and crany, trying to find a reason, ANY reason, for us to NOT rent this house.

And there it was, a beautiful, glorious black and brown stain on the ceiling adjacent to the exterior wall in one of the bedrooms.

It even had some of the ceiling plaster lying on the floor, for good measure.

"Nope, we can't rent this place," I said. "If there's already leaking problems that they didn't bother to fix in a timely manner, I can't trust the landlords to make repairs after we move in, when that leak is bound to come back."

Hubs agreed, and we took off for House #2, leaving his bromance with the maybe-future-president behind.

The next house was in a gated community inside ANOTHER gated community. Now that's security!

The realtor did not have keys for the vacant house, but she did know the owner of the identical home across the street, and the housekeeper was kind enough to let us snoop around.

The home was lovely, save for one small problem - no grass in the backyard. But that was workable! Our beloved family dog, Eddie, would have to do his business in the front yard. And we could hire someone to pooper scoop!

We were still curious about the actual house for rent, though, and Hubby and I walked across the cul-de-sac to peek through the windows.

The five houses that comprised the community inside this gated area were located at the base of a large hill. At the top of the hill, construction had been started on something-or-other for the university located directly on the opposite side. There was freshly overturned dirt, several trucks, and many contruction workers milling about.

"Hey!" I hissed to Hubby, trying not to move my lips, "I think that guy is watching us!"

Hubster, of course, immediately looked up and saw the same thing I saw. One of the workers had stopped whatever it was he was doing, and was staring at us. We tried to ignore him.

Another minute later, and now a second worker had stopped what he was doing to join the first. Two construction workers were now analyzing us from their hilltop perch, standing side-by-side, their yellow hardhats nearly touching, gawking at the gringos.

"Ohmygosh, this is so WEIRD!" I commented to the realtor, trying to hide the fact that I was completely freaking out.

Another minute later, and the first worker had pulled out his smartphone.

"He. Is. Taking. PICTURES OF US!!!!!" I hissed to Hubster.

The realtor knew just what course of action to take. She whipped out her phone and started snapping pics of the two construction workers.

It took them a moment to realize what was happening, but once they did, the photography stopped, and the men went back to work.

"I can't do this," I explained to the realtor. "If they think we're odd, I can just imagine what they'll think of my blonde, blue-eyed six-year-old. I know we are a spectacle here, and I know people will stare when we walk by, but I need to know that nobody will do that right outside my house."

"I understand," she replied. "I have one more that we can look at."

It was an apartment, actually. A two-story apartment that comprised the first and second floors of a six story building. Three apartments total. With its own security guard for the driveway.

Sweet!

Inside, the apartment was spacious. Three bedrooms, an office, a playroom area adjacent to a family room. A dining room and a sitting room, I wasn't sure we had enough furniture for this place! And, because it was on the first floor, we had an actual backyard. WITH GRASS!!!!

No aspiring politicians.

No budding papparazzi.

It was the house of our dreams!

But as with all dreams, they don't always come true.....

Stay tuned for A-Huntin' We Will Go - Part 2: Housing and Heartbreak, where you'll hear someone say....

"Wow! Check out the size of THAT wood!"

Exclusively in EverAfterLand!

Adventures in Español, Part 1

There I sat, my stomach doing flip flops, waiting, barely breathing, as the graded papers were passed back to the class.  I already knew I hadn't done well.  I knew that, despite having nearly four years of high school Spanish education, the extent of my conversational skills was limited to what I had learned the very first day of my freshman year:

"Hola.  ¿Cómo está Usted?"

"Muy bien, gracias.  ¿Y Usted?" **

Somehow or other, I managed to make it through the previous three years worth of teacher reporting with adequate C's.  But Year Four was different.  Year Four thought that I actually DESERVED my three years of C's, had retained the vocabulary encased in the three textbooks prior, had dutifully practiced the conjugation of verbs.  Year Four expected the ability to actually converse. 

In ACTUAL Español.

Oh, holy hell, I'm getting a rash just thinking about it.

