1) “You’ll never speak a word of French, you sound like a demented gold fish”. I speak it almost fluently, it’s a second home.

2) “How many times do I have to tell you, long division is easy, do it like this”.  It isn’t and I still have no idea how to do it on paper.

3) “He’ll never have a job with any responsibility, he’s on another planet”. 20 years in Automotive management for the biggest brands in the world from Aston Martin, to Audi and Mercedes-Benz, Jaguar, etc.

4) “He can’t concentrate for long enough to write a sentence”. Just published my first book.

5) “He never does what I ask, he never does anything useful technically in his drawing, but he can design a scale model of a warship from his head with uncanny accuracy and no reference material, whatever good that is, what can you do with that?”  Apparently I can still do this, it turns out I have a 90% accurate eidetic memory and while its a painful thing to have sometimes, others it’s terribly useful.

6) “He’ll never take a risk”. Then regularly stood up in front of 800+ in assembly and read the morning reading, maintains a knack for public speaking given the chance, emigrated, stood up for those who couldn’t even at personal risk. They know who they are. Stood out when everyone else failed to.

7) Teacher: “He’s useless at geography, just sits there bored”

    Dad at Parent-teacher day: “That’s because he knows where everywhere is, he has this thing about maps and human and physical geographic mapping”

Teacher “I’m sorry? What do you mean. He fell asleep in my last class”.

Dad “He’s bored, he probably knows more than you do. He reads atlases, he’s got hundreds of them, some of them from the 1800′s right up to now”

Teacher changed her approach and involved me in the class differently. Awarded me the 1976 Geography Prize, the first time anyone won it in five years. I chose Muir’s Historical Atlas. 

8) “You young man need to remember that your sarcasm is the lowest form of wit. Mind you you’re terribly good at it I’ll give you that”. Me sarcastic? Never.

9) “Star Trek is total nonsense, nobody will ever have a ship with communicators and a terabyte of memory, don’t be so fanciful all the time, you cant think all this will be true can you?”  I’ll just unplug my 2 Terabyte hard drive and use my iPhone shall I?

10) “The Berlin Wall will be there for a hundred years”. The day I walked through the Brandenburg Gate , 21st Sept 2004, I cried and kept remembering that.

While the Earth has been making its way around the sun, I have been making my way around the Earth in a way I never thought possible.

Such jetsetting began in May of 2012 by conducting weddingtime “business” in Texas, which meant visiting the one state I swore up and down I’d never return to. In 2007, I had moved from Kansas City to South Texas. Three long, hot years and one very expensive college degree later, I pushed my Saturn L200 to its limit by pulling a UHaul trailer full of my belongings back to Kansas City. This uncomfortable journey lasted nearly 24 hours straight, as I only stopped for gas and to let my roly poly Pomeranian, Penelope, stretch her legs. It was no secret to those who knew me that Texas and I had not been good to each other, and I was determined not to see the sun set on that state again.

Penelope

However, because J was living in a Middle Eastern country where residing together before marriage is illegal, we decided to get married by proxy. This would enable the proper paperwork to be submitted in The Country and ensure we would not be living in sin upon my arrival. Inconveniently for us, only a few states conduct proxy marriages, each state with its own rules and regulations. Texas it was.

A mere handful of close friends and family members knew why I was returning to Texas. Excited as J and I were, we tried to keep quiet on the extremely unromantic arrangement. In the weeks before my trip to Galveston, J had made the most unfortunate trip to The Country’s American Embassy to have his proxy marriage application notarized. Although he remembered to make his embassy appointment online and to bring his embassy appointment confirmation, his required identification, and the proxy marriage application with him, he forgot his cell phone. Perhaps it is wrong to say he forgot it, because he definitely remembered it when it was time for him to leave the embassy. With not a Karwa in sight, and not a single foreign phone number memorized, J trudged along under the desert sun, careful not to sweat on or crumple the newly notarized proxy marriage application. Several sweltering miles later, he safely reached a friend’s compound. Several thousand miles after that, DHL delivered the application to me in Kansas City, and I took it to Galveston.

View from Galveston hotel

The couple of days I spent in Galveston were beautiful. The people were as warm and inviting as the sandy beaches; the judge that married us especially so! During the required 72 hour marriage application waiting period, I enjoyed a sunny afternoon at the Historic Downtown Strand. Beach themed collectibles, brightly colored paintings, big floppy sun hats and flowy festive beachwear abounded. Finally, the three days passed and I returned to the County of Galveston Commissioners Court with J’s friend who stood in for him, and my high school friend and her young daughter. The four of us met the smiley judge in a spacious court room, and just a few minutes later, J and I were married!

It’s official!

Three weeks after being legally married by proxy, J made the long trip back to the United States. Although I never walked down an aisle, I did walk down the plank for him, as we celebrated our actual wedding with close friends and family aboard a small Chicago riverboat. Sailing across Lake Michigan, with our loved ones nearby and fireworks exploding in the summer night sky, our wedding was perfect for us.

June 23, 2012

In many ways, both geographically and otherwise, moving to The Country with J has been the biggest move of my life. We’d been living as a married couple for less than a week when I boarded the plane to leave my country for The Country; a country I’d never even previously visited. It was an enormously risky move, and one that continues to be chock-full of life lessons. Nearly a year later, I wouldn’t trade it for a thing.

Fabrice: Barry, do you have a long one?

Me: What!

Fabrice: I need a longer one.

Me: I’m sorry to hear that.

Fabrice: What?

Me: What are you talking about?

Fabrice: I need a longer one for the electrics.

Me: A longer extension?

Fabrice: Yes, that’s what I said at the start.

