Yesterday was a banner day of sorts. Another awesome care package from KT of Tennessee (traveling time = 13 days) filled with Christmas candy and goodies. A mail pouch with two, count ‘em, two Christmas cards. My first card, included in the package, was from KT. The second came from MX (I like to think of it as the 51st state) and the third from Gamamae of MA. All lovely in different ways!

Gamamae’s, however, showed particular effort. A collage of family photos, the inside was personalized and FUN. Included was a poem (?) by one Oren Arnold, of whom I know nothing about. But I love the sentiment so much that I am reproducing it here for your general well-being, edification, and enlightenment. Gracias, Gammy!

“Christmas gift suggestions:
To your enemy, forgiveness.
To an opponent, tolerance.
To a friend, your heart.
To a customer, service.
To all, charity.
To every child, a good example.
To yourself, respect.”

Cheers to all my dear readers. I am off to the Land of Not-So-Plenty and am taking a hiatus until ….? I have been blogging for three years – two years, and two moves, longer than I said I would. It has been a mighty discipline to this most undisciplined of princesses. In the above photo, is my Spanish/Brazilian/American Christmas tree, the only one I am putting up in Madrid. It is adorned with a collection of White House ornaments given to me by Flaky Friend. These are my favorite Christmas ornaments*. No matter the administration, our mutual love for the White House and all it stands for, is a bond we share. I am so looking forward to this year’s – it’s a winner. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, FLAKY FRIEND! See you in 2010.

Question: are you traveling to be with family this Christmas?

*Next to the one I get every year from Mr. Understanding.

All I remember about the Wayne Newton song “Danke Schoen” from law school is that it was the subject of a Supreme Court (?) contracts case (?). Wayne, it turns out, was singing the song all wrong. “Schoen” should be pronouned “shun”, not “shayne”, as in the following sentence: “Should Tiger Woods be shunned by his corporate sponsors for his less than upstanding behaviour and nefarious connections?” My children were only too happy to point out my lack of linguistic skills this past weekend in Frankfurt, Germany.

After hearing Bea Long and MCV wax on about the German Christmas markets, I just knew that a trip to the Vaterland would put even the loneliest of teens in the Christmas spirit. It certainly would me. What’s not to like about schnapps, schnitzel, and over-the-top decorations? There’s nothing like a good frankfurter to put a spring in the shopping step!

New to the world of cut rate airline tickets, Mr. Understanding and I scoured the websites of easyjet.com and Ryanair. Our easyjet flight to Paris was such a success that we tried Ryanair, since easyjet doesn’t fly to Frankfurt. An amazing deal, the tickets to Frankfurt Hahn cost next to nothing for a family of five. My credit card misbehaving (not my fault), Mr. Understanding booked the tickets. Most of the hotels in Frankfurt were full but, via Expedia in Spain, I booked two rooms at the Westin; they assured me they would try to have the rooms connect. The Expedia rep spoke English and was extremely friendly – a good thing, as their website is not for those traveling with families.

An hour before we left for the airport, Mr. Understanding looked at the tickets and thought there was something wrong. A quick investigation determined that the airport of Frankfurt Hahn was an hour and a half away from Frankfurt am Main, the city commonly referred to as Frankfurt. RyanAir, being a budget airline, does not have clearance to land in the nation’s airport hub, just like easyjet. Hmmm …. what to do? We ordered a hotel van, the whooshing sound of money leaving our bank account making my stomach sick. Detlef the driver, formerly from the land behind the wall, came to our rescue. I do not know where the rest of the passengers from the completely packed airplane went but disperse they did, even the two week old baby in the Carolina Herrera baby buggy, presumably via friends or buses. Frankfurt Hahn is squarely in the middle of nowhere.

After negotiating with the desk clerk, we managed to obtain side by side rooms on the same floor (but not connecting), way in the back of beyond of the nearly empty hotel. I love connecting rooms. I love connecting rooms with cots for extra children. But this time, the sucking air financial wound fresh, I forewent the extra 35 Euro bed: it was girls in one room, boys in the other, and the Princess had to share a bed.

One thing I love about traveling is talking to taxi drivers, at least native taxi drivers. Usually a wealth of information, Detlef was no different. He pointed us in the direction of all our our meals, gave us a short personal history, including stories of two escapes as a child from East Germany and how he met his Korean wife, along with the nicknames of Frankfurt (Mainhattan, Bankfurt). The first evening, at Detlef’s behest, we went to Adolf Wagner, a rousing restaurant with family style seating. We sat next to three American men from Maryland, all former policemen. Adolf Wagner’s schnitzel and potatoes are, frankly, unrivaled and, if you are a foodie, worth the trip to Frankfurt alone. Adolf Wagner, like the restaurant next door, Zum Gemalten Haus, does not serve beer, only the local apfelwein. Detlef, to his eternal credit, was clear on this. Apfelwein, or apple wine, is not taxed, unlike beer. Served in a blue painted jug along with specially crafted glasses, it smells rather like the inside of a barn, the taste being similar. The apple champagne, twice as alcoholic as the wein, was infinitely better. A table of Germans behind us having their holiday white elephant gift exchange were on apfelwein and Jaegermeister overload, whooping it up.

The next day we strolled in the rain through the stalls at the Frohweinachtmarkt, which runs from the main shopping pedestrian street down through the platz and deadends at the river Main. A generally acknowledged atheist nation, the German Christmas market is nevertheless a time honored tradition and money maker. Cups of gluhwein (hot spiced wine) and kinderpunch in hand from the Lions International booth, we ogled and ogled. No one had told me much about the killer food: nutella crepes with bananas and Cointreau, chocolate covered fruit and marshmallows (kusse), bratwurst in a baguette, gingerbread hearts decorated in frosting, wrapped in cellophane and tied up in ribbon – no need to eat at the hotel. One girl wore a giant gingerbread heart which said “Ich Liebe Diech” around her neck as she held her boyfriend’s hand. Glass ornaments, tin and wooden toys, handicrafts – a shopper’s paradise.

Our all-time best ever public toileting experience came from the public restrooms, “Toi Toi”, in the market. For 1.5 euros, a girl can pay to pee in serenity. Clean! Staffed and equipped! Men get in for free! Perhaps discriminatory, but who cares? There’s even a squatty potty for those missing China.

And then there were the stalls with the Buddha heads. This I don’t get. Who gives a Buddha for Christmas? Apparently, plenty of people. Maybe all the German men with Asian wives – have you noticed it is never the other way around? Thai restaurants almost outnumber the schnitzel haus’. Outside the merriment of the Christmas market, there is a strange, inexplicable, oppressive feeling in Frankfurt. Many of the buildings are new – the rest were bombed in WW2. A few pockets of old buildings exist, nestled in the city. The churches are darkened. The ruins of Roman bath’s outside St. Bartholomew’s cathedral only add to the battleground feeling of Charlemagne’s “ford of the Franks” and the long march of time. According to Wikipedia, part of St. Bart’s skull resides in the cathedral; St. Bart was one of Jesus’ twelve apostles and legend has it that he was flayed alived and crucified upside down. The Jewish synagogue destroyed on Kristallnacht in 1938 has been rebuilt. Once home to 30,000 Jews, now only 7,000 live in the city.