I truly did have a desire to learn Spanish.  My mother's parents being from Mexico and native speakers, I had always wanted to be able to watch a telenovela with my grandmother and actually understand all the weeping women and murderous men without asking her to translate.  It's in my genes, I thought as I signed up for the first class my freshman year, how hard could it be?

As it turns out, (and my report card served as a painful reflection of), there is no such thing as a genetic predisposition to language.  At least not inside my brain. 

And so I sat, waiting, wondering, hoping that I had passed this last test of the year.  The last test of my whole High School Career.  The teacher handed out the papers, then stopped by my desk to tell me she wanted to see me after class.

Uh oh.

After the room drained of students, the teacher came to my desk.  I have no recollection of her name, but I can still see her right in front of me, plain as day, an older woman with wire-rimmed glasses and short, light-brown hair that curled away from her face.

"I'm sorry," she told me, "but I lost your test."

Huh?

"I lost your test, and since this is the last one, I will give you the grade your received on the last test."

How does a teacher lose a test?

"You have a D."

"Really?" I finally replied, brightening up.  "Well, sure, that's alright.  OK, thanks!"

I ran out of the room with my overstuffed back-pack, overwhelmed at my good fortune, and promptly put the whole thing out of my mind.

It was years (I mean, seriously, YEARS) later before it dawned on me what I am sure all of you have already figured out.

That test was never "lost."  It was mercifully misplaced, taken out of its misery, by a wise teacher who knew subjecting me to summer school my graduating year was not going to do much for anyone, least of all the Spanish language.

I was, after all, a lost cause.  (And genuinely that naive.  I still am, sometimes!)

But this Lost Cause had to suffer through two more college semesters of conjugating and translating.  And what did I have to show for it?

"Hola.  ¿Cómo está Usted?"

In the many years since earning my college credits in a less-than-stellar display of language butchery, the desire to learn this language had remained.  I purchased textbooks and had Hubby gift me with the whole set of Pimsleur Audio Lessons for a long-ago birthday.  And I learned one, very important, thing.

Your brain does not instantly absorb knowledge just by the simple purchase of learning materials.  Turns out, you have to actually do something with them!

I got the farthest with the Pimsleur Audio, at one point making it all the way to Lección 21 of Unit 1.  (There are three units, by the way, with 30 lessons in each.  I did not make it far!) 

I think my biggest resistance to studying this language has been an unnerving feeling of being a fraud, a phoney (a POSER, if we want to go all Middle-School with it!)  Who did I think I was to pretend like I could talk this way?  And is this how REAL people even talk, anyway?  This is where my perfectionist Virgo tendencies come blaring loud and clear -- I don't want to practice something in front of others unless I know it perfectly first.

Kind of a stupid mentality when you are attempting to learn a whole new language, isn't it?  Of course, a reasonable person would understand that nobody expects anyone to learn a whole language instantaneously, and that most native speakers would appreciate the attempt at learning, would even be kind enough to help. 

But Virgo minds are pretty unreasonable when it comes to feelings of inadequacy.  And in the Spanish Speaking World, I felt extremely inadequate.

So as we walked off the plane, that first day in Honduras, and made our way through customs, retrieving the family pet from the Office of Something-Or-Another (I dunno, it was in Spanish), and then finally landing in our hotel room, there was really only one thing that suprised me about our newly adopted country.

It wasn't the landscape.

It wasn't the architecture.

It wasn't the crazy driving.

It is the fact that almost NO ONE in this enormous, metropolitan city speaks ENGLISH!  Not even the employees in our hotel rountinely chock-full of fellow American Embassy peeps! 

I would hardly consider myself a "world traveler," but Hubs and I have managed to make it to Italy and France.  And in my limited exposure to the world, I had found that, in the major cities, it was not too hard to find folks who could speak English.  I had assumed that the CAPITAL CITY of Honduras - Tegucigalpa - would have SOME English-speakers, especially in the hotels, airports and popular restaurants.

Wrong, wrong, WRONG! 

You only have English-speaking people in areas that English-speaking people like to travel and (more importantly) spend money.  There are no English-speakers traveling here, except us!  Well, and some missionaries from US Churches, but they don't have any money to spend!!! 