Now that in itself could have led to any manner of unfortunate assumptions taking place, add to it the remainder of the conversation and you can understand why foreigners can get into trouble when restoring properties abroad. Now you have to bear in mind that as he’s half French, half Italian and quite a bit of his language is an amalgamation of the two languages, with a smattering of English inserted for good measure. This led to my misinterpreting what he said, and the words causing the confusion were Cavlo (amalgamation of cavo and cablo meaning cable) and Cavallo (horse).

Fabrice: Tomorrow, we need to get a horse

Me: A horse, whatever for?

Fabrice: We need it for the electric.

Me: Why do we need a horse for electric.

Fabrice: To make the electrics work.

Me: But a horse?

Fabrice: Yes, yes a horse.

Me: I don’t understand.

Fabrice: The electric goes around the house because of the work the horse does.

Me: Are you trying to tell me that to power the gadgets in the house we need a horse on a treadmill?

Fabrice: You really are crazy Barry.

Me: I’m crazy. You’re one saying we need a horse.

Fabrice: Tomorrow, I go to shop and buy switches and the horse to put inside the walls.

Me; Fabrice, do you mean, cable.

Fabrice: Yes, yes, tomorrow I fetch the horse.

I walk away shaking my head, as he says, Inglese molto (Italian) crazy man (English) je se (French) English very crazy man I know. No wonder things get confusing here in Casoli.

After what felt like a VERY long winter, spring has finally sprung in London town. Although as of late we have seen more spring showers then sun, I’ll take them over freezing rain any day. When the sun is shining, I like nothing more than to take a good book (I’m currently working through A Song of Ice and Fire) to Hyde Park and soak it up.

About a month ago I started my third job since arriving in London and it’s the first time since 2010 that Ben and I have been on the same working schedule, it also means that we have Sunday’s off together to do a bit of exploring. I NEVER thought Ben and I would work together since he’s math and I’m glitter glue, nor did I think that it would be musical theatre that would bring us together in a professional environment, but as J Biebs put it ‘never say never’. We’re both working at the Prince of Wales theatre on the Book of Morman. The show and the people we work with are fantastic and it’s nice to have finally found a bit of a routine since we really only have June and July left until Ben’s visa runs out!

We have managed to squeeze in a few day trips over the last three weeks. First, we took the 2.5 hour train to Stratford-upon-Avon which is the supposed birthplace of William Shakespeare if we are to believe he was who he said he was, which I don’t really. We did walk the thirty or so minutes out of town to visit Anne Hathaway’s cottage which was whimsical, perfection and pretty much my dream house.

The following Sunday we were off to Oxford. What should have been a short journey from South Kensington to Paddington Station turned out to be a bit of a nightmare but thankfully, we did manage to make it on time to catch our train. Oxford was nice, it reminded me a bit of Bath and Cambridge put together, but with Harry Potter references everywhere. Needless to say, I loved it.

Last weekend we popped over to Greenwich which quickly became my new favorite place. I’ve decided that if I end up staying on after Ben goes home, I’m moving to Greenwich! I sort of knew Greenwich was in London, but I didn’t know it was in Zone 2 and I certainly didn’t know it was so adorable…or green.

It’s hard to believe we’ve been in London for four months now, it’s gone by so fast already but I’m glad to say that I still have a major crush on this city. I’m so looking forward to July when we have some friends and family visiting who have never been to England before. I can’t wait to show them around!

Translating a text message from Telcel. $200 pesos is about $17 US dollars.

• I can order food, ask directions, bargain a little in the market, go grocery shopping, drop off my laundry to be done, find things on a map, ask the taxi driver how much it will be (it’s always about $3), talk about the weather, and finally… the hardest thing…. get a SIM card for my iPhone and get it activated!

 

• Of course, much of that is because I’m combining speaking with gestures, context, and the kindness of people who are listening to me stumble through!

 

• I can ask questions about most things, but I usually only understand about one third of the answer!

I studied Spanish in high school (so many years ago!), made short trips to Mexico, Guatemala and Ecuador in the past, took a few adult ed classes this past year (thanks to my kind teacher, Carlos!), got an “intercambio” partner from a great program at MIT (¡Hola Marcelo!) and practiced with him once a week for 3 months before I came. We are going to continue meeting via Skype. He’s from Ecuador and is a grad student at MIT. He’s much better at English than I am at Spanish. We help each other.

I’m really glad I did all of that before I moved to Oaxaca. But of course now I realize how much I really don’t know! Everyone says that of course after six months I’ll be conversing easily. We’ll see! I’m getting ready to sign up for some intensive classes here, as soon as I finish getting settled. I would really like to get to the level of real conversations. It’s always been a goal of mine to speak another language.

And, according to this New York Times article, “Why Bilinguals Are Smarter,” being bilingual has profound positive effects on your brain and shields against dementia in old age!

Here are my favorite apps related to language learning:

• Brainscape for iPhone or web. Smart flashcards, create your own or download decks…. I do both.
• WordReference Dictionary for iPhone. Based on the fantastic web tool at Wordreference.com. Tells you so much more, related words, different meanings, etc.
• Google Translate for iPhone contains many words and phrases not in the usual dictionary, but it’s also not always accurate. You need to be online to use it. Still, it’s very helpful.
• Languages for iPhone. Includes several different foreign language dictionaries and works offline!

My favorite blog about language learning:

• Fluent in 3 Months by Benny, the Irish Polyglot

He speaks several languages and encourages jumping in and speaking right away as the best way to learn.

I recommend all of these if you are learning another language!

He gave me a long look that I would need a dictionary to translate, before walking over.

“Something came up.”

“I don’t care. Tell it to Ragesh. He has been worried sick about you. You don’t let people get attached to you then evaporate, jerk.”

“I’m going to text him later.”

“Text him?” I could feel my nostrils flaring. I’m pretty sure fumes were coming out. I had never been this angry with anyone before. He is the only one in the universe who has the ability to make me feel like my soul wants to exit my body and slap him. “Why even text him? Tweet it instead or update your status. Back in town, still a jerk.”