In the van on the ride back to Frankfurt Hahn, Thing 3 said to me, “Mommy, I could have bought a lot more.” Me too. I left one happy hausfrau, filled with the Christmas spirit and a cup of cheer. Next year, Nuremburg, if I can convince Bea aLong. Maybe my next trip to Frankfurt am Main will be for the book fair to sell my book? In the meantime, danke schoen, Frankfurt, for both the joy and pain. Next time, I’ll pay the big bucks to land in the right airport.

Question: Do you have a favorite Christmas ornament or decoration? Or do you just dust off your old Buddhas?

Links:

www.waynenewton.com
www.frankfurt-tourismus.de
www.apfelwein-wagner.com
www.zumgemaltenhaus.de
www.lions-international.com

Where are my castanets?

Piece de la Resistance

Two Thanksgiving dinners. A Spanish turkey and a French turkey. Only one American family. Swedes, Mexicans, and Brits, most of whom had never celebrated Thanksgiving before. After the 4th of July, Thanksgiving is the hardest American holiday to celebrate abroad, mainly because it is so food specific. I just couldn’t pull it off in Brazil, for example – too hot to stay in an un-airconditioned kitchen, even if you could de-pickle the turkey. Not to mention the fact you can never find the right food: no cans of pumpkin puree or cranberry in Latin America. China, amazingly, had both. Vis a vis the poultry, as my photos amply demonstrate, I have not cooked enough turkeys over the years to overcome foreign obstacles; given cooler climates I will persist.

The Spanish turkey, for example, had most of the neck on it and was scrawny at 4 kilos. The Skinny Swede and I each cooked one. She tied the legs of hers together with foil. I did not, kitchen twine not being in stock. I, however, used a Williams Sonoma flavor injector and, although the bird was splayed, it was flavorful and moist. The head of the baby you see emerging from my turkey is an apple. The Skinny Swede’s husband brought fresh cranberries in his suitcase from Philly so we had fresh cranberry relish. That alone almost made the meal. Then there was the wild rice and “duck butter”, the latter of which is a recipe my grandfather picked up from a Minnesotan while they were on a ship in the merchant marines together in WWII. Numerous bottles of wine, new friends, Swedish love cake, Tres Leches, and staying up past our collective bed times – next year demands a repeat performance.

Then there was the French turkey, cooked this past Sunday and purchased by my friend BananaJo at the American School of Paris. (We met the British BananaJo family in Brazil.) Double the size than the Spanish turkey, it was a much cleaner bird and it’s neck was chopped off closer to its base. The French, as we all know, know their way around a guillotine. I got up at 7:30 Sunday morning, after an evening out with the families at Cremerie Restaurant Polidor, to wrangle the poultry into the oven, after first smearing the inside of skin with herbs and butter. It barely fit in the oven. Again confronted with the question of the legs, which, I might add, were naturally tighter together, I googled how to tie them together. BananaJo has even fewer cooking accoutrements than me and I could not find the twine she said she had in her kitchen. Solution: unwaxed dental floss. This worked well enough but was rather thin and I had to really wind it around. Bronzed, gleaming, the finished product was a work of art and delicious to boot. The side dishes were typically British: cauliflower with cheese sauce, brussel sprouts, yams, stuffing, carrots, most of which was prepared by Mr. BananaJo. BananaJo bought escargot for hors d’ouevres, which I actually tried. Unlike Thing 2, I did not gag. Nor did I when she forced me to eat a brussel sprout. Mr. Understanding carved the turkey and forced everyone to eat cranberry from a can. The pecan pie, a first for the Brits, was pronounced yummy. Next year demands a repeat performance. Perhaps BananaJo can fit a French turkey in her suitcase?

Like my new-fangled flavor injector, Thanksgiving in Paris with old friends was a much-needed shot to my psyche. It was not just the Eiffel Tower, the Christmas lights, and the Champs Elysee. Walking arm-in-arm with teen Thing 1 through the grounds of Versailles during dusk, after a lunch at La Flottille, a restaurant inside in the park, and sharing her iPod, one ear bud a piece, and listening to the theme song from Mulan was exhilarating. Previously, I had been thinking that Europe was wasted on teenagers but it’s not. Paris certainly isn’t. I forced BananaJo to take me to the Flea Markets, which, once we got to the correct arrondissement, was just as good as Martha Stewart proclaims. Champagne with lunch, shopping, and old friends, can it get any better? Je ne pense pas. But next year, I’ll remember to order the kitchen twine …

Question of the month (?): what is your favorite Thanksgiving dish?

As I wrote awhile ago, I am not impressed with socialized medicine. Normally, I refrain from writing about incendiary subjects but this one does have to do with being an expat. Disagree with me, as is your right, I am just here to tell you that, having witnessed it, it is not pretty. For the sake of this discussion on a possible government health care plan in the United States, the focus will only be on the level, or lack thereof, of medical care in the socialized countries in which I have lived. I wrote this last week, sat on it, and did not post it because I did not want to inflame passions. But the urge is still there. Why? Because, as I have pondered this for a week, I want to spare my readers a similar fate. Go back and read the thesis so we are clear on this. Maybe the same thing has happened to you in America but I have had few bad experiences there so I am not really a good judge on that front.

But before I take you on a trip to the local ER, I think it is only fair to expose my own biases, even at the risk of being flambeed by my readership, let me lay before you a few facts which influence my opinion. Your personal bias, as you read this, will naturally influence your own opinion. Here they are:

1) a father who, as a lawyer, defends insurance companies, mainly automobile accidents
2) former employment as automobile insurance (personal injury) adjuster in Maryland and Florida
3) eldest daughter, born with genetic syndrome
4) same daughter who receives treatment for said syndrome annually at Johns Hopkins Hospital with world-reknowned pediatric cardiologist/geneticist
5) two nephews with rare, unrelated genetic disorders; these disorders are unrelated to each other and to that of my child
6) my father had his kidney, and its malignant tumor, removed within 3 days of it being diagnosed in the United States
7) first-hand experience in hospitals in the US, Mexico, Brasil, China, and now Spain -
we have health insurance via my husband’s employer in the US
9) although we pay taxes in Spain, we do not apparently pay enough and so do not qualify for their socialized medicine program. We are legal immigrants.
10) I am not a germaphobe – although I encourage my children to wash their hands and not use hand rails if at all possible but the five second rule for food is fine with me (except in China).

Every year, my daughter and I, sometimes the whole family, travels to Baltimore to see her set of specialists. We are very blessed for a variety of reasons: we have insurance, generally have the means to travel there, and have access to the world’s best doctor, the latter of which is stupendously serendipitous. Not to mention having friends in that fair city, having been a former resident. Mr. Understanding works very hard, in part, to provide our daughter with the best treatment possible. We pay for the trip out of our own pocket. Thus far treatment has been minimally invasive, a true best case scenario. In any event, Mr. Understanding has an incentive beyond filling our coffers. In the US during the summers, we also have physicals with the local doc-in-a-box or get treated for the occasional illness such as shingles. Sometimes I even have an organ removed (there are getting fewer and fewer). I am generally pleased with the situation.

