A Fashion Show and a Fire Alarm

Last week I had the rare pleasure of participating in a fashion show. No, dear God, I was not a model. I got to be the MC of the event which meant spending about 2 hours speaking in front of 380 people with 528 potent projectors concentrated on me while I try my utmost to look and sound professional. The show featured the gorgeous clothes of Bangladeshi as well as one American designers. I got to work and see professional Bengali models whose physique and face depressed me for the entire weekend. It only got worse when one of my co-organizers tried to make me feel better by saying, "well, they are so much younger!" Yeah, there is nothing better when you are on a strict diet (which you don't exactly observe well) and stare at 30 stick thin gorgeous models than to be reminded that they are not only thinner and prettier than you but also younger. All I could think of while grimly watching them practice was how I'd like to force feed some of them. Sadly, all I did was force feed myself with a bunch of samosas that were just sitting there laughing at me with their oiliness.

The fashion show, also known as Untied Women of the World Dhaka 2012 was a smashing success. Organized by the joint efforts of the Dhaka American Women's Club, the SAARC Women's Association and the British Women's Association, it involved months of prep, tireless fundraising efforts, a day of practice with all the models, and D-day. One of the designers had expressed a preference for "community" models, so I recruited 9 beautiful, slim ladies from Dhaka's finest and left them at her artistic mercy.

Then we all went "in make up and hair." Oh, I was so excited at those words - who doesn't like a bunch of people toiling at them applying makeup and doing their hair to make them look stunning. We had the best artistic studio in Dhaka at our disposal. Then I saw them painting the models in layers of striking makeup and began to be a little afraid about my own fate. You see, I realized that I do need a somewhat heavier version of my usual "going out" make up since I was going to be standing in front of a million projectors during the show, but I also did not need to look like a clown fish. So, I politely asked the makeup artist not to go crazy on me. Because of the colors of my dress, I asked for blue and subtle golden hues. Looking at her palette and choices, I should have known we are poised for disaster. Half an hour later, and there I was, ready for my traditional Bengali wedding, unrecognizable in my bright blue and golden mask on pale background. There were layer upon layers upon layers of thick paint, starting with a base of paleness that rivaled Scarlet O'Hara's carefully protected pasty white skin (the lady laid on the liquid base thickly lest I look like my natural skin color for a second). I think she thought that I was simply not white enough. Bright as the moon, I then featured humongous purple-blue eyes, crowned by massive strokes of dark gold. Any self-respecting mandarin fish would have died of envy. To top the ensemble, another artist did my hair. I asked for nice, smooth large curls and boy, did I get some - the lady took small strands of my hair, poured a kilo of hair spray on them, and then sealed them tight with a curling iron. Me and Medusa were like sisters!

The show itself was fabulous! After it was over, the Diplomat and I ran to a gallery opening to see the stunning work of Vinita Karim. And then we ran again cross town to the housewarming party of the famous and fabulous singer Kumar Biswajit. And yes, all this time I was prancing about town with my moonshine skin and fabulous blue/gold raccoon eyes. Everyone was duly impressed.

I love our Embassy. We always like to enliven our lives there. For example, just 3 days ago there was a fire alarm that hit just as I was interviewing a nervous student visa applicant with very vibrant hair. The moment the alarm went off, I loudly urged the applicant to go into the waiting room, but he just stood there staring at me pleadingly. I repeated my request several times but he refused to un-glue himself from the window, his impressive hair shaking disapprovingly at me. I left him to his own devices and ran for dear life. Soon, the entire Embassy poured out in the courtyard and we waited breathlessly to see where the fire was. At which point it occurred to me that all our visa applicants were patiently waiting inside what could be a very fiery Embassy. I ran back and made the security guards let everyone out. To my utter amazement, no one wanted to leave - it was visa or nothing, fire be damned!  The student with the remarkable hair was also there giving me evil eye. Finally everyone filed out.
I believe that we all had some fun in the 100 degree sun, some smoked, others saw friends from other floors that had not seen in ages,and others even pulled sandwiches out and had a picnic. It was all very recreational and boosted morale on a slow, boring Monday.  Yes, Embassy life is fun!

