Dancing Adults, A Most Terrifying Sales Pitch and A New Assignment

It has been an eventful few months in ole’ Washington, DC. While Son spent a month with Grandma in Bulgaria in August, the Diplomat and I decided to find the fun side of the city and to prove to ourselves how youthful we are. During our month of child-free frivolity, we discovered a very cool bar in the basement of the Hay Adams hotel called Off the Record, which with its red velvet walls and old-fashioned luxurious cocktails feels like something out of 1930s. After a few martinis coupled with Moscow mules, we decided that it was time to go dancing. Our first stop was the old classic Black Cat, which features live music, cheap drinks and 99.99% patrons 23 or younger (the Diplomat and I formed the 0.01%). After 30 minutes of being jostled by said youth, we gulped down our scotch and left in a hurry.

The next weekend, determined to find our path, we ended up at the Living Room, a hip and relatively new club, which was decidedly a step up. This time around, the average age of the cavorting dancers was a much more mature 28 and so the Diplomat and I ventured on the dance floor ourselves. It was wild, unabashed fun for about 20 minutes until we realized that everyone around us was absurdly drunk and what we took for dancing in the beginning was more like swaying back and forth, trying not to fall down. We left soon after that. Not one to be deterred by such trivial setbacks on my path to fun, I decided to research and find that one elusive place in Washington, DC where people our age went to hang out, dance and not feel 107 years old. I went straight to Google and typed: “clubs for adults in washington, dc.” I think y’all can guess what results I got out of that. So, we are back to good old foot research and once I find that elusive cool spot, I will certainly let you know.

Once Grandma and Son came back, we decided that we needed to show them some really good time, and show them what a Virginia beach looks like. To cut the cost of the lavish weekend down, we booked ourselves in the Sheraton in Norfolk, VA using points. Turns out, Norfolk has a newly developed waterfront area with several hip restaurants and one bar with a mechanical bull and waitresses dressed in cowboy boots, fish net stockings, thongs, and Hooters-style …uum, let’s call them blouses. We had to wait a few minutes to be seated and that bar happened to be next to the waiting area of the BBQ restaurant. As a result, Son was glued to the bar entrance, claiming it was because of the bull and that he was not hungry. After spending Saturday in Virginia Beach, playing endless family games of Uno and frolicking in the water, on Sunday, we planned on going to Busch Gardens amusement park in Williamsburg. The thing is, I had come into this great deal where we would get 4 tickets for the price of one in exchange for one teensy weensy little timeshare presentation to last a mere one hour. MAYBE an hour and a half. So, bright and early on Sunday, we headed to the hotel where the presentation was to take place. While we were waiting, I was pleased to see that the sales people were going fast through their spiel and seemed cognizant of why people were there – to get free stuff.

We started off rocky – we grabbed breakfast and the sales person (Bob) insisted that we finish before he began, no matter how many times we asked him to get going. Then he also insisted in taking our plates and tossing them in the trash. During all this, he was “establilshing rapport” with us, which largely meant him telling us he is a retired military and his wife Connie and him have bought one million trillion timeshares and it is, like, the best investment ever. An excruciating hour and half later, as we were writhing in agony listening to his pitch (which made no sense whatsoever – do you really believe that Williamsburg is the third most visited tourist spot in the U.S.??), he sadistically made us go on a 30-min tour of the property to show us how amazing it was (it was not). Finally, we sat back down and he asked us which unit we would like to buy. We said – none. He was astonished. Like –outright shocked. Speechless even. Once he regained his ability to speak (endlessly), he asked us in rather rude disbelief, “Which part of this did you not understand???” At this point, I was reaching a very high boiling point (I had planned to be at the park an hour earlier) and told him flat out that we are out. Naturally, he had to go to his manager, a large, rather menacing looking lady standing across the room, who listened to him, squinted her eyes at me angrily and strode over to us, plopping herself at the table with a fierce thud. She began pitching to us rapidly, in a very pissed tone, at which point I interrupted her and told her we were promised to be there for an hour, and it was already going on 2.5. She stared me down and suddenly yelled, “You are here because you want something, RIGHT??????” Errrr, yes, m’am, I said meekly in submission. So she ordered me to shut up and spend five minutes going through the pointless motions. Finally, the top boss came, signed off on the paper and let us go on our merry way to the park. I have never worked so hard to get something for free. And I am pretty sure it was my last. To his credit, the Diplomat did not say one word to me during and after, and eventually, much fun was had by all in Busch Gardens.