Contrast that with Spain, a “First World” country with socialized medical care. To me, medical care here is on par with its restaurant service. Pretend you are having lunch in the restaurant, Museo de Jamon (Ham Museum), a large franchise with relatively inexpensive, simple fare; rows upon rows of cured ham hocks dangle from the ceiling, veritable pork garlands, little plastic cones inserted at the ends to prevent oil from spilling out. There is no tipping for service in Spain. As a result, grumpy waiters deign to take orders, forget half the food, and slam plates down on the customer’s table in random fashion as the plates are prepared, sort of like in China but worse (the Chinese aren’t snoots). Talk about your perdonavidas! The Museo de Jamon is always busy and the waiters always stressed, never smiling. They are not partial to tourists. So when a family of tourists sits down to eat, it is double grump.

Now we come to the TOO MUCH INFORMATION part of the post. If you are a male or my mother-in-law, just stop reading. But if you are a woman, put yourself in my shoes. For about a month, I had a little female problem. First, I self-medicated and, for the first time ever, probably exacerbated that particular situation. Very bad. So I called Expat Doctor to the Stars, explained my problem, and got a prescription, all without an internal exam (he is not a gyne) for 75 Euros. This was on October 13. After about a week of no improvement, I asked for a referral to a gynecologist. The next available appointment was November 18. Ruling out suicide, the next best option was the ER or a trip to the US, if the situation did not improve. Finally, and fortunately, the doctor wangled me an appointment with a gynecologist for October 25. Fab!

On the appointed date, after waiting an hour and watching no less than fifteen women come and go from the doctor’s office, it was my turn. In Spanglish, the doctor and I discussed the problem. After a quick, pseudo-exam, I was out of the office five minutes later with a new prescription. I forked over 100 Euros and left. A week later, the problem persisted, but had mutated slightly. The gynecologist recommended I go to the ER next door – she was too busy to see me.

And here is where it gets icky. After paying 350 Euros (approximately $550 USD), I sat down in Swine Flu Central, a hospital located within ten miles of my house. Feverish, hacking folks surrounded me with nary a face mask, bottle of hand sanitizer, or tissue in sight. GADZOOKS, I thought, good thing I’m getting those B12 shots! Finally escorted in, I met with a doctor, who told me to pee in a plastic cup. Ever the logistician, I wanted to know precisely what to do with the urine, since I was given no little personalized, computer generated label to afix to the plastic urn, no little handy wipe, no special room. “Go to the bathroom and then take it to the front desk.” GADZOOKS, I thought to myself, haven’t they heard of secret sample doors? I will not even describe the restroom but let me just say there were no paper towels and the hand dryer did not work. So, hooking my wet finger in the door latch, I swung open the door, and with my sample dried off via toilet paper, swanned off down the hall to the receptionist’s desk where I was told to put it on the counter. Where on the counter? Right there on top of the requisition order, the only piece of evidence that the urine belonged to me. Apparently, I did not dry the sample off completely because it left a little ring, I noticed, when the receptionist, ungloved, took it off the counter and told me to return to the waiting room. GADZOOKS. The results would be ready in an hour – they would call my name over the loudspeaker system.

In the meantime, I meandered down to the cafeteria for a quick coffee where the other customers were smoking, sucking back beers, and chewing on bocadillos. The smoke drove me back into the waiting room. After waiting two hours, I went back through the swinging doors and finally began to ask if the results were ready. After two and a half hours, I camped outside the doctor’s office. A different doctor was inside the exam room reading a magazine. He told me the result was not ready – they would call my name. He did not look at a computer screen or get out of his seat, barely lifting his head from the rag he was reading. After three hours, I went and stood in front of the receptionist’s desk. Perhaps my name had been called and I just did not understand it? The PA system of the hospital has speakers that function akin to every McDonald’s drive-in in America. Try deciphering your name pronounced in a foreign language on top of this. But no, my name had not been called. Then I saw the doctor who attended me. After much prodding she went and chased down the results. Nothing wrong with my test! Did she know what the problem could be, I asked? Nope. No idea. Better luck next time. Could I even feel certain they checked out my urine and not someone else’s????

When I got home that evening, I was $550 poorer, had no idea what was wrong with me, and discovered that my car had been keyed in the hospital parking lot. Nice. I could go on and on … because this is a subject I have thought a lot about over the years, sitting in various hospitals, both in the ER and in the surgical ward, around the globe, observing the level or lack of care. This is just one experience in Spain and it was not a truly dire situation. If there are others, I hope they will be better. But I know it won’t be, especially since Expat Doctor to the Stars worked as the head of this same ER for a year and gave up because he could not institute new, better, more hygienic practices.

Is this our American future? Where are we going to go for better health care when it ceases to exist? Nowhere else I’ve seen yet. And I am not saying things don’t need to fixed. But I am saying that other countries with socialized medicine do not do it better. I have seen it for myself. The above anecdote is just one of many, the latest and freshest. If, however, the US government ends up running our health care system, I suggest we rename all the hospitals “Museum of Hams” because there will be no incentive to be polite, the service will suck, and the fare will be rudimentary. Bring your own wipes. Print your own labels. Give the doctors your old People magazines. But maybe, just maybe, they will serve beer and wine in the cafeterias so we can all anesthetize ourselves while we wait. That’d take the edge off.

*The title refers to my post of 4/17/2007 – it is only funny to me, so don’t worry if you don’t get it. The case of shigella when pregnant in Mexico probably was more expensive, if I am being honest though …..

There were many alternative titles for this post:

Fall Forward
Tripping the Light Fantastic
Cobble Stoned

Before the above titles suggested themselves, here were my ideas:

Parador Amor
Parador by the Dashboard Lights
J’adore Paradores
Come on’ to My Castle (sung to the old show tune)
I Am the Pink Dot

Can you guess any themes? Let’s just say, it is a good thing I travel with a first aid kit and drugs in my car. On the way home from a road trip/succssful pottery shopping outing to the town of El Puente de Arzobispo, Mood Ring Momma, Leezer and I stopped at a castle cum hotel (i.e. government run “parador” in Spain) we had passed on the way to have lunch.

At the adjacent table, three men were having a primarily liquid lunch and enjoying the view of the teutonic Leezer and Mood Ring. My back was to them so I was not privy to the high jinx. We ladies enjoyed a quick, delicious lunch with few alcoholic beverages. And this is key. The drive home was an hour and a half so there was no misbehaving. After lunch (sadly, the Spaniards did not pick up the tab), we went outside to check out the castle and the surrounding grounds. Outside the cobblestoned arch, which lead into the castle, was a park over looking the valley below, the sierra off in the distance. The sky was a pristine cerulean blue. We took photos for a traveling American couple and they returned the favor. The castle itself opened at 4 so we planned a quick trip up the tower before leaving.