“It was just two days. I didn’t abandon you.”

“You hemorrhoid! Why would I want to find or worry about a pain in the ass anyway?” I raised my finger up in his face. “I thought someone kidnaped you, because you kept saying you’re not the kind of guy who leaves.”

“I’m sorry. I should’ve said something.”

“Where did you go?”

“I needed time off.”

“Off of what? Ragesh or Me?”

He looked away.  “Never mind,” he turned on the TV, but nothing was there. Of course, why own cable when he can just leech and watch TV at my place, on my bed, then leave!

“You’re not allowed in my place anymore until Ragesh forgives you,” and until I forgive him.

He looked at me again, hands squared over his chest. His eyes on my body felt like sticks through kebab. “What would it take for Ragesh to forgive me?”

“I’m not sure if he ever will. He has abandonment issues.”

“I didn’t know he cared that much about having me in his life.”

“Did you read the blog post he made me write?”

“No, you told me not to read your diary. I listen.”

I nodded, “good.”

“I will kick your ass if you don’t show up soon! Not that I care, you idiot, but show up! Ragesh is worried!”

I stared at him with my eyebrows stuck to my hairline. He read it.

“I imagine you writing something like that…”

“Only bec-”

“Only because Ragesh asked you too. I get it. You don’t care about me. He does.”

“He might be secretly gay.”

He chuckled. Then whispered, “How is the girly dude? Last time I saw you, you were going on about how you can’t imagine yourself with someone else.”

“For the millionth time, Kevin is not girly. He is a mix of metrosexual and cute.”

“Cute, sounds very masculine.”

“What did he ever do to you?”

“Exist. You’d probably break his back in bed.”

“Hey!”

He pursed his lips.

“Where is this coming from?”

“I’m just saying, you should try imaging yourself with someone who is more suitable for you. Don’t block every other guy out.”

“You’re the only guy I know with powers.”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t fall in love with me!”

“I’m not. You’re not my type. I told you,” he got up and walked away. “I mean Ragesh.”

“You don’t mean Ragesh!”

“He likes you!”

“No, he doesn’t. He’s gay.”

“We are not sure of that.”

“He spies on you while you shower.”

“I don’t know what to say to that.”

“Well, you have a good butt.”

“I do?” he smiled.

“It’s okay, all butts are the same once the light goes out.”

“Except Kevin’s…” he mumbled.

“Hey,” I slapped his arm. “Are you leaving again?”

“No, I kind of need Ragesh in my life.” 

“Don’t pin stuff on Ragesh. It’s not a nice thing to do.”

“So you’re the only one allowed to do it.”

“Yes.”

I didn’t fall in love with London right away though. I didn’t really fall in love with London until until two weeks ago. And then in retrospect- I saw it all.  I realized how truly amazing this city is, how incredible this past year has been. I have easily changed the most I ever have in these past nine months. I got my first real job here. I fell in love for the first time. I fell out of love for the first time. I had my heart broken, and I learned to piece it back together.

I lived a life over on this side of the world. And I shaped that life around this city. So with only two weeks left before I depart back to New York, my nostalgia is in full force.

I remember all the way back to August, when my plane first landed at Heathrow. I remember how warm it was then. I remember how naive I was… How I never would have guessed all the things that happened to me here. I remember the first pub quiz we went to, and my first pint of cider. I will miss pub quiz, and I will miss cider. I remember that spontaneous trip we took to Brighton, and stripping down to our under garments to go swimming in the ocean. I remember spending that whole day with him and I remember how something so unexpected ensued. I remember taking double decker buses to unknown parts of London and finding our way back walking way past sunset. I remember Halloween and walking home in the freezing rain from Oxford Circus. I remember bike rides, and obscure secret gardens. I remember cooking Thanksgiving dinner and realizing my friends were my family. I remember all the tube rides, and all the museums. I remember meeting his parents. I remember being cold. I remember decorating for Christmas. I remember the night before I left for India, and the letter I left him on the nightstand of the hotel we were staying at.

And then I remember forgetting a lot of it.

I remember my best friends coming in the spring, and I remember that London was a lot different then. I remember pub crawls through Camden and through Shoreditch. I remember sightseeing and lots of good food. I remember days spent in the park with wine, or a good book, or a frisbee. I remember venturing out of Bloomsbury and escaping to Islington, or Angel, or Brick Lane, or Brixton. I remember the sun, and I remember finally feeling warm.

Leaving London feels very strange to me, like I got hit in the chest and can’t quite catch my breathe. I’m sure I’ll be back but I’m sure it won’t ever be the same. I’ll come back with expectations, and they won’t ever be met. I’ve had a life here, and while parts of it will follow me wherever I go, most of it will die when I board my flight back to the city on May 24th. I just can’t help but feel I’m not ready to leave, that there’s so much more to be done here.

I understand why people don’t leave their towns, or their homes, or their comfort zones. I don’t condone it, but I do really understand. It is emotionally and physically exhausting. It’s consuming, and it can’t be undone. Once you see so much, you can’t ever go back. You are forever changed. Living life this fully.. well, it can hurt sometimes.

No matter what though, I am so happy all of this happened. I will look back years down the line, and see the brave young girl who flew far far away from everything she knew and chose to love and experience as much as she could with no reservations- and I think I will be proud of her.