Me and Bjorn Borg

Some of you might recollect my laments from the mid-summer party dry spell in Dhaka. Well, NEVER YOUR MIND!

Right after we celebrated Son’s birthday, I threw myself into frantic preparations for my own birthday. After contemplating a tacky yet delightful Eastern European trash themed bonanza on our roof top (sort of to open the season in the district), we decided on a more professional touch at the American Club here, where the Diplomat wouldn’t have to worry about cleanup the next morning (everyone has priorities, I suppose). I firmly believe the recipe for a good party calls for three essential ingredients – open bar, a great DJ and guests who are heavily interested in drinking and dancing. Thankfully, we managed to have a lot of all three. Some time around 2 am and 120 guests later, I was watching lazily as three of the male guests were doing pushups on the ground, a bunch of others were dancing slowly around them with glazed eyes and a young strapping lad, no more than 22 years old, approached me to ask me whether I was the birthday girl and to thank me for a great party. I had no idea who he was. It was indeed one swell birthday though. It was made even better by the fact that it was our DCM’s birthday as well and he did stop by and had a drink with us.

The following week, the entire expat and diplomatic corps community went nuts as we all prepared to go to the infamous Glitter Ball. Now, if you recall from last year, this is a huge party celebrated in the biggest ballroom in town, where all the crème de la crop of Dhaka foreign and local society gathers to look and behave stupid. Each table has a theme based on which folks dress up – my table went as 70’s tennis players. We procured horrendous old-fashioned white short shorts for the men, and some hideous long skirts for the women, as well as garish headbands, drank a bunch of vodka and joined the Ball. Now, mind you, when we were getting the clothes from the fancy sporting store in the middle of the most affluent part of town, the owners assured us fervently that everything was “last year’s fashion, sir!!” which makes me really, really sad. The ball, of course, was a blast and we were spectacular. I looked especially authentic – in fact, while I was looking at myself in the mirror, skort, curly long blond hair and ludicrous headband on, the Diplomat appreciatively commented that I look like Bjorn Borg from behind. WTF?

This weekend we also enjoyed an extra holiday thanks to Mr. Columbus. Luckily, it was not a holiday for Son’s school, so the Diplomat and I got a glimpse of what it is to be people without children or agenda or anything better to do. For starters, after Son left, we slept until 11 am, and then the Diplomat went to play gold while I did absolutely nothing. Oh, I might have stared at the wall for a bit, and then I ate a sandwich. A really good one, too! With a pickle! Then I saw a particularly terrible movie on TV. And then I did nothing a bit more. One thing is for sure – I did not brush my teeth until it was time to pick up Son from daycare! Bliss!! I continue to wonder - whatever do single people do on a weekend???

Speaking of Son, he has all of a sudden grown up. He now insists on sophisticated conversations that center around the bowels of dinosaurs and whether he can marry the cat. He paints elaborate grotesque paintings that portray large scale airplanes and even larger suns; he pouts when little girls won’t play with him (there is a real dearth of little boys in our community for some reason); wonders where babies come from and why he cannot have one in his belly; tells me that I SHOULD drink milk since it has “so many useful things in it” to make me grow up. I try to keep up with him and teach him good things – how to hold the spoon, when to brush his teeth, not to interrupt adult conversation, the numbers, the letters, songs, manners. He even watches me cook and helps with condiments. We read books and talk about them. And yet it always seems like he is a step ahead of me with his endless, “why?” It is amazing how often I have no answers – aren’t we supposed to have them all by now? Amazing thing this parenting business. How do we watch our children grow and not melt our hearts every morning, every day, every night?

Welcome Back to Dhaka!

After bidding adieu to the boys, I went to Bulgaria to see my family and friends. I will tell you now one thing about me – I am mad about reunions of any kind. I am fiercely sentimental and just love reviving the past one way or the other. So, on this trip, I managed to reunite with two of my best girlfriends, my family and my middle school class!!! Typically, every time I go back, I organize a mini reunion of my high school class but this year I decided to see whether I can get together with my middle school peeps – some of which I had not seen for 23 years (yes, I am THAT old, ok??) !! We only managed to uncover 8 of us, but even that ensured a fabulous evening of endless memories, drinks and constant inane giggling. There was the obligatory “so, what do you do now?” and the ever unnecessary “oh, look at my kids!” to “OMG, do you know what happened to HER??” It was a blast. We’ll do it again in another 23 years, I hope.