Most recently, we decided to brave the Thanksgiving traffic and go up to NYC to celebrate the holiday with old friends. Oddly, there wasn’t an ounce of traffic and we got to the Big Apple fresh and easy. We spent a couple of lovely days eating, drinking and catching up with our friends, and made it back down to DC on a sunny Saturday afternoon, again with not a trace of traffic. What kind of Thanksgiving miracle that was!

In other news, we have our next assignment – we are Kyiv bound in the summer of 2019! This was a dream assignment for us, but it was a nail-biter until the very bitter end – for a while, we thought we were going to Ghana and the Diplomat was already checking out golf country clubs in Accra. Instead, we will be shopping for sleds and fur coats. Which is just fine by me, thank you very much!

Four Countries in Four Days and One Unsuccessful Golf Outing

Saturday: MACEDONIA. At the end of my month-long Macedonian trip, Mom drove in from Bulgaria to spend a couple of days with me in Skopje and drive me back to Sofia. After a liquid and tearful goodbye with my Macedonian crew on a Friday night, on a blazingly hot Saturday, Mom and I drove slowly away through Macedonia and later that night arrived in Sofia. Now, let me see if I can explain my travel plans so that they make some sense to you. Originally, I was supposed to stay in Sofia until Monday afternoon in order to see my family and friends, and then fly to India to meet the Diplomat and Son, who had just flown in from Washington, DC to visit the In-Laws for a week. I was supposed to fly Qatar Air and arrive in Chennai around 2 am on Tuesday, then spend 3 quality days with the In Laws, and fly back to Sofia with Son at 3 am on Friday. The Diplomat would stay in India two more days and fly back home on Sunday, and I would do the same, but from Sofia, while leaving the excited child with Mom/Grandma for the rest of the summer.

Sunday: BULGARIA. To my utter dismay, however, on Tuesday before I left Skopje, I received a cryptic email that my flight from Sofia to Doha the following Monday had been canceled and that I now had to fly a day earlier, on Sunday, instead (or, as the Indians would put it succinctly - my flight was "pre-poned"), stay overnight in Doha and continue to India as originally scheduled. What should have taken 13 hours was now going to take 28. No amount of threats and pleading and requests for some money back or business class upgrade to compensate me for the inconvenience helped. I was livid - I had such a short time to see my family that the last thing I wanted to do was spend it gallivanting in Qatar.

I spent Saturday night and Sunday morning in Sofia, seeing as many relatives as I could, and climbed the plane to Doha on Sunday afternoon in as surly mood as you can imagine. After a pleasant 4 hour flight (and two movies), I stepped off the plane and was hit with the 104F degree humidity of Qatar  at 1 am - folks, I have lived in two hot, tropical countries, where it is scorching during the day but at least at night, it lets up a bit. Not in Doha. I had never experienced desert heat like that before, and it was surreal.

Monday: QATAR. And so was the rest of that night. After I got off the plane, I lined up at the endless line at the transfer accommodations desk where eventually I was told that I was being given a hotel downtown because the airport one was full (meaning, I wasn't going to bed any time soon and it was approaching 2 am). Then, to top that, I was given a meal voucher - at the time, I didn't know that, but it was a voucher for ONE meal only and it was up to me to choose whether it was for breakfast or for lunch the next day. I guess Qatar didn't think I should eat on their buck more than once, despite extending my journey time by 15 hours). Or perhaps I did appear somewhat fatty to the airport clerk, who knows. Exhausted, I found my way outside and began looking for the shuttle to the hotel. It was so intensely hot and humid that my glasses turned practically opaque with fog and firmly refused to clear up. As a result, I couldn't see where I was going and ended up being told to go back inside the airport where some undefined person would find me and take me to the hotel shuttle. Back inside (it was now 2.30 am), I could see no one who even remotely suggested to be from the Movenpick hotel until I overheard a skinny man mention the word shuttle to some woman. It turned out to be the guy I was looking for. I yelled at him for good measure (and because I was so exhausted and irritated at the whole situation), asking him how was I supposed to find him - infuriatingly, he told me that he usually waits for passengers with the hotel sign in his hands, except for now. Throwing one last self-righteous and indignant, "You are terrible at your job!", I got in the bus and eventually made it to the hotel. I slept until 11 am the next day.