Human beings are remarkably adaptable creatures, though, and most of the significant differences are rapidly assimilated. So much so that, on returning home, I suffer from a kind of reverse culture shock – a phenomenon I have named WEIRD! Syndrome – Wobbly Englishwoman In Repatriating Disorientation! (This reads a bit like an awful local newspaper headline, doesn’t it – perhaps for a dramatic and heart-rending story about a returning expatriate who accidentally got on the wrong bus). My first instance of feeling WEIRD! on my last trip to England was in the M&S Food shop at Heathrow, Terminal 3. For about three or four minutes I just stood there staring at the alcohol – amazed that there were bottles and bottles of it, just sitting there on the shelves! For people to buy! Dubai is, of course, an Islamic city, so if you want to drink or purchase alcohol you have to obtain an alcohol licence – which is absolutely fair enough… Obtaining the licence is a valuable and enriching cultural experience in itself (and in no way a desperately frustrating quagmire of bureaucratic bilge) involving many forms, letters of no objection from employers, tenancy contracts, passport photographs and visa photocopies. And cash. Our licence is due to expire soon, and one wonders if the occasional G&T and glass of Sauvignon Blanc is really worth the headache (of the paperwork, I mean – not the hangover. Although…). The booze shops are tucked discreetly away, attached to the back of supermarkets or malls and have blinds over the windows, heavy metal doors and bold, red warning signs. One feels that owning a year’s alcohol licence is very much the same thing as leasing your soul to the devil for a twelve month tenancy. But here, back home, and in M&S of all places – the booze was freely and fabulously for sale. I was genuinely surprised. I wanted to buy some JUST BECAUSE I COULD.

My second WEIRD! experience was on the Underground – just minutes from Heathrow – when I found myself staring at a couple who were having a bit of a snog. I felt a brief jolt of panic – What are they DOING? In PUBLIC! Are they MAD?! She was wearing a very short skirt too, which made it all the more appalling for my newly cultivated prudish persona. Revealing clothing and public displays of affection are considered immodest and insulting here in the Middle East. Holding hands is supposedly ‘tolerated’ in Dubai, but anything more intimate is offensive to local culture and can, in extreme circumstances, get you into rather hot water. It took a few seconds for my brain to register the fact that while their behaviour may have been a little indecorous and impolite (especially for the poor so-and-so squashed up right next to them), it certainly wasn’t illegal.

The Tube itself came as something of a shock – the rattling darkness, the dust, the dust-coloured mice darting about between the tracks – it all felt so gothic and archaic. Just for a moment. While I adjusted. While I remembered. Coming from a place in which just about everything is new and shiny, it takes a while to get used to the presence of old things again. (Don’t get me wrong – I like old things very much. I’m rapidly becoming one.)

I’m reminded of the feeling of returning to one’s home after a long holiday. For those first few moments when you open the front door, you see everything with the eyes of a traveller – as if you’ve never seen them before: the colour of the carpet, the arrangement of furniture and, most noticeably, the smell of the place all strike you as unfamiliar. But it only lasts for a few seconds; soon it is Home again and all these things become as wallpaper – familiar and unnoticed.

While WEIRD! Syndrome is indeed rather weird, what’s even weirder is how quickly the novelty disappears. Within a matter of hours it’s as if I’ve never been away from England, and three whole years of my life evaporate as if they had never happened. Dubai melts away in my mind like a strange dream from which I have awoken. ‘Normality’ is restored.

So I ask myself what can I do? Fortunately there are many religious and secular organization working at a grass roots level to help . I found two local organizations that focus on supporting women and children through the transition to freedom. A simple act of donating pajamas or stopping at the side of the road to pass out water may seem simplistic, but its a start. There are also international groups that support women by teaching craft skills and then selling those products so women can start earning money. All of these are great, but education is the most important.not only education the women and children , but also us.

We English just can’t resist another double-entendre…

The late Miles Kington – inventor of the comic hybrid language Franglais - once wrote a list of expressions that all foreigners should learn if they really wanted to master the English idiom. Forget grammar and all that, non-natives will never be able to follow the chat down the pub unless they pick up some homespun phrases like “it’s as broad as it’s long” or “pull the other one”.

This is because ‘Little England’ is a clique which tolerates foreigners but defines itself by its own, culture-bound vernacular. When one bloke standing at the bar motions towards an attractive woman and then says to his mate, “I’m ready for a bit of rumpy pumpy tonight but knowing my

Carry on carrying on – it’s the only decent English thing to do…

luck she bats for the other side”, any foreigner within earshot will be utterly bamboozled. That’s because language is not only a means of communication, it’s also a way of showing your membership to an exclusive club. If you haven’t grown up in the culture you just won’t get all those in-jokes.

A lot of the these comic exchanges are made up of slang, double-entendres and other assorted idioms.  ”As the actress said to the bishop” is something you say after inadvertently making a harmless comment which has a sexual connotation. For example, “I only like big ones”. But if you’re a non-native speaker, don’t “get your knickers in a twist”, as I’m about to enlighten you on a few more of those private jokes and oddball phrases. I can’t remember Miles Kington’s examples, so I’ve prepared a few of my own.

Going back to the pub, instead of asking your drinking buddy if he would like a drink, you should say “what’s your poison?”, and then, when you want a drink in return, say “It’s your shout!”. While you’re in the pub you may develop an interest in persons of the opposite sex (or same sex, as the

“I’m just going to see a man about a dog.” What man? What dog?

case may be). Such people should be described as “totty” or “crumpet”. If you feel a strong attraction to someone you can say you “fancy the pants off” her or him. And if you went to the pub with the deliberate intention of looking for sexual partners you are “out on the pull”. When the pub closes and you’ve had too much to drink, you will be “Brahms and Liszt” (Cockney rhyming slang for “pissed”) or “three sheets to to the wind”.

Some phrases are guaranteed to make an English person chuckle. “Brass monkey weather” is one (meaning freezing cold). You can also announce your departure by saying you are “going to see a man about a dog”. And you should start to describe mad people by saying “he hasn’t got all his chairs at home”, or “she is 3 sandwiches short of a picnic”, or “he has lost the plot”. If you accidentally break wind in public, you can always excuse yourself and raise a smile by saying, “More tea, vicar?”. And if you swear in public you should remember to say “Pardon my French!”.