Mood Ring Momma, engrossed in architecture, failed to note the archaic stone lip bordering the park and, apparently in an effort to save her camera, fell to the ground, twisting her back in the process. It was an awful moment – there is no sugar coating it. The American woman, a nurse, started asking questions. A Spanish doctor had her husband call the local medical center. After ten minutes of agony on the ground, MRM was able to manuever herself to the car and wash down some of my handy back candy (no, it is not oxycontin). At home, we instituted a regime of ice and heat and Chinese medicine until the local doctor, a Canadian who lives in my neighborhood, came by to make sure nothing was broken and give her some drugs. Now is not the point in the blog when I tell you how I was loathe to go to the ER, a.k.a. Swine Flu City, a place I have recently visited. Nor is it when I tell you how appalled I am in the socialized medicine health care system near my house. (This story will come soon because it directly addresses the myriad problems associated with socialized medicine and I am unhappy to report being a witness.) So, if I could save my sister at least five hundred dollars, contracting swine flu, and avoiding incompetence, I was all for it. Hence the call to the expat doctor.

The good news is that nothing is broken. The bad news is that, for MRM, touring is temporarily suspended. Leezer has been set loose to manuever the Metro on her own. We are hopeful that tomorrow Mood Ring Momma will be back on her feet and can at least see one museum, as staying in bed with a bad back is almost as bad for it as tromping around. Getting on the plane is another worrisome problem, but we will cross that puente when we get to it. For now, it is tea, sympathy, and lots of love. Please keep her in your prayers. The Expat Princess is not a good nurse.

After visiting Toledo, Mood Ring Momma, Leezer and I understand why it is Holy, and to more than one culture. The Moors, Jews, and Christians lived in relative peace here for approximately 700 years before Ferdinand and Isabel took over. Cardenal Sancha was recently beatified here and his bones are in a box in an altar on in the chapel of San Pedro in the cathedral. The sacristy is, as advertised, a mini-Prado with Titians, Grecos, Van Dycks, and a Rubens, to name just a few of the all star artists. Vestments from the cardenals of Christopher Columbus’ time were also on display. It is the only church I have ever seen with a super cool skylight. Although not Catholic, I miss the votive candles – tiny electric lights at the altars don’t cut it for me. By the time my next visitors get here, I will have the city down pat.

Dear Readers,

Have you noticed that in the last few years Americans have changed our letter endings? Best Regards, Regards, and Best have replaced Sincerely, Yours Truly, and Love. What’s up with that? Do we think we are British or something? Or have we just stopped being sincere???? What happened to the love? This has been vexing me for quite awhile. Even Charlotte the Spider in Charlotte’s Web managed “salutations”, which works perfectly as a beginning or ending. The Spanish “saludos” or “greetings” works for me too and I am going to incorporate this into my letters when not using old-fashioned American letter endings.

Recently Mood Ring Momma has been on a letter writing campaign to famous people, most specifically author and Esquire writer A.J. Jacobs and cosmetic maven Trish McEvoy. The first letter she wrote, her first Famous Person Letter ever, was in praise of Mr. Jacobs’ new book The Guinea Pig Diaries. She signed her letter “Sincerely”, I was pleased to note. Although I have yet to read it (MRM is bringing me it next week), I will take credit for turning her on to the Mr. Jacobs’ body of work. Jesus Freak that I am, I read the The Year of Living Biblically first and have since purchased and passed around his books as gifts. The man is a genius, I’ll have you know. Besides laughing several times on every page, I learned mucho. In any event, Mood Ring did not get a response after a few days so I took it upon myself to write him, thinking perhaps an internet glitch botched the transmission. Lo and behold, he wrote me back and, after resending the letter, he wrote back Mood Ring Momma. Now that’s class. He did get her name wrong but ni modo. He fixed it later.

Then MRM wrote Trish McEvoy after the MakeUnder at Nordies, thanking her for a fun experience. MRM was kind enough to point Ms. McEvoy in the direction of my blog highlighting her fine cosmetics and Viking Queen (what a nice sister!). First, Trish’s team wrote back and then Trish herself wrote MRM, and vicariously me, a lovely note. She signed her note “Wishing You Every Happiness”. For a moment, I thought I was back in Shanghai, that phrase sounding vaguely Chinese, like something you might find on a menu – Wishing You Every Happiness Chicken or Hope Springs Eternal Rolls. It takes a long time to type this phrase out, longer than xoxoxoxo, which I do when in a hurry to friends and family, and certainly longer than the stiff and impersonal Regards. So kudos to Trish McEvoy for developing a signature signature, fresh, original, and American, to thank her fans. I cannot overstate how genuine and personal the note was. Another class act.

I am going to sign off here and wish you every happiness today. Arturo the Electrician is arriving soon to discuss installing lighting. Wires are hanging out of some of my walls where light fixtures should be. Light fixtures do not come with houses here, a trend that is common in most of Europe. And although I am loathe to invest a lot in a house that is not mine, I am also loathe to drive to the ER in the middle of the night when my children and/or guests fall down the stairs because they got lost in the dark.

Sincerely Yours,

The Expat Princess

P.S. Random Tom: I really am working up to bull fighting and other manly endeavors to woo you back!

P.P.S. the Chinese character represents “autumn”, a season when the qi (i.e. life energy) is sluggish. It all makes sense now.

*********

Housekeeping question: for those with children, do they do chores and if so, what do they do? Did you have to do chores as a child?

The First World, it turns out, is pretty boring. Housework has consumed me, as I have had few outings besides Granny Water Aerobics and the doctor for shots in the patootie for low vitamin B12 levels. The doctor promises the latter will energize me, but so far, not so much. In the meantime, dealing with piles of stuff we still don’t know where to put, unwrapping all the boxes in the garage, and finding the right adaptor and light bulb for each lamp has nearly done me in. Time consuming, mind-numbing chores which have left no time for trips to the Prado, shopping in the Salamanca district, or ferreting out of markets where people bargain for crap in earnest.

As a child, I internalized Peggy Parish’s Amelia Bedelia, identifying with Mrs. Rogers*. Like Dr. Seuss’s Cat and the Hat (another story involving a big mess), I would get frustrated at the Cat or Amelia, the time crunch suspense of the stories making me anxious. What was wrong with these people/animals? Who doesn’t know how to strip a bed? When the Mexican maid put the toxic purple cleaning solution in the pantry next to the children’s juice my identification with Mrs. Rogers was complete; that was something Amelia would do. At the end of each story, after the horror of Amelia’s goof ups subsided, Mrs. Rogers would realize the nature of the misunderstandings and laugh it off. Hmmmm …. note to self. Attentiveness and communication are key components to any successful relationship, I eventually learned.

However, housework is a lot like riding a bicycle or loading a grocery store conveyor belt – repetitive, tedious, and you don’t ever forget how to do it (unless you are Amelia Bedelia). My mother made sure I knew how to do it all and I am trying to instill this in my children, should the world turn Communist and we, in turn, will have to become maids by profession. Over the years, I have thought a lot about this. Would I make a good maid? Absolutely not. Was I a maid in my former life? I don’t think so. (According to the Wild Rose, I was a fairy server queen, which might explain my liking to throw parties but not cleaning them up.) But in my future life I might become one, so it behooves me to conscientously wipe down the kitchen counters, wash out the garbage cans every once in awhile, and dust the tchotke, the value of which will be debated later.