The next day, I had over 8 hours to kill before my next plane, so I decided to go explore the city. My phone suggested that it was 114F degrees (45 Celsius) outside, with some solid humidity to make it even worse, but I decided to go for it anyway. A quick taxi ride later, I was strolling in the midday haze at the Souq Waqif (the market), admiring the architecture while trying to cram some of the scorching, stuffy air into my lungs. The market was truly beautiful. In the span of 40 minutes, my light cotton dress was completely soaked with sweat (which made it pretty much transparent to the delight of all shopkeepers) and I was getting more and more dazed surrounded by the endless sandy color of the walls and the blinding whiteness of the outfits of the stern Qataris passing by. After a prolonged examination of the bird part of the market (there was an astonishing amount of pigeons for sale), admiring a couple of falcons and a tall Qatari in a snow-white thoub carrying a fierce-looking sabre, I went back to the hotel, where I wrung out the sweat from my dress and proceeded to dry my underwear with the hairdryer.

Tuesday: INDIA. A couple of hours later, I was back at the airport, climbing another plane bound for Chennai. Two and half movies and a delicious chicken tikka masala later, I landed in India. It was 2 am, a Tuesday. I was rather exhausted and all I wanted was to see the Diplomat and Son whom I had not seen for over a month. But before the sweet family reunion, I had to pass Indian immigration. For those of you who are not Indian nationals, and have not been to India lately, I am happy to report a a positive development in the face of visa on arrival. You apply for it in advance, get approved and then go to a special (very short!) line at the airport. And so, quite excited, I showed up at the special desk and looked at the immigration officer. Unlike me, the man was in no hurry. For some reason, he was sweating so profusely that it was like rain pouring from inside out of of him. He produced an enormous checkered cotton handkerchief and slowly wiped his entire face and prodigious mustache with it. After that, he meticulously wrung it out and we both watched (me, in quiet horror mixed with disgust; he - with immense satisfaction) the sweat that dripped out of it on the floor. He sighed with content, folded the wet garment and tucked it in his pocket, wiped his wet hands (sort of) off his pants and motioned for my passport, shrugging his shoulders. He then looked it carefully as if seeing some rare artifact, went through all of its 52 pages one by one (not sure why as my pre-paid internet visa was printed on a sheet of paper, which  also gave him). After what seemed like 3 hours, he finally took an enormous stamp from his desk and gently (and somewhat lovingly, it seemed) pressed it onto an empty page. He finished by writing a small novel on top of the stamp and then finally handed me back my (now rather moist) passport. I was in! It only took 45 minutes.

I spent the next couple of days visiting various members of my Indian family and enjoying home-made food. On my third and last day there, the Diplomat decided to take us to play golf at the Chennai golf club. He had packed me a golf outfit, which consisted of a lovely skirt and a collared shirt. Thus clad, upon arriving at the club in our car, we were surrounded by a small mob of random men whose job and general purpose was unclear but who took a lively interest in me and my intention to play golf (a most unorthodox thought, apparently). We were brought to the pro shop (where we were asked to remove our shoes), and a few quick minutes later, the pro showed up himself, all smiles. We spent some quality time exchanging Indian pleasantries and getting set up to tee off, when he looked at me apologetically and told me that I absolutely and positively cannot go on the golf course with that shirt. The problem - it was sleeveless. It had a collar, it was designer golf ware for women, it matched my skirt perfectly, but....it was sleeveless. Dumbfounded, I wondered what to do and without noticing, agreed to buy a large, misshapen Burberry knock-off shirt with giant sleeves in order to play. Then he remarked on the length of my skort - it was about 5 fingers above my knees. He decided to let it go but advised me to pull it down a bit when we go to the starter - like THAT was going to fool him. We then proceeded to look at rental clubs and buying water, and almost 30 mins later, we were finally ready to pay and go play golf. And then none of the Diplomat's credit cards would work on the flimsy card machine. So, we did not play golf after all.