Not Sweet Fanny Adams, but another British icon..the terror in the kitchen, Fanny Cradock

When you suspect that someone is trying to deceive you (or “having you on”), you can tell them to “pull the other one – it’s got bells on”, or if you want to be more abrupt you can use an old Yorkshire favourite, “Don’t come it with me!”. But don’t make the mistake of asking who “Sweet Fanny Adams” is, because she doesn’t exist: it’s used to mean nothing, zilch, and can be shortened to “Sweet FA”.

Many of these expressions are funny because their meaning is vague and often depends on the context; we use them ironically most of the time just to play the game, be part of the gang. So the next time you find yourself in an English village pub and a stranger says something incomprehensible, try your hand by responding with, “Well, it’s as broad as it’s long”. If that doesn’t work switch to “A nod’s as good as a wink…”. If the stranger finishes off the phrase with “…to a blind horse!”, then you will know that you’ve been accepted into the hallowed private club. But be careful: too much codswallop might give you the screaming abdabs!

The weekend is finally here..!! And I for one am really glad it is Lately, the days have all melded together with nothing exciting to differentiate the week from the weekend. But this weekend, I have much to attend and celebrate. For starters, I am going to see The Great Gatsby..!! Plus, I get to hang out with family for Mother’s Day..!!

So in honor of the weekend… In honor of parents, mothers in particular… I offer you up another Tecate Light video. The lovely Mexican parents from last week return to make another plea to their son. Once again, the commercial is subtitled in English so you will be able to follow along. Cheeers..!! Salud..!! And Happy Mother’s Day..!!

The whole process hasn’t been that dreamy though.  We got here in the dead of a very dark and dreary winter.  We spent nearly 4 months living with R’s parents who I barely knew before we arrived.  We didn’t have jobs lined up or an inkling about where in the country we’d end up, or if we’d succeed at ending up here at all.  Add all that to the inherent stresses and anxieties that naturally come with moving to a new country with a new culture and a new language.  Yeah, there was some stress.  There were even some fights, as my husband and I were having two totally different experiences in this process; him as a native returning home and me moving to a whole new country.  We definitely struggled to understand each other along the way here and there, and that was hard.  Still is.

But here we are, our destiny being Tübingen for the time being, which sounds all too much like ‘to begin’ not to notice.  I happen to be a sucker for new beginnings, and I am not going to waste this opportunity to have me yet another.  A new place, a new country, a new home, a new marriage (we celebrate our 1st anniversary next month!), a new job, new friends, new favorite places, a new routine.  I love change.  I always have.  And as I am moving and starting over yet again in my life, I have to wonder- will my love for change ever change?

Either way, I think it’s good to be a welcomer and lover of change.  Change is the only constant, after all.  Some of it has been up to me, some of it hasn’t.  In any case, I’ve found adventure and excitement in it each and every time.  A challenge to shift gears and embrace the opportunity to create, once again, the circumstances that I want for myself.  It’s pretty empowering.  I had a friend tell me how much in awe they are of my ability to just pick up and go someplace new at the drop of a hat because the idea of it terrifies them.  This stunned me. I’ve never felt scared.  A little anxious and excited maybe, but not afraid.  I’ve never doubted for a second that things will always fall into place.  And they always have.

I’m happy to be here in beautiful Tübingen and I look forward to experiencing the beauty, the culture and the people of this incredibly charming place.

Some photos:

When you get to Australia you need a TFN or Tax File Number (kinda like your SIN# back home) if you want to work here. (I have mentioned RSA’s Green Cards, Blue Cards and White Cards in a previous post but just in case RSA = Responsible Server of Alcohol, Green = landscaping, Blue = medical field, White = construction) and in some states you can use them while others get you to purchase another one specific to the state) When you start working for an establishment they should set you up with something called a Superannuation number  (it is kind of like paying into pension back home) all employers have to pay you 9% of your gross income into your Super. And unlike back home there are several different companies you can go with to get your number. Our employers back in Sydney were a bit on the sketchy side. It wasn’t until I got to Cairns and my current employer told me my previous one should have made one up. When we contacted them to find out our numbers to give to our current employers they responded with “oh we don’t have one for you but just give us your numbers when you get them and we will add to it.” I guess they thought they could get away with taking advantage of some innocent Canadian travellers by not paying them their entitled supers and hoping we wouldn’t notice.  The thing with Backpackers and Super numbers is that you don’t have to wait till you retire to get it back. When you leave the country (and your visa expires) you get your money back. (the gov’t does however take  35% so don’t expect it to get exactly what you put into it). I was lucky enough that when I called Sunsuper (the company I decided to go with) for my number I actually ended up talking to a dude from Calgary so he was super helpful and understanding about my mass amounts of question and uncertainty. I tried to call a different super company called Intrust Super and the lady on the other side spoke to me like a robot and gave me answers that we not helpful and it was as though she was reading from a pre-written form and just regurgitated the lines. I asked a question about being a backpacker and picking the best option and her response was “I can’t give out financial information” in the most monotone voice ever!  It was like she was trying not to do her job.  I advise checking your super account online every now and then to make sure that something is going into it. (sometimes an employer will wait until you have finished your employment with them before they deposit your 9% just keep checking that they do) If your employer is an ass-face and tries to skip over not paying make sure you contact the ATO (Australia Taxation Office) and report it (although whether anything gets done about it is another story). Also I noticed the taxes that they charge my super are RIDICULOUS!!! There was $279 deposited at the end of April and by mid July I only had $202 I have no idea how it is supposed to save you money when they tax the shit out of it all the time. But that could also just be the company I ended up with.