So, then I climbed the plane again to fly back to Paris, spent 8 hours at Charles de Gaulle Emirates business class lounge (oh, my God!, such good food and endless champagne) and then hopped on the flight to Dhaka through Dubai. I have 4 words for you “Airbus 380 business class.” CAPITAL OH MY GOD! The damn thing had a BAR in the back. OK, so I have not flown business class too many times in my life so you can bet I was enjoying it. And flying Airbus 380 was the cream of the crop in that respect. Thus, you can imagine that once I stepped on board, it took a lot out of me not to behave like a lunatic and squeal every time I saw something awesome, like the private bar in my seat, or the massive screen of my private TV, or the nice mattress for my fully reclining chair, or every time the stewardess came by to offer me a selectoin of champagne and my favorite French white wines (you bet I got off that plane with a massive hangover!). And then there was the bar at the back. Even though I had decided that after watching two movies and having dinner, I will go to sleep so that I am not a complete wreck once I arrive in Dhaka the next morning, I just could not resists and spent the rest of the night arguing the political situation and its possible causes and remedies with a Maldives banker and a Lebanese marble exporter. I felt like a million bucks!

While I was in Bulgaria, the unfortunate anti-Mohammed movie incident began unfolding, and it made me even more anxious to get back to Dhaka. To the few who have asked whether we are OK – yes, we are, thank you so much for the concern. Hats off to Bangladesh, which lives up to its fame of a modern, peaceful Muslim democracy and has only allowed a few contained protests. In all fairness, traffic in Dhaka is so bad, and the diplomatic zone can be reached only through a small bridge so as a result any potential protesters are naturally deterred by the realities of Dhaka life. And if any crowd does manage to come through and gather at the Embassy, since we are on the tail end of monsoon season sooner or later it begins to rain, and the demonstrators eventually disperse. As a matter of fact today was the first day when people actually managed to demonstrate for real for at least 10 minutes in front of the Embassy– we did the obligatory “duck and cover away from the windows” as prompted by the loud embassy speakers. Unfortunately, the recording got stuck later on and we had to listen to the “duck and cover” order for about half an hour after everything was over to the utter fascination or horror of the visa applicants (depending on their age) who kept wondering what was going on.

Other than that, Dhaka greeted me properly back. In the span of a week, I managed to regain my almost constant Dhaka sinus infection (awesome air we breathe here), obtained an unsightly allergic rash all over my legs (who knows why), had a mild flu, discovered some massive amounts of mold of pleasant ghastly pale blue color all over the upper sections of my master bedroom closet (my fancy boots are inside, y’all!), had the side mirrors of my car stolen (actually sort of hacked off with an axe or something) within the 15 mins it took for me to shop in a local supermarket, and the Diplomat got a nasty food poisoning which resulted in a night spent in the bathroom hugging the toilet seat for him.

The highlight of the week was Son’s fourth birthday party. Themed “Dinosaurs,” it involved some surprisingly unsophisticated decorations from Party City and Oriental Trading and 18 screaming kids. I had the brilliant idea to invite all of Son’s school buddies and their parents since we barely know each other and it would be fun to hang out. As a result, an hour into the birthday on a peaceful Saturday late afternoon, 18 screaming children were pouring out of every nook and cranny of our apartment, some literally hanging from the furniture and bars on the windows, others crawling from under some other furniture, and yet others eating food from the floor while Son was breathlessly running around like a headless chicken happy to tears with his awesome party and itching to tear into his presents. At the same time, about 20 parents were coolly standing around, sipping bubbly and other non-child related libations and mostly ignored the mayhem while having a rather pleasant conversation with each other. The gaiety was a bit marred by the fact that I had prepared to have a “dino hunt” for the kids (I read about the idea on a website for awesome moms and their super awesome creative child parties) and for the purpose had bought 50 small plastic dinosaurs and dispersed them around the living room. Sadly, the parents were not aware of my super awesome non-creative idea and soon started stepping on them with their bare feet – you can only imagine how a small plastic sharp T-Rex feels like when you step on it unaware and while balancing a crystal wine glass. So much for the dino hunt. Other than that, I must say it was a pretty solid birthday bash indeed! Now we are looking forward to my own birthday soire to take place this weekend. Yey me! Oh wait, that means I am older now. Ugh.