That same night, Son and I flew back to Bulgaria (finished the half movie from the previous flight, watched 3 more), where I spent exactly 24 hours before boarding more planes to go back to DC (4.75 movies). The Diplomat also flew back from India that same day, and we met at Dulles airport to begin our annual one month of a child-less honeymoon. 

A Month in Macedonia, Lice-Gate and the Puzzle

I recently spent a glorious month in lovely Skopje, where I supported the Public Affairs section in the U.S. Embassy. Having never done purely public diplomacy work before (I am mostly a consular gal), this TDY was a bit of a challenge and I was rather apprehensive whether my skills were up to par. My very first task upon arrival was to draft a 5-10 min speech for the Ambassador for the annual July 4th reception. I was given 5 bullet points on which to base it and off I went. It took some time, a few permutations, and a whole bunch of research, but in the end, on a sweltering summer night at the lawn in front of the Embassy, I proudly stood in the midst of the 1200-plus crowd of guests, listening to our Ambassador deliver (his version of) the speech I had drafted. You know that feeling when your kid performs super awesomely at the school recital, and, with tears in your eyes, you elbow the person next to you and whisper, “That’s my kid!”? Well, I felt like elbowing the person next to me and whisper, “That’s my speech!” I did not because the person next to me happened to be the speaker of the Parliament and I figured it would have been weird.

In the following days, I drafted a whole lot more speeches, talking points and briefing memos; made friends with various Macedonian Army officials and spent too much time in the Ministry of Defense in preparation of their hosting of 300 U.S. Army soldiers as part of a European military exercise led by U.S. Army-Europe later this summer. I worked with some amazing professionals from the Embassy’s PD section and I already miss them. I also consumed an unreasonable quantity of grilled meats, fresh salads, rakia (local grappa) and wine. Who knew that Macedonia makes a lot and fabulous wine? I didn’t and so, to explore it, I decided to visit a couple of wineries in the midst of a massive heat wave in Skopje. Such is indeed my dedication to wine research. You are welcome!

I organized a tasting at a small, make-shift winery in the middle of the city called Brzanov. You won’t find their wines in the store and you learn about the tasting and the wine by word of mouth mostly. I should have had some inkling about the experience when I called and the owner Dimitar (who spoke impeccable English) asked me how long we planned to taste – 3 or 4 hours. Errr, I typically taste wine for about 15 mins so I was at a loss of words. Deciding to stay on the conservative side, I said 3 since we had dinner plans afterwards. And thus, on a blazing and sleepy Saturday afternoon devoid of any life on the streets of the city, a bunch of us arrived in front of a nondescript house at the end of a dusty street, where several street dogs lay prostrate in front and stared at us quizzically. Inside, in a smallish room with very high ceilings, Dimitar began bringing platters of cured meats and cheese, home bread and decanter after decanter of fabulous wine. It seems that the winemaker of the winery does not use much science when making the wine; he simply trusts his nose. And what a nose it must be! After an hour, he invited us to continue to drink, errrr, taste wine in the cellar, where he proceeded to pour wine straight from various barrels as he continued to explain the unique Macedonian varietals like Vranec and Tamjanika. Oh, the glorious times we had! Three hours later, we all stumbled outside disoriented but very, very happy and jumped in a cab to go to dinner at the Macedonian Village. An “authentic” model village sitting at the top of a hill above Skopje, it has a few restaurants, shops and workshops showing off traditional Balkan crafts. After a feast of meat, rakia and more wine, we finally made it back home around 1 am.