Maids, like their cultures, have many different personalities. Some like to talk; some like only babies, not sassy seven year olds; some can forge miracles in a pressure cooker; some indulge in petty theft and gambling. I have had only one who preferred the solace of cleaning bathrooms and cleaning barbeque grills. I have tried to treat my maids well. I had about thirty of them in Mexico which, one might be inclined to say was my fault. Partially, I am sure, but also part of the culture. I also didn’t pay as well as I should have. I had a total of three in Brazil in five and a half years. Two maids in China and three drivers. I am as afraid of encountering my former employees in Heaven as I am the Lord; how you treat your employees is, to me, a major exercise in loving your neighbor as yourself. While I might think I am nice, they might have other ideas. Do you pay the going rate or a little above? Do you pay them on time? Are you compassionate? What do you do if your employee is lying to you? What do you do if your maid is Amelia Bedelia and you are Mrs. Rogers?

I will confess to having a “chica” come in for twelve hours a week. B’Olivia is slow but conscientious and we can communicate well. Hablando is a plus, far more effective than the combination of my fractured street Mandarin, noises, and hand gestures. She does all the stuff I decide I don’t want to do that week such as floors, bathrooms, and ironing. I have thus far ruined 2 loads of laundry with the inclusion of one offending pink t-shirt, purchased in New Jersey (hello, Conan O’Brien!) so perhaps should consider switching to floors. After the second load was tinged dusty rose, I threw the shirt out. The guest bedroom bed is my laundry staging area as my mother’s freezer was hers. It would be even nicer if there was a TV in the room.

Yesterday, preparing to submit my moving insurance claim, as I went over the lists of the items sent here to Spain and the items sent to storage in the US, I realized how downsized we had become, by choice and circumstance. The Halloween decorations are apparently in the US (my bad, apparently, as the list showed) and a Christmas tree went AWOL. Gone are three sets of soccer cleats, a computer monitor and keyboard, and other assorted items. I have a cymbal stand but no drums or cymbals. Princess Ai Lin, to whom I sold my safe, found some of my jewels inside last week. Moving, to be sure, clouds one’s thinking.

But more than any one thing, I am missing my family, friends, and a full-time Amelia Bedelia the most. There’s so much more to write about if one has the time to explore!

**************************************

Housekeeping question: how often do you wash your towels? Do you hang out your laundry or use the dryer? If you hang out your wash, do you use fabric softener? Folks in the Pacific Northwest are exempt from answering the second question. Citizens of Arizona are not.

* Of course, the irony does not escape me.

Once upon a time, I read in a magazine someone else’s definition of contentment, “a new lipstick, a good book, and a needlepoint project”, and thought to myself, “Now there’s a soul mate”. During law school finals, particularly, I would go with a friend to buy a little study premio, such as a new lip gloss, as a reward for surviving a test or paper. And here let me clarify: we are talking makeup counter makeup, not drugstore. High end product. Stuff that smelled good and came in a slick package. If the saleswoman threw in a makeover and free samples, even better.

One Halloween, post law school, Flaky Friend came to visit me in Baltimore from D.C. Item number one on the agenda: a new lipstick. On the way to the mall we were sideswiped by a little old lady who nearly totalled my luxurious Dodge Spirit. Undeterred, we swapped cars with Mr. Understanding after the car was towed away, and continued to the mall where we each purchased (and correct me if I am wrong, FF) the same shade of russet Clinique lipstick. It looked good on both of us and was seasonally appropriate. Neck-deep in student loans and in the middle of a recession, we limited ourselves to the lipstick. It helped us get over the next day’s and week’s aches and pains.

Living overseas, however, pretty much killed my habit of makeup shopping to alleviate stress. The colors at the department store in Mexico, for example, were geared, naturally, to a more olive complexion and cost twice the price. So I switched to buying necessities at Duty Free stores on trips home. There was also an annual trip to the makeup counter with either a friend, sister, or mother in tow. The brands have varied over the years, a little Chanel and a lot of MAC. Then, as I got older and realized I should not be wearing turquoise eyeshadow, even to parties, I moved on to the sublime Bobbi Brown.

But this summer I got lured away by a nice girl at the Trish McEvoy counter at the flagship Nordstrom store in downtown Seattle. Everyone else was busy (hello, recession? where did you go?) so she reeled me in while Mr. Understanding bought loafers. Melanie made me over and explained Trish’s nifty little compact system. Always looking to downsize and organize, I was hooked. Ms. McEvoy’s quilted, zippered pouch contains magnetic pages to which the pans of eyeshadow, blush, and bronzer adhere. There are pockets for pencils, lipstick and mascara. Plus, afterwards, I looked pretty good and the whole system was perfect for travel, a justified purchase. Melanie, a traveling Trish McEvoy rep, offered to makeover me and my sister Mood Ring Momma the following weekend, along with Lisa, the counter manager. Mood Ring Momma’s surprise 40th birthday party was the next Saturday and I was tasked with creating a diversion. I am good at diversions. Mood Ring suspected not one thing and arrived at her party coiffed, polished, and surprised.

Fastforward a few weeks later, at another Nordstrom’s in the greater Seattle area with Thing 1 in tow. This time a winter white blonde with long braids and bright blue eyes attended me. Tattoos peeked out from her various black garments and stilettos. All she needed was a helmet with horns to complete the look of Viking Queen. For a moment I thought I was at the MAC counter, but no, her makeup was far more natural. Thing 1 looked fab after her makeover, the kind of application mother and teen could agree upon. Then it was my turn. We bonded instantly over the following exchange, condensed for purposes of the blog:

Viking Queen: How about a little of the Shell Eye Brightener?

Me: What does that do?

VQ: Brightens the inner eyes.

Me: Do I need it?

VQ applied the eye brightener and handed me a mirror.

Me: Good God, thanks, but no! I look like Michael Jackson!

VQ spasmed with laughter, saying: You are baaaad! Evil! I think I like you!

MJ had just passed on to his great reward that week but was everywhere, but everywhere. I’d had just about enough. The thing I’d found most fascinating about MJ were his eye enlargements, not the 7+ nose modifications. Why, why, why? I am sure that we will find out soon.

VQ: My dad’s name is Michael.

Me: So’s mine!

VQ: And I’m adopting my little sister who is also name Michael. Spelled M-y-k-e-l-l-e. Dumb, right? But what are you going to do?

I explained about the Iranian girls I’d met earlier in the year who told me that the name Michael was evil.

Me: But wait a minute. Could you please explain how you are adopting your little sister? How old are you?

VQ: I am 31. My scumbag of a dad hooked up with a crack whore. The state [not Washington] took the baby away because the mother already had two other children with problems that were adopted by another family. I also have a 12 year old but the father and I are no longer together [and here she looked wistful]. We had a baby girl who died awhile ago.

Me: I am so sorry. How did you hear about your new half sister?

VQ: My mom. She was going to adopt the baby but the state said she was too old.

Me: Didn’t your dad want the baby?

VQ: Are you kidding?

Really, I am not doing this conversation justice. Imagine wanting to cry and laugh as someone is deftly applying mascara to your eyelashes. In order to adopt her sister, VQ had had to take classes on how to deal with crack babies. She’d had to spend a lot of money hiring lawyers to adopt her own flesh and blood. Like her Nordic predecessors, Viking Queen was undaunted in her quest to adopt her sister, forging ahead over icy, unfathomable waters.