Chateaux, wines, tennis, planes, trains and automobiles

So, I would like to summarize my latest observations from France in this fairly crude, American manner:

1. Practically no one in France speaks workable English. Or German. Or Spanish. Or any other language whatsoever. I am not saying they should. Just that they don't. I now speak horrendous menu-driven French out of necessity. My pronunciation is a mix of Spanish, triple-rolled tongue and a lot of randomly swallowed consonants. The effect is magnificent.

2. French people stir their coffee for hours. Even if there is no milk or sugar. Makes the observer dizzy.

3. France is shockingly efficient and modern country. I am saying it as a compliment. Even though I have been there before, I have always thought of it as a country of wine and womanizing as opposed to excellent engineering, efficiency in every detail and high technology.

4. There is no free wi fi anywhere. What?????

5. The TGV speed train rocks.

6. A one month vacation is enough to drive me crazy from idleness.

In the past 2 weeks, the Diplomat and I criss-crossed the multifaceted country of France and ate and drank wine to exhaustion. We left Paris in a neat VW and headed over for a week of exploration in the Loire valley. I had an ambitious agenda consisting of gazing at multiple chateaux and other historic fabulosities, combined with daily wine tasting, while the Diplomat had an even more ambitious agenda of finding as many tennis courts as he could. The man researched the availability of tennis courts and partners to play with a zeal I have never observed in the performance of his domestic chores. In the absence of appropriate partners, I was brought onto the courts to demonstrate my tremendous lack of skill and ever expanding thighs (blame the wine tastings and the ubiquitous baguettes). I remain enchanted with the chateaux - we visited Ambois, Chenonceau, Azay-le-Rideau, Chambord, Ussé à Rigny-Ussé, Villandry and I remained hungry for more. I honestly cannot say which one is better than the others, but one thing I'll say - it was good to be rich in France! 

Loire valley wines are a delight. It is a region of pleasant dry whites and I was in heaven - mostly coming from the Chinon grape, the wineries there produce light, fruity and delicious cheap wines (think Vouvray!) and sparkling wines that we just couldn't get enough of. The problem was that every time we went to taste, we had to buy at least one bottle. Which also meant that we had to keep drinking them since we could not exactly transport everything back to Dhaka. And so we did. 

After we were done with the chateaux we decided to spend a couple of days in Sancerre and Pouilly-sur-Loire, where Sancerre (duh!) and Pouilly Fume wines are liberally produced. Let me just say here that my love story with white wine began one day many years ago with a bottle of Pouilly Fume and the rest is history. I was in wine heaven!! What a wine, people! Made from Sauvignon Blanc, it is full-bodied, fragrant, yet delightfully dry. The Diplomat had to drag me out of every tasting cave while I was trying to buy more and more bottles. Also made of Sauvignon Blanc, Sancerre is nice but a tad too dry for me. More like drinking acid juice at times. Oddly enough, folks there delight in telling you at length about the terrain where the vines grow. In one tasting cave in particular, a young enthusiastic lady kept waving energetically in front of me random rocks and prattle in high-pitched French about the origin of the rocks and the vines they grow on each one. One can feign interest for so long, you know. Especially when already tipsy on sour dry wine. It is possible that I dozed off towards the end of the geological discussion. 