The next morning, I had arranged a trip south, where we would visit old Roman ruins and lunch in another fabulous winery out of town. We were supposed to be 5 people, all heroes from the previous day tasting. Only one person besides me made it. Undaunted, we forged south and in about an hour or so, made it to the lovely Tikves winery. It was one of the best winery experiences I have ever had. If you have been reading this blog for a while, you’d know I have visited a fair share of wineries and by now, I am so over taking “the tour.” All I am interested is in tasting the wine and eating the food, if there is one offered. At Tikves, there is a phenomenal restaurant, hidden underground in the recesses of the winery - we literally had to climb down several sets of stairs until we reached the cellar and the restaurant. They have pre-set tasting menus that would cost around $20-30 per person, and include some of the best food I have ever eaten, along with an endless supply of “tasting” wine. A couple of hours later, satiated and very, VERY happy, we took off to see the ancient ruins of Stobi.

It was 42 Celsius (107F) outside. There was not a tree in sight, just white, ancient, hot, hot stones. It was very, very interesting and deserving of a long and comprehensive study, thoughtful pondering of Old Civilizations, ways of life and the short duration of the human life. All of that would have been nice. I believe that we managed to prance through the whole thing in record 14 minutes before I more or less passed out from the heat. But it is impressive indeed!

While I was thus gallivanting through the ancient Balkan cultures, drama was brewing back home in Washington, DC. One evening, in a casual conversation with the boys home, the Diplomat mentioned briefly that he intended to take son to a barber to get a haircut. Now, you should know that son sports fairly long hair, of which he and I are rather fond, so naturally, I find discussions of barbers and what their services imply rather distressing. I asked why, and was told that Son is bothered by the heat and scratches his head a lot because of the sweat. Seized by sudden terrifying childhood memories, I carefully asked the Diplomat to check the child for lice. I was right. There were colonies of them in his pretty, soft, long curls. And since the Diplomat had allowed Son to sleep in our bed in my absence, guess who else had lice? Yup, the Diplomat himself. Granted, just a few but enough to freak him out.

In the next couple of days, Son lost most of his hair and the Diplomat purchased every single delousing product on the official and black markets available, applied them obsessively on both of them and then combed and combed the dead critters out. I am pretty sure he was about to burn all of our sheets in the fireplace outside but re-thought and laundered them instead. I was being sent hourly updates from the process, which did make me feel both a little guilty that they are dealing with the little pests alone, but also a little happy that I and my long hair were thousands of miles away.

But if you think I was having a grand time every single moment I was away, you are sorely mistaken. I had so much free time after work that I did not know what to do with myself. While I traveled on a couple of weekends to Bulgaria to see family and friends, and went around the Macedonian countryside on others, that still left most of my week nights free. I am one of those people who cannot just sit down and do nothing. Even when I watch TV, I have to be doing something else (like, ironing). To deal with that, I picked up what looked like a nice puzzle that someone had left at the Embassy. It had 1500 pieces and looked reasonably easy to put together. I rushed home, barely ate dinner and began working on it at 6.30 pm. Around midnight, I finally lifted my blurry eyes from the table, to realize that I had barely managed to put together the frame of the monstrous thing, and that left me with another 1450 tiny, tiny pieces to figure out. But it was game on! In the next 2 weeks, I lived and breathed the puzzle. I worked on it in the morning while getting dressed, in the evening while cooking dinner, stooped over it till 1 am every day, and at times felt tempted to go home for lunch and work on it some more. Even when I went out with colleagues, and came home late, I would still go back to the puzzle. It was magnetic and diabolically difficult. One Saturday during the day, I had been concentrating so hard to read the words on the pieces that I physically felt nauseous. I literally had to step away from it for a couple of anxious hours in order to feel better. It took me two exhausting weeks but in the end, I did it. I put the last piece, took a picture and then tore it apart with viciousness I did not know I possessed.

I loved my time in Skopje. I got to do awesome work, meet some very cool people, drink outstanding wine, avoid getting lice and put together a beastly 1500-piece puzzle. After a month, my Mom came to pick me up and drive me back home for my onward adventures in India. For more of that, tune in next week when you will learn about my “Four Countries in Four Days!”