Over the summer, VQ and I had several more conversations. She sent me a Trish gift. I introduced my other sister, MCV, to Trish McEvoy at the Bellevue counter where Peaches had already heard about Mood Ring’s 40th party makeover. Viking Queen’s own mother (if you can believe!) was allowed to bring her her sister from several states over. The ex-husband was in town and volunteered to babysit while Viking Queen taught her spinning and yoga classes, planting a seed of hope. Baby Mykelle looked like her sister/mother and was thriving in her new environment.

Tomorrow, Tuesday, October 13, Trish McEvoy herself is going to be at the downtown Seattle Nordstrom. For an amount less than what you would spend dining with your local Congressman and for an experience far more rewarding, you can have lunch with Trish and get your money back in Trish goods. Sign up if there’s still room. Trish owns her own business and is not part of a conglomerate, a savvy entrepreneur. Several of my favorite people are anteing up so they can buy lipstick with my favorite new Makeup Maven. I hope Viking Queen is there too, so they can meet the woman who inspired me this summer with her innate sense of decency, her acceptance of the tough road she has traveled, and her generosity of spirit. At peace with her past, present, and future, she deserves a prize of her own and I am not talking lipstick. Maybe Trish can give her a promotion?

******************

Housekeeping Question: How often do you clean out your fridge, as in, get rid of the leftovers, etc?

Complaining about the legendary rudeness of the citizens of my host country via email to La Guapa, an American madrilena living in Geneva, I learned a new word: perdonavidas. And here I quote, “It means someone who looks down their nose at others; they´ll condescend to allow you to go on living, te perdonan la vida, but that´s about it“. This after my experience last week at two local stores.

The first: an autosupply store. My car key battery died and after driving around for half an hour in the car concession area near my house, I could not find the VW dealership. I knew there had to be one closeby as every other kind of car dealership was in the same general vicinity: Ferrari, Porsche, BMW, Toyota, Citroen, Opel. But no, no VW dealership. So I stopped into an auto supply store to ask for help. Maybe they could fix it? The girl at the back of the store told me to go ask the cashier. She was pleasant. But the cashier could not help. He was not sure what kind of battery this very common VW key would take. I asked him if he knew where the VW dealership was. “Did you see it? Well, if not, it’s not there.” I asked him to ask the woman behind the desk if she knew. She left her computer and when asked, repeated what the cashier said, making the typical madrilena gesture of scrunching up her shoulders, putting her hands out, and pulling down the sides of her mouth, bugging out the eyes ever so slightly, and shaking her head.

In other countries, expats the world over have referred to this type of gesture as the “deer in the headlights” look. A shopkeeper or plumber might give you this look if he did not understand what you were saying, for example. You might return this look to the same shopkeeper or plumber if you did not understand what they were saying. Reciprocal, it is a look that purveys a genuine lack of comprehension. There is usually* no ill will associated with it. In fact, once communication is established farther down the line, the shopkeeper or plumber might actually try to help you, pointing you in the right direction, offering up a phone number of someone who can.

I left, went home, and got my spare key (which I am still using, a chore for another week, when I am mentally able to cope with this attitude for an extensive period of time).

Fast forward to the dry cleaners five days later. Thing 2 and I went to pick up clothes and do a little grocery shopping at the Dreaded Carrefour. Now, to get to the Carrefour, you have to get your cart outside the mall, popping in a Euro as a deposit which then unlocks the cart from a string of carts. I did this. Then you have to push your cart all the way through the mall down to the entrance; readers will remember that you cannot enter through the more convenient, and closer, exit. I did this. Then you have to show the Carrefour personnel that you are not bringing in items to Carrefour in your canvas shopping bags. I did this. After shopping, you have to prove to the cashier that the bags are in fact your own. Mission accomplished. Once loaded up, you are now at the other end of the Carrefour, closer to your car and the dry cleaners.

Now, I admit here that I goofed. I did not take my ticket in with me. I accidentally left it in the car.

If you are just picking up laundry, the 5 a Sec dry cleaners likes customers to use their automatic door. I had never seen one before moving to Madrid. After scanning your ticket, the dry cleaning trolley deposits your clothes at the door and you waltz off, pleased because you did not have to deal with a perdonavida.

But since I left the ticket in the car, I had to talk to Sra. Perdonavida.

Me: Por favor, would you mind looking up my last order in the computer with my telephone number?

Sra. Perdonavida: You don’t have your ticket? she said, scowling.

Me: No, I forgot it in the car.

Sra. Perdonavida: What is your number?

Me: 123-456-789

Sra. Perdonavida wrote down my number and said: The only order in here is the one you just dropped off. There is only one order.

Now, it is at this point that I smelled a rat. My Spanish, while far from fluent, is beyond Survival Spanish. I can communicate and I know my numbers.

Thing 2 volunteered to retrieve the ticket from the car and returned 5 minutes later.

I could have just picked up my clothes with the ticket and left. But what about the next time? What if my order wasn’t really in the computer? Ticket in hand, I approached Sra. Perdonavida again.

Me: Sra., here is my ticket. Would you mind finding that piece of paper with the number you wrote down on it? I would like to see if it matches the one on my ticket. Maybe my Spanish is not so good and I did not give you the correct number? Maybe I am going crazy? [Imagine me (me!) falling on my sword here].

Sra. Perdonavida, reluctantly riffled through her scraps of paper: Oh yes, the number is the same. But the order is not in the computer.

Me: Well, that is a problem then, no? What if I actually had lost my ticket? You would have had to search through all those orders to find mine! Que horror!

Sra. Perdonavida: I don’t know [insert madrilena gesture here]. There must have been a problem with the computer.

Me: But my last order is in there, right?

Sra. Perdonavida: Yes.

Me: Then you will have to forgive me if everytime I drop off clothes I ask you to verify that the order is in the system so my clothes don’t get lost!

Clothes in hand, Thing 2 and I walked back to the car.

Me: Now, what do you think just happened there?

Thing 2: She just lied to you.

Me: Right. She just wanted to make it difficult for us.

Ah, it’s going to be fun, going through this routine for the next three to five years. I have no way of knowing if Sra. Perdonavida really lied as I could not see the computer screen but I find it hard to believe that with only my order, the computer seized up and ate the input information. A little sick, a little twisted, no? I could go to a different tintoreria but really, it would be the same song and dance. I am just better at catching on to these idiosyncracies a lot sooner, a seasoned expat as it were. Now I just need to learn the words for “old biddy”.

Housekeeping question: How often do you mop your kitchen floors? Bathroom? Expat Princesses lucky enough to have domestic help, please respond in a manner that edifies us all instead of making us weep with jealousy.

*I say “usually” because some people in some countries become adept at perfecting this look even if they understand you, professional pretenders, as it were.

One of the most important aspects of moving is exploring your new city. This helps the psyche adjust to the often radically different surroundings, piques interest, and aids in growing self-confidence. This is even more important when moving to a new country. What is there to see? To do? Are the people in the shops friendly? How’s the food? Is it easy to get around? Once a few of these questions have been answered, an expat feels far more comfortable and on better footing in the new county.