Is it the Universe fulfilling a long-ago dream to finally become fluent in this beautiful language that brought us here?  Or a curse set about by all the disgruntled Spanish teachers of my past (especially the one in whose class I would fall asleep during college.....whoops!)  I prefer to think it is the former, rather than the later.  Either way, be sure to check in...well... in a day or three, for Part Two of Adventures In Español!!!

 

** Let it be known that I spent a considerable amount of time figuring out how to make my computer do those fancy ñ and ó and ¿ symbols.  I would like to pretend that it would be a difficult thing for anybody to do, but, now that you know my history with Español, I doubt you would believe me.  Still, I did it!  All by myself!!!  (Along with several Google searches and a YouTube video, but it was all me!)

 

Hotel Living Is The Life For Me....

There are two types of people that come to Honduras courtesy of Uncle Sam.

1) Those who are part of the Embassy Pool.

2) And those who are not.

(OK, so there's also a third type - the ones who are shipped back against their will - but that's another story for another day!)

I am speaking, of course, about people (families) who are stationed here to work in a government liaison capacity.   (Oh boy!  That's some high-falutin' fancy-talkin' right thar!)  If you are a long-time reader (Hi, Mom!) then you already know that our paychecks come courtesy of the US Navy, and, as such, our friends and family are used to the Navy tossing us from one military installation to another.

"So, you are living on a base, right?" was the prevailing question of just about everyone I spoke with before we left.

"Nope.  There isn't one.  At least not in the city where we're going!"

Which was answered with a very worried and troubled expression from whomever I was talking with.  I believe I may have caused a few forehead wrinkles in some of my closest friends.  (Sorry!)

There are few military personnel stationed here, and since they all work, technically, for the Embassy, we all huddle under the umbrella of that title.

The United States Embassy, you goofs!  Although the Mexican Embassy is very close by.  I could walk on over and get me a job!  If they believed I was Mexican.  Which they probably would not.  (Insert frowny face here.)

Anywho!  For all intents and purposes, we are considered "Embassy Personnel."  And for security reasons, when talking to others, we do not go into any further detail than that.  Frankly, I don't even like mentioning our military connection in this blog post, but the fact of the matter is, anyone who really insists on uncovering this information will not have to go far to find it.  I'm afraid that cat jumped out of the bag and into the World Wide Web a long time ago!

But I digress.  Again.  What was I talking about, anyway?  Oh, yeah, The Embassy Pool!  OK, so, as I said, most American folks here are not military, instead they are State Department, or USAID, or DOD Contractors.  And those folks are part of the Embassy Housing Pool. 

(Haha!  I bet you thought this was a post about SWIMMING!!!  You're so funny!)

The Embassy rents homes in the city, and rotates people in and out of them as they come and go.  The personnel cycle through every 2-5 years depending on the position.  And the Embassy furnishes most of these homes.  Which means that most people, when they arrive here, go from the airport straight to their new home, and slip right into their brand-new lives.

But not us.

We are not part of the Embassy Pool.  I have no clear reason for why this is, nor does it even really matter.  It is what it is, and, as always, we will work within (and make the best of) the parameters we are given. 

I say "parameters" partly because, although we do not partake in the Embassy Pool, the Housing Office partakes in approving or denying whichever house we choose to rent, and partly because I like to hurt your brain with big words.

(OK, I know!  It's not even that big of a word!  I'll do better next time.)

So when we arrived, freshly dispensed from customs with two adults, two kids, one dog, one carry-on and fourteen checked pieces of luggage, we were whisked away to a different sort of Palace.  An apartment, actually.  Located inside of a hotel.  A lovely little hotel, where we were able to unpack all that luggage into two bedrooms, two baths, a living room, dining room and kitchen. 

This will be the place we call home for next two or three (or four or five) months while we wait for our the rest of our belongings, and wrestle with the Housing Office.  I would love to show you pictures of this place that we live, but for security reasons (get use to that phrase, you're gonna hear it a LOT) I will have to refrain from doing so. 

For now, though, I can show you the view.  A panoramic of what we can see here from the heart of EverAfterLand.