How I Went to Marine Camp, A Trip to the South, and I Battle Nature

Last month, in an answer to a call from the State Department, I volunteered my good services to the mighty Marines to represent my august institution in a simulated military-assisted evacuation of a fictitious U.S. embassy overseas. The week-long exercise took place in Camp Lejeune, in the picturesque North Carolina, and on a sunny Sunday afternoon, I excitedly drove the roughly 400 miles down south. Faced with the endless flatness and mind-boggling boredom of the I-95, which I was going to follow for most of the way, I pumped up the classic rock station on the radio, locked the speedometer on cruise control at exactly 80 mph, and sang all the way down to the massive Marine compound. I spent the next week planning and strategizing with a bunch of extremely put-together Marine officers, who called me “M’am,” listened to everything I said with rapt and respectful attention, and generally treated me like a rare flower. My fellow Americans – if there is one thing I want you to know, that is that you may sleep well tonight (and after that too, unless, of course, you have allergies or something) – the Marines know what they are doing and what they are doing is protecting us no matter what.

While I was there, I learned a few very useful things:

1) The U.S. military speaks in acronyms. All the time. Even when they are in a casual conversation. It sounds something like this:

“So, at 0900, I went to HYW and met with the GMAK to talk about 52Hs. The Command came and we hrumped (verb is made out of an acronym for something) until GOW released a SHIRWP. Boy, it was FUN!” Everyone laughs with tears in their eyes, while I sit there, blinking like a confused goat.

2) A good, useful, everyday acronym I actually learned was TFOA, or Things Falling Off Aircraft. Yup. It’s an official acronym. I keep looking for opportunities to use it in good context, to show off my military chops. Have not found one yet, but I am ready!

3) I also learned that we can all walk and chew gum. Now, you may know that expression, being a native English speaker and all. I did not. So, when in the middle of an intense troop relocation planning session, someone suggested that we could walk AND chew gum, I thought it was some military nerve-calming thing and proudly announced that I, in fact, do have gum on me! Yup, you can just picture the delight that produced in my uniformed friends.

I came back enriched and reassured that should harm befall one of our Missions abroad, the Marines would be there for us.

Not to be left behind, the Diplomat decided that for his birthday the following month, he wanted to drive all the way back down with me and Son, and spend a few relaxing days in the golfing heaven of Hilton Head, South Carolina. Frankly, the initial idea was to go somewhere in the Caribbean where we would enjoy countless drinks with umbrellas, swim in the hot ocean and play golf. Sadly, I am not sure what has happened with the world or the airline industry, but the price of a single plane ticket to the Bahamas was pretty much equal to the price of going to Beijing, and given that we were going for just 4 days, a Hilton Head roadtrip it was!

We agreed that the Diplomat and I would each take turns driving for a couple of hours, so that no one gets too tired. Now, you should know, the Diplomat is a leisurely driver. Some would call it excessively slow. Not me. I don’t call it anything. I just sit there in the passenger seat, fidgeting and making relevant remarks about the state of the highway, the car speedometer and all the other cars taking us over on both sides. We even got honked at by a semi-truck behind us, while driving in the rightmost lane. Now, that’s an achievement in slow driving in and of itself.

Hilton Head was dreamy and had more golf courses than people. Even I joined the Diplomat for a couple of rounds, which meant that I got to see one extremely lazy alligator, sunning himself in the hot Carolina sun. We dined in two outstanding waterfront establishments, the Scull Creek Boathouse and Hudson’s on the Docks. Both are fantastic, both do not accept reservations, both have great food, both are right next to each other, but somehow, the Scull Creek has a better, more romantic ambiance.

Other than that, life has been rather exciting back in good ole Washington, DC. For one, I have really embraced gardening. Now that I have a small back yard, I have indulged in what has always been my passion – growing vegetables and flowers. Except that nature is all against me. Did you ever think that squirrels are cute? I did. So damn cute. We have hundreds of them in Arlington. I used to gush at them – sipping my tea in the morning in my back yard admiring them running around, I felt so blessed to be so immersed in Mother Nature, to be one with it creatures, to breathe the fresh spring air. Wrapped up in my earthy reveries, I immediately planted lettuce and strawberries, of which some even had tiny green strawberry fruit on them already. The next morning, I woke up and ran back into my garden in my PJs, to gaze upon my produce. To my horror, half of the strawberries were ripped out from the soil, all tiny, green fruit gone from the stems, and a smattering of guilty-looking paw prints were left in the soil. At the same time, a really fat squirrel was slowly waddling towards the yard gate, mouth stuffed with strawberries, barely managing to squeeze under the wooden gate. Oh, this meant war!! Damn cute animals.