Just in case you aren’t aware if you have a working holiday visa (subclass 417) you can only work for an employer for 6 months maximum. I am not too sure of the reasoning behind this but I will say that it does put a damper on your choices of employment while here. Should you want to stay on at your place of employment they will have to sponsor you (this is very expensive and not usually an option with most workplaces unless you are willing to pay for the sponsorship yourself).  It is either sponsorship or get paid under the table! (try not to do this as you do not get taxes back when you return home) I have run into this as I work at the sharehouse and since I am trading work for rent I get no taxes back from it. BALLS!!!  And I have put sooo  many untaxed hours in!

So anyhoo once you have all of that information there are steps to follow when you leave Australia to get your taxes and your super back.

There are several ways to get your taxes back. The main one for backpackers is taxback.com I suggest going with them if you are lazy as they take a fee and if you made more than $6000 then it is 9% fee. It is a HUGE CHUNK of your return when you are counting every dollar that you earn. I called around and researched online and found that as long as you have an Australian bank account and an Australian address that you can send the papers, so you should most definitely file them yourselves.  All you need is your PAYG sheets from your employers. (this is like your T4’s back home summarizing your gross pay and the taxes taken off. Then file them yourself on the government website http://www.ato.gov.au/individuals/pathway.aspx?sid=42&pc=001/002/014
this costs you NOTHING!!!! … I will repeat that  NOTHING!!!!!!!  You can file it quickly yourself and get all of your tax back. huzzah!
You will need the following:

1. Your TFN
2. Your ABN (Australian Business Number) – If you freelanced and didn’t have the taxes removed from your pay.
3. Your PAYG slips from employers. They will be sent to you or electronically emailed to you. You will need your employers ABN number, the “gross payments” figure, and the” total tax withheld” amount.
4. It’s good to know how long you were working at each place for as well.
5. An Australian bank account
6. An Australian address

What we are doing is (since we are leaving the country and have no mailing address) getting someone we know and trust giving them $20 and when the papers get mailed to them having them forward it on to Canada and then that way they have the money to pay for the postage back. And we are just going to keep our bank account open and then transfer the money when it is deposited and then just close the Australian account!

Now for you superannuation you will have to contact your specific provider to attain the DASP form (Departing Australia Superannuation Payment) Once you have this you then have to go onto the ATO website https://applicant.tr.super.ato.gov.au/applicants/default.aspx?pid=1 and confirm that you are eligible (this just means they want confirmation from the gov’t that your Visa has expired) once this is done you will need to fill out the DASP form and get a certified copy of your identification (I did this by just taking my passport to the Australian Consulate General downtown (Bloor E & Church)) there they were able to copy and certify my passport. The reason I picked passport over licence is because they can also take a picture of your “Departed Australia” stamp on your passport when they certify it as well.

Now just send it all in and fingers crossed you will be able to get your money back! or whatever is left of it. It kind of works out to if you had $1000 in your super and you were accessing it as a traveller …. you would only get back … just over $400 of it…I KNOW!! BALLS RIGHT!!!

Anyway I realize this is not the most entertaining blog but it is pretty fucking informative for any prospective Aussie travellers out there!

 
May your Fridays be filled with Travel Plans.

And may your Weekends be filled, lawn bowling with old people~!

Making My Way by Buses and Boats

This weekend I’m traveling my furthest south yet to the city of Ancud on the island of Chiloe. Accessible by ferry, my friends Emily (New Jersey) and Jennifer (Louisiana) and I will be driving into Puerto Montt kicking off the next leg of our journey to the island from there. This is a part of Chile that I’ve been trying to visit since first landing in Santiago! This weekend may be my last chance. Winter is getting closer by the day, and once it hits I’d prefer to stay as far up north as possible to avoid the cold.

Meeting us in Ancud are two other friends now living in Chile, Dan (South Carolina) and Kira (Illinois)! This is a bigger travel group than usual but it makes it all the easier for us gringos to take over the island for the weekend.

And, if I’m really lucky, I may even see a penguin. This is one of the major islands that they’re known to gather on. Here’s to dreams coming true.

Peace out!

To see photos as they’re happening, follow me on Instagram @Mrthornbury or on Twitter @zachthornbury!

English posters for their dream events.

Week after week I’m the one standing in the front of the classroom, but week after week it’s my students who are surprising me with new lessons.

Here are the 5 things my students taught me this week:

1. When one sings “Feliz Cumpleaños” they have to sing it like they mean it and of course finish it off with an “abrazo.” (hug).
2. Candy might be dandy but bring it in once and you’ve started a new requirement.
3. Beliebers are all over the world.
4. Google Translate’s english IS NOT english english.
5. Allow them to use english in creative ways of choice like in the photo above and you’ll see how much they know.

To see photos as they’re happening, follow me on Instagram @Mrthornbury or on Twitter @zachthornbury!

Pernambuco.com has an article (PT) on foreigners “with a Pernambucan accent”, or rather those who came to call Recife their home for various reasons. They hail from places like Venezuela (pictured), the USA, England, Germany and Angola.

For The Templar Paradox, we spent time in Rome again and a new trip to Salzburg which was actually really quite a pleasant surprise. In fact it’s one of those places I’d go back to. For my next instalment we are off to Berlin in September, as it’s changed so much since my last visit in 2004. I need to use some of the older parts of town and delve into the Eastern part of the city a little more.

Some of THE TEMPLAR PARADOX is based in Paris, and I lived there for a while so writing about it wasn’t difficult. However what was harder to do was remember all of the back streets and place names!

The solution here is the other part sinister but part amazing Google Street View. Now I admit I find it a bit creepy in some ways but in others it’s a godsend when you cannot actually get to somewhere or you need the detail of a look or a building or a street scene quickly, maybe need to follow a route, a chase, an escape, anything, it really makes the difference.

For scenes in the French south-west, well I lived there too and spent probably 5 of the last 19 years there on or off, so it has deep resonance and I am very much attached to the place.

Yet the surprise comes not from what I knew, but about what we were living around without knowing it: The Templar Horse you can see on www.jonchamps.com which if anything was the astonishing surprise of a lifetime.