Using my Newcomer experiences as a template, I then foist activities on my family as the situation merits. My children, for example, were hyped to use public transportation in Spain. (Somehow, they think they will be allowed to just roam the city). I discouraged it in China because they were not fluent in Mandarin, nor were they old enough. Likewise, buses. Having nearly met my own death several times over in third world taxis, ditto. The Chinese are not known for their driving skills, the majority of drivers having only been driving less than a decade. But Madrid is a different ball game. The Metro is clean, relatively safe, and “user friendly” and the roads smooth, the drivers relatively sane.

Last Saturday I decided it was Family Metro Day. We were going to search for a Mexican restaurant, Barriga Llena, in the Chueca district where I had gone earlier in the week. Like Don Quixote, every family needs a quest. Good Mexican food is our’s. I did not tell my family that the Chueca district was the gay section of town – it did not seem relevant to Mexican food – and besides, it is a far cry from the Castro District in San Francisco of the late 70’s when my own fourteen year old eyes beheld men walking down the streets bare chested wearing chaps over leather pants. We went in the late afternoon to avoid crowds and the restaurant rush hour for optimal success. We even decided to change metro lines in order get the feel for the Metro, getting off at Chueca instead of walking from Alonso Martinez. The restaurant was right around the corner from the Chueca station according to the map. Before leaving home I wrote down the address and phone number of the restaurant; Mr. Understanding slipped the GPS into my purse. Should be easy, right?

Once, when I was nineteen, my parents took us to Boston for Spring Break. As we were wandering around the city one day, a pair of twentysomethings in outlandish attire snickered, “Look at the nuclear family!” That was the first time I’d ever heard the phrase “nuclear family”. I had no idea what it meant at the time, since we were clearly not radioactive.

So there we were, me and my nuclear family, exiting the Chueca metro station. Our nationality cannot be disguised with sweatshirts tied around waists instead of sweaters around necks, tennis shoes, and jeans. Bickering had been minimal until this point, the transitions on the metro relatively easy. I did not see the name of the street where the restaurant but it must be close, I reasoned, according to the map in my brain. We headed north. After 30 minutes of tromping around, we arrived at the Alonso Martinez station on Genova Street. Directly across from us was a Tony Roma’s. Someone (and I am not going to embarrass them here) said, “Why don’t we just go to Tony Roma’s?”

Someone else complained about being tired, another about being thirsty.

“You have got to be kidding me! That is not the point of this exercise! Settling for Tony Romas is like admitting defeat!” I could feel the air from the windmills of La Mancha beginning to churn but could not give in, reluctant to acknowledge that perhaps I was raising a family of travel wimps. “Let’s just walk back the way we came [imagine here huge groans] or ask someone for help.”

To my horror, Mr. Understanding pulled out the GPS and we started walking south, the signal flickering in and out, the old buildings built so close together impeding transmission. At least the walk was downhill, the day was beautiful, and the architecture gorgeous. I was having a fine time, even though the wind from the windmills was picking up.

Eventually we reached our destination and had a fine Mexican meal with margaritas. Huitlacoche was on the menu, a Mexican corn fungus delicacy I’d totally forgotten about. How could I have forgotten huitlacoche? The Mexican decor was outstanding and made me feel right at home: a painted mural of a typical village, lots of hot pink, and the Virgin Mary mixed in with the profane. Julio the manager, a chilango, told us that if there was anything on the menu that we wanted to eat like sopa de fideos or chicharron de queso, to call ahead and he would have it prepared for us. Next door, at the sister restaurant, La Panza es Primera, they serve tacos al pastor. Julio told us that the metro station was two minutes away, right around the corner.

So it was. We stopped in the plaza, ate ice cream, and people watched.

And it was at this moment that our collective worlds collided. Thing 1 picked up a local magazine, entitled “Shangay”, lying on a stone bench where we were sitting. For reasons that should be evident to the reader, such a magazine does not exist in Shanghai, China. But here it was in Madrid. I have no idea what the name means or if it is actually a pun, but we all thought it very funny.

“I think I’ll just put this under Thing 2’s mattress, but sticking out just a bit, the next time he has a friend over,” Thing 1 said.

“You’ll do no such thing!” I said, shocked and awed by her deviousness, a creativity for teasing that went far beyond my own considerable talents.

“You know, I’ve walked through this plaza before, when I parked the car for our anniversary dinner at Piu di Prima,” said Mr. Understanding.

And just like that, the windmills slowed down. We were orienting ourselves.

Thing 2 shook his head at the gay disco ad of the man clad in a sequined bikini brief at the metro station on the way home but emerged unscathed. I confiscated Shangay and am enjoying thumbing through as part of my local cultural assimilation. Mr. Understanding’s barriga was llena and the girls enjoyed the ride on the metro. It would have been cheaper to drive and park, perhaps, but not nearly as educational. Now we know the way. All we have to do is call Julio and go out the back side of the metro station.

*********

October is housekeeping month. I realize I have gotten a late start. In any event, each post will ask readers a housekeeping question. Since I have not cleaned house in any real, regular sense for fourteen years, I am interested in knowing what is an acceptable level of cleanliness. Please note I have added a new category – “Domesticity”. I am also still putting away stuff from the move and organizing our goods so a routine has not been possible. Routine for me starts in on November 9, the first Monday after my first houseguests, Mood Ring Momma and Leezer, depart after a week of “having the fun” (as a local tour guide said yesterday) in Madrid.

So, today’s question: how often do you sweep your kitchen floor? If your spouse, housekeeper, or child performs this service for you, please indicate.

Vocab: barriga = stomache
llena = full
chilango = person from el Distrito Federal in Mexico (Mexico City)

Oh, to be the Duchess of Osuna! Almost as good, but not quite, as being Marie Antoinette! Where to serve the cake???

The last word of the month. Thanks for hanging in there!

I am muy cansada after a walk amongst the streets of the Chueca district with the Swedes and una Mexicana. Am weary tambien of the word a day blogging – aren’t you? Shingle Berry, a friend of PAL’s, Klab’s, MCV’s, and MRM’s from their trailer trash days, and mine now via Shingles referred pain, reminded me today that Shingles fatigue endures and of her continued Shingles vaccination crusade.

Ya hiciste tu vacuna? Go get it done! Ahora!

Word of the day: prize. I believe in premios. I am Queen of Los Premios. I used to bribe my children with premios on a regular basis, as in, “If you don’t cry in the dentist’s chair, you’ll get a premio!” Now, most dentist offices’ have their own treasure box of premios so that was a freebie for me. But every year, my family receives a fair number of foreign premios. Salad servers, cheap pearls, chili paste from Yangshuo, you get the picture. The premios change depending on the country and it’s a fair bet that European premios will be muy pequeno since I am no longer a princess and cannot actually shop for them, I’m so busy doing laundry. Dilemma, dilemma.

Today I surpassed my 100th fan on Facebook, a woman named Chris referred to blog by Guadalajara Sherri. As soon as she sends me her address, I’ll be posting her a premio. I have yet to make it to the post office so that would be a good challenge.