In the following two days, I did extensive research on the internet, to find out that pretty much there was no defense against the cute rats unless I put a net over my plants. Then another remedy caught my eye – a small device that emits supersonic sound that doesn't bother to the human ear, but would freak a squirrel out. I instantly bought it and waited with trepidation its arrival. It came in all its glory, called the Yard Sentinel. You know with a name like that you are safe from all things pestering your yard. I set it up, and I have to say the piercing sound it emitted bothered me so much that I had to go inside. But, I was happy - surely, no squirrel can endure the high-pitch sound of the Sentinel (The Sentinel!) and I was already dreaming of heaping baskets of home-grown strawberries.

In the meantime, Son was spending his days after school chasing cute rabbits around the neighborhood. They were small and extremely agile, and Son and the other pestering kids form the hood never managed to catch them. Once or twice, I even saw one in our backyard, and (since it was SO CUTE), took a picture of it. But there was even more endearing wildlife around me. For some time, I had noticed big holes dug around one of the trees in the yard. Initially, I thought we might have snakes, which duly freaked me out. Then I reasoned with myself that there are no snakes in Arlington, and decided to plug the holes with stones. The very next day, there was a fresh hole right next to the stone. I plugged that one as well, and then a new one appeared. In the end, the earth around the tree looked like a giant colander. But I still could not figure out what was living there.

So, one day, as I was resting contentedly on the couch, I happened to glance outside in the yard and noticed two playful squirrels engaging in some sort of a mating ritual right next to The Sentinel! Enraged, I ran outside to shoo them away, only to see a fat yet tiny bunny sitting on its haunches, energetically chewing on a piece of my leafy lettuce (the especially pricey, fancy mixed-type one), while a chipmunk darted from the mysterious holes and jumped into the well next to one of our windows. Upon seeing me, the bunny gave me a look (I swear I saw it roll its eyes) and sped away under the gate. Cursing it, I went to look at the chipmunk, which was now trapped in the 4ft deep window well. I got a ridiculously small towel, and went inside to trap it and release it. It is astonishing how fast this critters are. Finally, after a 10 min fight in the tiny well, I managed to catch the blasted animal. It was SO CUTE! To thank me, all of a sudden it viciously bit me, but I still managed to release it far, far from my house - it turned out that chipmunks also eat produce, and so I could not have him live next to the grocery store that was my garden. He was back the next day (his new hole is particularly huge, as if to make a point). So did the hordes of squirrels and bunnies.

I have not given up, however. I am determined to have a healthy crop of lettuce, cucumbers, tomatoes, green beans and whatever else I can keep safe from the cute menaces. I just don't know how. Any ideas are welcome...

The Cruise, the Diplomat Gets Cultural and I Shuck Oysters

We recently came back from a one-week fabulous cruise to some islands in the Caribbean (truly immaterial which ones, given that all I cared for was to have a beach and a place on it to sell drinks with colorful things in them). This was our second cruise ever and I was so excited, that I was squealing all the way from the airport to the Miami port. Reading the sign “Miami Cruise Port” on the highway brought me to uncontrollable giggling and hand-waving and generally annoying the Diplomat and Son with my unbridled exhilaration. Even the hour-long line to check in did nothing to dampen my exaltation; worse, it made me even more excited and frenetic so that when we finally reached the check-in desk, I beamed so brightly at the poor clerk that he let out an audible sigh and went to fetch our board cards.