 It was in Pouilly-sur-Loire that we had a dinner in a pretentious little restaurant called "Le Coq Hardi," a name that kept sending me into fits of third-grade laughter (just sound it in your head and you'll get it). After a stern maître d’ met us at the door looking like a replica of the bad guy in the Matrix, and had a mini, thinly veiled heart attack that we apparently had the nerve to show up without a reservation, he led us to a table for two while looking at us in clear distaste. Mon Dieu! We were punished by being left to wait without menus for about 15 minutes. Thankfully, we had tasted extensively that afternoon and had arrived rather happy at the restaurant so nothing could really dampen our spirits. As we started to slowly despair (while giggling inanely most of the time), the other waiter, a gangling supertall youth all of a sudden came and lit a candle on the table giving us a cryptic surreptitious look while doing it. That must have been the magic sign that we have finished our penance since from that point on, menus, water and bread were bestowed upon us in a most serious and grim manner. The Diplomat decided that his counter offensive would be to smile absurdly at all three waiters (there was also lady, who looked like a brooding lost soul among the tables) every time he would sight them just to see what the effect would be. As a result, at the very end after we paid, the maître d’ gave us a half-tooth smile clearly thus granting us his benevolence.

We left the region sated and exhausted and headed to Paris, where the next early morning, Grandma deposited Son with us at the Paris airport after their happy one month cohabitation in Sofia. We immediately jumped on the TGV fast train and in 4 hours were in Provence to begin a further week of doing nothing at all. Through some magic, we somehow upgraded our minuscule rental car (booked for free on points) to a BMW SUV and after stuffing inside it 3 large suitcases, 2 small ones, a tennis bag, hyper child, Diplomat and a couple of fat thighs, we happily arrived at the delightful Mas Antonine, a house where we had rented out an apartment for the week. The place was pure paradise - nestled among rice fields, it had a swimming pool which cold waters could not deter a determined Son to play inside while shivering uncontrollably. The next few days were spent sightseeing in Avignon and Marseilles, home cooking and paying obscene prices for endless carousel rides for Son. 

Then we repacked our multiple suitcases, dashed back to Paris, and I mournfully bid Son and Diplomat "au revoir" as they climbed on the plane back to Bangladesh. I, in turn, crammed myself along with other sardines in a packed flight to Bulgaria to spend 5 days with the familia in Sofia. Don't worry, this vacation is coming to an end on Friday even for me. Sigh...

Oh là là – we are in France again and some awesome money advice for foreign travelers

We just spent three blissful and freezing days in Paris, along with very good friends from New York – it was a passionate rendezvous after a year of separation. To make the most of it, we dove into endless eating, drinking and shopping in the overpriced shops of Le Marais. We even managed to see some of the sights that eluded me the last time I visited the great city of romance 5 years ago when I was pregnant and moved around like an asthmatic camel. On the last night, after walking for eternity in search of the elusive “non-commercial, non-touristy” restaurant in St. Germain, we ended up in possibly THE most touristy one of them. Completely nonplussed, we immediately ordered copious amounts of wine and food. Soon, the goods began arriving, carried by a spritely young lad. As is his habit and to confirm some suspicions, the Diplomat asked him where he was from and (would you know it) the server turned out be from Bangladesh! To his utter amazement, both the Diplomat and I became unnaturally delighted about his origin for no apparent reason. And then his amazement turned into complete stupefaction when I asked him in crystal clear Bengali how long he has been there, whether he is married, where he lives and what is his visa status in the country – you know, the usual questions for a South Asian man. Bursting with joy, he told us his life story in about 4 minutes and promised to come to the American Embassy once he comes back to marry his first cousin in January to get an American visa. I am not sure why.

After we bid a tearful adieu to our good friends Mr. and Mrs. V, we promptly rented a car (using points accumulated on our credit card within less than a month) and immediately set out to explore the beauty and alcohol traditions of the Loire Valley. Which reminds me to write about something I have been meaning to for a long time, namely – using American issued credit and debit cards overseas without paying exorbitant foreign transaction fees. There are 2 cards the frequent foreign traveler needs – (1) a credit card that does NOT charge you foreign transaction fees, and (2) a debit card which you will use for cash and will NOT charge bank fees.