Herewith, a spot-on internet joke (author unknown) sent in to me today from Lady Tea, one of my favorite BrIt chicks:

A Spanish teacher was explaining to her class that in Spanish, unlike English, nouns are designated as either masculine or feminine.

‘House’ for instance, is feminine: ‘la casa.’
‘Pencil,’ however, is masculine: ‘el lapiz.’

A student asked, ‘What gender is ‘computer’?’

Instead of giving the answer, the teacher split the class into two
groups, male and female, and asked them to decide for themselves whether computer’ should be a masculine or a feminine noun. Each group was asked to give four reasons for its recommendation.

The men’s group decided that ‘computer’ should definitely be of the feminine gender (‘la computadora’), because:

1.. No one but their creator understands their internal logic;

2 The native language they use to communicate with other computers is incomprehensible to everyone else;

3. Even the smallest mistakes are stored in long term memory for possible later retrieval; and

4. As soon as you make a commitment to one, you find yourself
spending half your paycheck on accessories for it.

(THIS GETS BETTER!)

The women’s group, however, concluded that computers should be Masculine (‘el computador’), because:

1. In order to do anything with them, you have to turn them on;

2. They have a lot of data but still can’t think for themselves;

3. They are supposed to help you solve problems, but half the time they ARE the problem; and

4. As soon as you commit to one, you realize that if you had waited a little longer, you could have gotten a better model..

The women won.

Zapatos have been big on Facebook this week. Flaky Friend bought a perfect pair. Mood Ring Momma had to put her heels in mothballs for the health of her feet. In what is arguably the best fashion statement of the week, Thing 2 had one of his favorite pair signed by Raul of Real Madrid today, something perhaps on which we can all agree?

One of the things I appreciate about my children’s new school, as a parent, is their dress code. No sagging pants, no shorts or skirts above mid-thigh, no flip-flops, no spaghetti straps. In other words, a modicum of decorum must be exercised on a daily basis. There is no uniform. In the past, other schools we have attended have had similar dress codes but minimal enforcement. Not here. The school even sent home a note in advance of tonight’s first middle school dance reminding both parents and children alike of the policy. Believe me when I say that you do not want to wrangle with the school director over such an issue.

So you can imagine my surprise this morning when I saw, via Spanish news, America’s First Lady greeting foreign dignitaries at the G20 Summit in Pittsburgh in a dress with spaghetti straps. “Wait a minute“, I thought to myself, “my ten year old daughter can’t wear them to school but the First Lady can sport them at a business meeting?” Did we scrap the Protocol Department in order to stave off our ever-burgeoning deficit? What gives? Am I the only one who considers this a terrible breach of protocol? Or was Mrs. Obama just espousing a new right to bare arms?

My research is as follows:

Yes, we still have a Department of Protocol, which is attached to the State Department. It just doesn’t function very well apparently. I was willing to give the Obamas a bye earlier in the year when they visited with Queen Elizabeth and presented her with an iPod, even willing to overlook the hug. I might have been tempted to squeeze Her Highness myself, even though I know the Queen is resolutely untouchy-feely. Michelle’s outfit was a little on the casual side but she looked great. (My choice of gift for HRH? A Corgi puppy. Everyone knows Liz loves Corgis. Think of the photo opportunities!)

The Chief of Protocol is given the title of Ambassador. Our current Chief is Capricia Marshall. Ms. Marshall used to be a former social secretary to Hillary Clinton. Like her other fellow appointee, Tim Geithner, she failed to pay federal income tax several years running. Ms. Marshall claimed that she popped the returns in the mail for 2005 and 2006 but they never got there. I don’t know about you, but we use “return-receipt requested”s for our tax returns. Shouldn’t the Chief of Protocol know how to follow rules? I am pretty sure the job comes with a manual and cheat sheet (which is where the word comes from). This explains a lot. But not everything.

According to the Chicago Sun-Times Washington Bureau Chief Lynn Sweet’s blog, each G20 foreign head of state’s wife receives a White House goody bag. The Chief of Protocol is responsible for giving and receiving gifts to and from the White House. The G20 2009 goody bag included a porcelain tea set, honey from the newly instituted White House Kitchen Garden (those bees have been more productive than Congress since January), and a specially crafted honey pot. (Where can I get one?! Seriously!) Just a guess, but I think Queen Elizabeth would have preferred a little bone china tea set since she drinks tea several times a day.

Now, let’s think this through. Capricia, it seems, was responsible for the iPod gaffe. But is she responsible for the spaghetti straps? She seems to have made no major faux pas when consorting with Hillary Clinton during her White House tenure. Indeed, Mrs. Clinton dressed conservatively and the only fashion foot-fault was wearing a head band during her first campaign which cannot be attributed to the Capricia. So the answer must lie with the First Lady herself. Or, was Ms. Marshall too timid to suggest that spaghetti straps might not be appropriate?

You might be asking yourself, why such a fuss, Expat????? Well, to me, a G20 meeting is a big international deal. It’s one of the world’s largest business meetings. Could I wear spaghetti straps to dinner with the head of Banco Santander? Only if I am sleeping with him. And what happened to cultural sensitivity? Three of the twenty countries have Muslim heads of state. Last time I checked, Muslims weren’t fans of the bared anything, let alone shoulders. I can only imagine what they were thinking. Maybe I am over-reacting? So then I asked myself, “What was Carla Bruni wearing?” She’s always a good fashion barometer when not posing naked. Carla was wearing a LBD with cap sleeves. She looked both stunning and elegant, befitting her position as French First Lady.

Mrs. Obama is also both stunning and elegant. She was blessed with a beautiful body and there could be a natural inclination to enhance or showcase her fine features. Am I jealous? Of course! Is this why it bugs me? No. Am I a prude or do I have a political axe to grind? This is not my motive.

It bothers me because this is the footage the Spanish press selected of the G20: Mrs. Obama pressing the flesh under-dressed. It’s embarrassing to our nation! This is one issue that should be covered up. Maybe a nice G20 wife brought our First Lady a pashmina that Capricia can catalog?

Word of the day: vestido (dress). Go to Lynn Sweet’s blog for the tea set story and a photo of Michelle and Carla (blogs.suntimes.com/sweet/).

Tonight was high escuela open house …. I had some excellent professores in my humble high school, chief among them Madame Dalsant (ze Francais) and Colonel Kasun (US History). Thing 1’s have potential but I confess to distrusting teachers fifteen years younger than moi.

J’adore la histoire.

Longer posts to follow in Octubre. Estas comprendo el contexto de las palavras? Bonus points if you understand this in both languages.

I missed a day! Yikes!

My cerebro drew a blank yesterday. Ni modo. Today I went on a walk with some fellow newcomers tracing the route of the old city walls of Madrid, at least the first two of them. Did you know that Madrid was first settled as a Muslim military camp in 711 A.D.? They routed the Visigoths in the area and settled in until 1492. All of this was news to me, my European history not being up to snuff. Did you know that all Spanish words beginning with “al” are Arabic in origin? Alcazar*, almuerzo**, almacen***, Al Jazeera, almost. Get it?

* fortress
** lunch
*** warehouse