I’ll be updating the website with new research images to link to the book next week. Come back and see more then.

Comments on your way of researching and any tips and ideas always welcome!

The funicular railway up to the Festung Hohensalzburg is one if the shortest full-time official railway lines in the world at barely 400m long! (1200ft)

If Wellington teaches me the importance of asking, it is Tina who teaches me that the best way to do it is from behind a camera.  It’s Sunday morning and we are headed to the Methodist Church in Langa, the oldest black township in Cape Town. I’m nervous in not knowing what to expect even though I know exactly what to expect – it’s Sunday morning church, the same in its difference all over the world.  But it’s a township; it’s a black community; we will stand out as so different in our whiteness; it will be obvious who we are, and begs the question, what are we doing here?

Langa’s Methodist Church

We are taking photographs.  Well, Tina is. She’s working on a photographic essay project, and as a result, is able to elicit not only stories but portraits from people all over the country in her quest to understand a little bit about South Africa.

Sarah and I are along for the ride to learn about a different circle of life, so far removed from what I know in Cape Town, though only a 10-minute drive from my house – and closer than Kloof to Long.

We are met by Mama Nomangesi Pephetta who escorts us into the church and introduces us around.  “It’s quite a long service, you know. You can leave when you want, but best to do so when everyone is standing and singing.  We’ll finish with communion around 1 or 1:30.”  I look my watch and note it is 10:30. A long service indeed.

Amanda sits perfectly for Tina’s camera outside the church

But as the singing begins and the huge body of members stand, the time passes quickly.  Led by the pastor and the choir from the front, we move; we sway; we celebrate and praise as one.

I’m no longer uncomfortable and find it easy to sing along with the melodies and understand the collective worship even though I have no idea what the iXhosa words I am mouthing mean.  It matters not – no one is looking; no one cares. It’s Sunday morning and we are here for a higher purpose – much as Mandela was when he delivered a speech in the same setting years ago.

Outside the service, the kids play and seek the attention of our cameras.

About mid-way through the service, Mama Lilahloane Tsoanyane, who has generously been sitting with us, indicates maybe it is a good time to depart, and sets us up with Mama Pephetta’s niece, Amanda. “She is happy to take you around Langa, and then you can come back at the end of the service?”

We agree, eager to get a sense of the larger community and in the process, get a sense of Amanda who stays with her Aunt in Langa on weekends while enrolled in the University of the Western Cape.

Studying politics and public administration, Amanda talks passionately about returning to her home region and working in the Municipality to improve the living conditions of her people living in the Eastern Cape. She exhibits nothing but strength and grace with highly held shoulders, an air of wonderful confidence, and … the most astounding red shoes! As she talks (we ask) she guides us down paved and gravel streets, past neighborhoods of houses with gardens, apartment buildings with dirt lots, and shacks in various conditions.

Langa’s cultural center encourages the artistic talents of community members and sells the crafts on site.

“Let’s not go down that road – that’s a bit of a dodgy area,” she says nonchalantly, redirecting us back to the center of town. “That area over there is more coloured,” she points in the opposite direction.

“Anyone can live anywhere now, but after apartheid, you know, people don’t mix much. It’s different at university.  There you have blacks, coloureds, whites – everyone hangs out together.  We are all just …..students.”

We pass the Langa Sharpsville Memorial and stop at the Guga Sthebe Cultural Center.  Stepping into a tack shop, we collect cokes for a mid-morning pick up.  Though we are out of place, no one much bothers with us.  People are chatting in their front yards, children play in the street, women hang laundry in the fresh air. It is a beautiful Sunday morning in Langa, in Cape Town, in South Africa.  And I realize that just like the church service, life really is the same in its difference all over the world.

As we loop back to the church for the end of the service and Tina works her magic, I see the power of photography as a way to move in the different circles Wellington talked about to ask the important questions.

And that’s when the shoes sing to me from the gravel parking lot.  Amanda’s red heels are one example of the rich variety of smart, tailored ankles donning platforms of color.  Shoes – in all shapes, sizes, degrees of elevation as well as wear and tear – are the abstracts for the biographies of those they carry. Perhaps I have found my own lens through which to discover – and connect with -  life in Cape Town in this journey of finding the familiar in unfamiliarity.

So it’s no surprise that we don’t watch as much television in Cyprus., which is one good thing about living abroad. However, with limited English-speaking channels, we still manage to watch a few shows on basic cable, mostly on TLC.

Can I tell you I have lost several brain cells watching “Honey Boo Boo Child,” “L.A. Ink,” and “Toddlers and Tiaras?” Some of these shows are too sad to watch – backstabbing of a “friend” to find her soul mate, cheating/lying to get to the top…the deliberate acts of mischievousness.  It shows the depravity of man right before our very eyes.

Because of the American tv shows we have watched in Cyprus, I wondered what Greek-Cypriots thought. I recently asked a Cypriot who has lived in the States and now resides back Cyprus if Cypriots think Americans are much like the portrayals on American tv shows, such as the ones on TLC. He didn’t really give an answer, but I can’t help but think the rest of the world must have a skewed notion about American culture. If they truly believe all the things they see on TLC, then we are in big trouble America.

However, there are moments of hope, when the human spirit tries to encourage and lift one another up. Those are the moments and stories that we should highlight more America.

Since I am a day late posting my blog – I thought it would be a great time to discuss the Mexican idea of mañana. Now, I have to admit that prior to living in Mexico, I would have run myself aground making my deadline yesterday. But the two years I spent in Mexico have altered me in many ways. For one, my type A personality is a little toned down. I had a choice yesterday between finishing my blog or hanging out with my friend. And in the spirit of mañana, I chose my friend

So you are probably wondering what exactly is the spirit of mañana. Well for starters, Mexicans do not embrace the time-is-money mentality of many other cultures. In fact, there is an old Mexican saying that “North Americans live to work, but Mexicans work to live!” So sometimes, or most times, it’s ok to leave a job unfinished to hang out with your family or friends rather than working overtime.