Credit cards with no foreign transaction fees

1. CapitalOne: The best one on the market is CapitalOne’s Venture card, or the notorious “What’s In YOUR Wallet??” card. It’s VISA, so it is welcomed everywhere (Visa charges much less in merchant fees than, say, AMEX). It converts the foreign currency using a decent exchange rate. And it does not charge any fees. There are no minimums, no maximums, no need for certain balances, no swearing your life, $60 annual fee. It also accumulates you points that you can cash for just about anything travel related (they work with Expedia and divide the price of travel goods by 10 to get the amount of points necessary). We used our points to book a rental car for 2 weeks in France now. It’s that awesome. That’s it. Now go get the card. No, they are not paying me for this. I wish.

2. Citibank: Citi offers the Citi ThankYou Premier Card and the ThankYou Prestige Card with no foreign transaction fees. We used to use the Premier Card a lot before we got the Venture card. The cool thing about that card is that you get reward points both when you buy things, as well as miles from flights booked using the card. For example – say, you bought a plane ticket to fly from NYC to Paris, which cost you $1,000. The miles you get on your frequent flyer program are, say 3,000. So, on your Citi card you will get both 1,000 points from the money you spent, as well as 3,000 from the flight itself. It doesn’t have to be tickets just for you – you can be buying tickets for your grandma to come see you and cook your favorite pie since you are so awesome and too lazy to make your own pie. You still get her miles. The thing about that card was that the annual fee is a whopping $125. So, we switched. Not until we went to India on the accumulated points, though…

Debits cards for cash overseas

1. USAA: Their debit card reimburses you 100% for all foreign ATM fees. It is awesome. It has one tiiiiiiiiny little problem though – it is not available to the general public. Only to the military and certain governmental employees, like the Foreign Service folks (yey!). Sorry rest of the world. But if you can get it, GET IT!

2. Charles Schwab: if you open a High Yield Investor Checking Account (it only sounds fancy, it has no minimum balances or fees), they offer unlimited fee rebates from any ATM worldwide. Which is awesome.

3. HSBC: they are a global bank as they love to tell you in humongous posters all over every single airport I have ever been to. They don’t charge ATM fees at any of their ATM machines worldwide, and they have branches everywhere. Even in Dhaka. Whoa! So, that is another option to get fee-less cash abroad.

Further Awesome money travel advice: (a) use your no-fee credit card as much as possible. Credit card companies get the best foreign exchange rates (no matter how enticing the exchange rate looks like at the exchange bureau manned by 2 burly locals next to your hostel in Burkina Faso); (b) when you get cash from an ATM (if not without fees), get a bunch – the fees are not a percentage, but a set amount, like $5 and it doesn’t matter whether you will be getting $100 or $1000. So, there is no need to pay ATM fees every day for small withdrawals.

Final Awesome Foreign Travel money advice: get yourself a credit card with DIVERSE travel rewards. The above mentioned Venture and Citi cards are a good example – you can use their points for any airline, a myriad of hotels and car rental companies. Do not get a card that ties you to just ONE airline – those days of exclusivity with American Airlines or Southwest Air are over, my friends. Another GREAT option is a credit card linked to a particular world hotel chain like Hilton, Starwood or Marriot – you can use that card for your domestic purchases and then cash your points to stay anywhere within the chain for free. We do it all the time. Not to mention that a higher balance makes you a higher level member and you get perks at the hotel, like free bottled water, internet in your room (usually, the price of gold) or even fruit baskets!

I hope this was helpful. As we move slowly through the Loire Valley, overdosing on châteaux and local wine, I will try to recount for you some of the highlights (which include elderly British ladies in microscopic biking outfits, baguette sandwiches with ham and cheese and endless wine tastings). But since I have just gulped yet another half a bottle of Vouvray with my sumptuous dinner of locally produced organic something or the other difficult to pronounce French foods, I must head to bed at this point.

Iftars, Lebanese Tzatziki in Australia and Naked Catholics

The childless madness continues – while Son gallivants in Europe with Grandma, the Diplomat and I overdose on Iftars, tennis and sunlight. Last 10 days saw us attend 8 Iftar parties, whether for work or pleasure. While I certainly appreciate the cuisine and the concept of the Iftar party, I have to admit it took a toll on me. As faithful diplomats, we Americans host and attend a slew of formal representational Iftar dinners. In and of itself, that is all very nice. But often the dinner unfolds something like this:

Me: So, you are from the Bangladeshi foreign ministry, in the consular section, how exciting!