Cruising is an amazing experience and I don’t care who scoffs at it! What’s not to like: you can eat at any time of the day (which I did), you travel to all kinds of warm places (unless, of course, you don’t), there is a pool on the ship for those days at sea, there is different entertainment every night, and, if you have been smart to buy a drinks package, you can get drinks at any point, any time, anywhere on the ship (which I also did). Because of the timing of this particular trip (end of January, when normal working people are back to work after the holidays), we had the refreshing opportunity to travel alongside 3,601 octogenarians and 3 couples our age, one of whom were our friends P+C. This spritely demographic on the ship presented us with a rather unique experience during the trip. Electric scooters, driven by determined mature gentlemen raced gamely down the narrow galley ways; hundreds of walkers were parked outside the dining room; since no one ever took the stairs, it took whole afternoons in order to get in one of the elevators; late-evening game shows with adult themes revealed unnecessarily graphic details of 50-plus marital bliss; the casino didn’t have an empty chair; and high-waste khaki shorts were all the rage. I also developed a certain appreciation for those members of the gentler sex, who did not think that age should dictate the size or the era of their bathing suits. It was seven days of traveler bliss and the Diplomat even played a round of expensive golf on the stunning ST. Kitts while I roasted my winter-white skin under the gentle rays of the January sun. On sea days, we barely saw Son and his bosom buddy V (P+C’s son) who ruled the ship running up and down its 13 floors and generally giving all the old folk arrhythmia just by looking at their endless energy.

Returning renewed to freezing Washington, DC, the Diplomat suddenly turned rampantly cultural and decided that 1) we will be taking ballroom dancing lessons, 2) we will go to the Kennedy Center philharmonic as my Valentine’s gift, 3) he will learn to play the piano. So, we started taking ballroom dancing classes with a charming Brazilian gentlemen and his Chilean wife with enormous and highly distracting eyelashes. At this point, we boast a highly awkward tango move and a choppy waltz. The Philharmonic was lovely and Son only fell asleep after half an hour, but woke up in the break, demanded a Sprite, drank it and stayed awake for the second part, which featured a scary dramatic piece by Dvorak about a witch and a little naughty girl who dies, which left an indelible impression on him. Finally, the Diplomat has begun teaching himself the piano with ferocious determination, reading thick books on music theory and playing Mary Had a Little Lamb after a YouTube tutorial. The man certainly has resolve, which makes me somewhat apprehensive as I have been hearing recent mentions of riding and archery lessons.

Recently, a colleague of ours dropped off a large bag of fresh oysters for our enjoyment. Folks, there are few foods in life I enjoy as much as oysters. I go nuts for them. So, that smelly bag of tightly-closed Virginian oysters made me dance in the kitchen. Until I realized that they would have to be shucked. To be honest, I didn’t even know the word “to shuck” existed before that day (I mean, can’t we just say “to open” the damn mollusk??) The Diplomat promptly went on YouTube, his personal guru on how to do, um, kinda everything and watched 8 videos on the subject. After that, he decided it was not for him and instructed me to do it. So, there I was, armed with an old kitchen knife, (NOT a specially-designated shucking knife as all those cool folks in the videos), trying to pry open – oh, pardon me! – to SHUCK the prized oysters using detailed internet instructions. What could possibly go wrong?! After cutting myself only 4 times, in 15 minutes, I had successfully shucked two, which I ate triumphantly and immediately. Eventually, I managed to shuck a few more, at the cost of Herculean and meticulous labor and an almost severed pinky. The rest had to be stored, and so the Diplomat made the brilliant suggestion to put them in cold water and into the fridge. Which pretty much killed most of them. Apparently, salt-water critters don’t do so well in the sanitized Arlington sweet tap water. The next day, when I opened the bowl, I saw a mesh of tentacles and other freakish-looking soft matter coming out of the semi-opened shells. It took a lot of dedication and love for oysters to dig through the slimy mess and find the resilient ones who were still tightly shut, and mercilessly shuck them and eat them with gusto. Ii will be some time before I decide to shuck oysters again. Until then, I will continue to eat them at overpriced restaurants.

Life in arctic Arlington continues its merry way.  Even though every Monday I resolutely tell the Diplomat that THIS weekend we are not going to host a single party, dinner, impromptu backyard drinks with neighbors, a BBQ or any other “thing” of such sociable nature, we inevitably end up doing such a thing and then spend the Sunday recuperating. Well, so be it! Life is better spent with friends!