(Very serious) BGD diplomat: Yes. (Pregnant silence)

Me: (beginning to eat) That must be very interesting.

BGD diplomat (gently drinking a glass of lemonade, frowning): Yes.

Me (filling mouth hastily with tasty breads): So, do you have kids?

BGD diplomat (suddenly and intensely): How do you think the U.S. recent policy change in Iran will affect the status quo in the region???? What are the real issues for the presidential elections?? Who will be the running mate for the Republicans?? WHO WILL WIN THE ELECTIONS??

Me (mouth full of bread and goat biryani, rather startled, stupefied): Wha’? (muffled by the bread)

So, yeah, while the food is great and company highly engaging, it is not all that easy to be the consummate diplomat that I fancy I am during an Iftar dinner.

The night Ramadan ended, on the eve of Eid-Ul-Fitr, the Diplomat and I, and what seemed like ¾ of the American Embassy and the remaining expat community in Dhaka, climbed a Bangkok Air flight and ran to Phuket. For us, it marked the beginning of our annual R&R vacation. Now, this is how great of an employer the State Department is. Depending on where you serve in the world, it understands the need for some well-deserved R&R by its weary employees and so it generously provides them with a free ticket to a chosen destination (that depends on where you serve) to relax and forget about visas and demarches. Thank you, State Department, thank you very much!

We spent 5 blissful, tennis and sun-drenched days in Phuket where we slept until 10.30 am, ate, jumped like maniacal mongooses in the silky ocean, slept some more on the beach, ate late lunches, read deep literature, played tennis for hours and then gazed intently into each other’s eyes every night over copious and unhealthy dinners.  

Among all of these delights, however, our favorite remains the Thai massages – whether it is just a humble foot massage, a protracted aromatherapy something or a traditional Thai (something of a gymnastics fete), every time we are in Thailand, the Diplomat and I make sure to overindulge. Unfortunately, when you go to traditional tourist destinations like Phuket, you are more than certain to get more than you have bargained for. For me, getting a massage is an entire experience – from the smell of oils, to the darkened lights, to the fragrant towels, to the quiet lull of the parlous to the ultimate excellence of the massage itself. In most massage places on the main streets, people tend to get foot massages. To serve that need, parlors are in essence long wide corridors with many large comfy lazy-boy chairs lined next to each other. Maintaining silence is common sense and courtesy provided by most sensible clients. So, you can imagine my chagrin when, after a day of intense eating and ocean jumping, the Diplomat and I sat down in a nice looking, fragrant massage place, and within seconds of having my feet washed and expertly mauled by a freakishly strong woman, I realized that I was sitting to a massage aficionado’s worst fear – a rather gregarious lady. In the next ten minutes, I learned all about her tzatziki business in Sydney (third largest in Australia, mind you!) and the large amounts of Lebanese in Australia, info which she shared eagerly and rather loudly in the most uncanny New Jersey accent with the hapless Greek gentleman who had the misfortune to be sitting next to her. When I could not take it anymore, I turned politely to her and in most sugary annoyed voice asked her to perhaps, please, tone it down a bit, she turned to me and in the utmost earnest manner passionately said to me, “I don’t blame ya!” and did not utter a single word for the remainder of the massage. It was indeed, one of the best I have had so far.

I am happy to say that among the other useless activities, the Diplomat and I also went to a dance club! Yeah, we are WAY cool. We even remained there for like 30 minutes. Cool. COOL!!

Yesterday, we packed our bags and rushed back to Dhaka where we spent the day laundering and repacking, and ready to fly to Paris tomorrow morning. YEAAAAAAAAAAAH! See you in Europe, everyone!

PS - As I am typing this, I am also watching National Geographic’s Taboo show, featuring Catholic churches in which everyone is butt naked. A-hum. Naked. Not, like, attractive naked. More like rather large, all-in-your face kind of naked. One with God. Amen! 

“And Please, Do Not Panic!”

I know it has been over 2 weeks since my last post. Blame the slow, humorless life we live and the summer dearth of parties. On the other hand, we have now entered Ramadan and in the next two weeks I am not sure we need to cook anything because every single night is taken by one Iftar party or another, some formal and some by friends. Iftar, if you will recall, is the cornucopia dinner following a day of fasting started at dawn by faithful Muslims. The problem is that none of us Americans are fasting and yet we eat just as much as our fellow Muslim fasting guests, as a result of which they get energized and talkative and we – sluggish and entering slow, undiplomatic stupor while trying to maintain clever, engaging conversation. Perhaps I should be skipping lunch this week? I am sure my thighs will have something to say about that.

Now I will share with you my experience at one of the most wonderful albeit somewhat phantasmagorical event commemorating the anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence two weeks ago - I was handed an invitation to the fest by our protocol office. The event was organized by the Bangladesh American Society, which clearly knows how to throw a good party. I want their event planner for Son’s birthday! It had more than 500 guests, among which ladies with resplendent sarees and gentlemen with tight suits and most baffling ties. My driver dropped me off at the entrance of a huge convention hall, where I was met and greeted by a somewhat startling gaggle of youngsters dressed in suits, who yelled at me in one voice, “Welcome and happy anniversary!!!” Still dazed from their enthusiasm and smiles that could put the Cheshire cat to shame, I went inside in the cavernous hall where I was immediately handed a bunch of flowers by no less enthusiastic young ladies dressed in sarees in the colors and shapes of the American flag – a most daring combination if I should say so. I was then led by a few excited young men to a large table right at the front of the stage where I was asked politely but firmly to please, sit down. Every time I got up and tried to move around someone would come and practically push me back into my chair. It was at that point that I realized that I was the sole American in the entire humongous hall filled with people. To make things worse, I was also wearing a blinding white dress and mile high white heels. Never have I felt more like the white elephant in the room than at that moment.

Mercifully, soon a couple of colleagues joined in and soon the lengthy programming began – according to the leaflet in front of me, we were scheduled to go from 4.30 pm until 8, when dinner would be served. The planning was elaborate – there were supposed to be a bunch of speeches by a number of incredibly distinguished speakers, mixed artfully with a myriad of cultural programming, acknowledgments and what have you event stuff. After our Ambassador arrived, and the few initial speeches were out of the way, the MC suddenly appeared and announced the beginning of the cultural program. And then he cryptically added, “and please, do NOT panic!” at which point he swiftly disappeared. I must admit, I did somewhat panic. Soon, 6 semi-naked men appeared on the stage and began an elaborate dance with a bunch of lit torches. The dance included robot-man motions and climbing on top of each other as a form of a ladder. And then suddenly, from several pipes right at the front of the stage, huge flames began erupting and stopping, erupting and stopping, for at least a minute or so. Once that stopped, the pipes emitted massive amounts of glitter in the air followed promptly by the good old smoke machine. The dancers continued their dancing unfazed. I liked the fire – the A/C in the hall was monstrous and I was freezing – since I was so close to the stage, the eruptions helped warm me up a bit. I think the show was a massive success. I would go again and try not to panic this time.

This past week, my Mom took Son to Bulgaria to indoctrinate him in Bulgarian, take him to the mountains to spend his seemingly inexhaustible energy, enjoy his antics and spoil him rotten for a month. After they left on Friday, I did not know what to do with myself – after dropping them off at the airport, I did not feel like sleeping, so I played computer games for 3 hours, watched inane TV, got a hot oil hair massage, played tennis, slept in the afternoon, did my hair and attended a rowdy jam session party at a friends’ house. My God, whatever do people without children do with all this free time?!

On Sunday, we hosted a welcome party for a newly arrived family participating in a wonderful tradition of engaging current officers at post to “sponsor” new arrivals. So, if you are old guns at post and CLO asks you to volunteer to sponsor newcomers – please, do! It is so nice to have someone buy some groceries for you before you come, walk through your apartment to make sure everything is OK, pick up your cell phone (and even program some numbers in it!), meet you at the airport and show you the ropes the next day at work. And then throw a gathering of some sorts to introduce them to the rest of the community. I’d like to think we made our sponsorees’ transition here just a tad easier.