Also, Mexicans view time as circular. Whereas, Americans, being a goal-oriented society, see time as linear. Therefore, Mexicans do not do activities according to a precise schedule because it is not viewed as important. It can always be done later or mañana. In Mexican society, working like a robot or adhering to a rigid schedule can be seen as taking the spice out of life. Of course, there are exceptions to
mañana, flight schedules and bus schedules for example.

It took me almost a year living in Mexico before I eventually figured out that life was not just about being productive and goal oriented. It was ok to read a good book and lounge around in the afternoon. It was not just ok but necessary to hang out with friends after work and enjoy a tasty beverage. So yesterday, when my friend called and asked me to dinner, I hesitated only for a moment before I said yes. There would always be mañana to finish my blog. And here it is…

Enjoy..!! ¡Hasta mañana!

The tremendous sense of space. The tyranny of distance. The tiny bits of mica. Picking dusty bundles of everlastings to hang from my window frame and kicking up red dust on Nail Can Hill.

Knowing how to triumph over authority and its narrow-mindedness. Helping people out who don’t speak English as well. Providing directions and smiling at strangers without having to preserve my Parisienne bitchface.

Sharing meals with friends in shambolic terrace houses riddled with asbestos but with enough room for rollicking dances. Having friends whose social experiences are many but the same. Being able to say things in my earthquake-and-tidal-wave voice : in France I was constantly told my voice was too expressive.

Feeling the myth and magic of stones, serpents and sky-beings. Remembering the legends and lore that my mother taught me. The feather-footed spirits that filtered into my imagination alongside imported Grimm girls seeking wolfishness in short red coats.

The steady soaking of the tropical rain in Sydney’s winters. Wet handprints at Fitzroy Pool in Melbourne’s summers. The fern fronds creeping out of Otway National Park to coax the crashing waves against coastal headlines.

Muddle-headed wombats ambling over the road. Pubs with bartenders with a sense of wondrous contemplation about beer. Kookaburras sitting on transmission poles that look like cattle heads.

Creamy-bellied lizards sunning themselves on wide flat rocks.The difference between snags in the river and snags as in sausages. Mangoes like round golden puppies beseeching you to buy them.

Reading aloud by the Murray River with the blue-veined leaves of a silver gum tree creating patterned holes of sunlight overhead. Campsite stories. The world being My Place.

When I lived abroad, I wanted to evolve, to change something; to put myself in uncomfortable new situations that would force me into an exciting, unanticipated phase of my life. It fundamentally changed me. Now the anxiousness that preoccupied me in Paris about how I was going to make new friends, adjust and master the nuances of language has become the silent seeking question, What next what next what next. Like a heartbeat thudding deep inside my head.

I’ve wiped my slate clean so many times that it’s strangely refreshing and exhilarating to stay still. To write fiction inspired by the inevitable feelings of Francelessness. To admit I’m sick of goodbyes.

Having to relearn how to live and carry out everyday activities helped me realise how much of “me” was based on a fixed idea of home. A certain equality prevails in this remembered world. Eventful moments in my personal life held equal sway with the mundane activities of domestic life.

Perhaps home is less a geographic location than an imaginary terrain but it is also particular to a suburb, town or country. Sometimes when I can’t sleep I picture myself strolling through the house that I lived in for the first thirteen years of my life and I feel comfortable and secure. Sleep comes quickly.

The word home is maybe lived as a relationship where a tension exists between the actual and the remembered, the real and the ideal. The idea of home is physically inscribed in me. Yet there is no single simple place.

Paseo Juárez, El Llano Park

My preference was to find one place for all of June-Sept. so that I wouldn’t have to keep moving around, which can be disruptive (I want to focus on my work). In October I’m thinking of travelling a bit before I come to the U.S. for a conference in California.

I looked in several places: Craigslist, Oaxaca Times, and print listings in the Oaxaca Lending Library. When I went to the newcomer orientation there (they have it every Monday morning), a very nice woman named Gerry was leading the orientation. She’s an American who has lived in Oaxaca for 15 years. Since I was the only person who came, we focused on my immediate need to find another place to live.

She very kindly took me to a place down the street where she knew the caretaker. This place doesn’t advertise online. I looked at several options there. I had also visited a few places on my own, mostly tourist-oriented places that combine short-term hotel-like stays with slightly longer furnished apartment stays in the same facility. Of course those places tend to charge more and some of them charged almost as much as I would pay in New England!

She also told me about a woman named Michelle who she thought had an apartment available nearby. She looked up her contact info and emailed it to me later.

Well, it turned out that Michelle’s place was just what I was looking for! She is from Chicago and has lived in Oaxaca for about 3 years. The apartment for rent is where her brother was living and she is subletting it for him while he is away for a few months. She lives next door to this apartment (which is handy… living next to another English-speaking person who’s been here for a while is appealing!)

The timing works out well because he’s returning around the time I want to leave. And the apartment is really great! Here’s what I like about it:

• It’s in a neighborhood with more trees than where I an now.
• It’s near a small park (see photo above).
• It’s near the Oaxaca Lending Library (English-language)
• It’s near the Zócalo (center town square where everyone hangs out).
• It’s near a restaurant with plenty of vegetarian options (100% Natural… a chain throughout Mexico, but a good one!)
• It’s got incredibly high ceilings and is in a very old building with lots of interesting details.
• It’s got a lot of outlets everywhere, the kind with 3 prongs. (I do have adapters with me, just in case).
• The price is right and includes utilities and wifi. I’ll be paying 5,000 pesos per month, which works out to about $415/mo U.S.
• If the internet is not strong enough for any reason, she has offered to let me order a new installation which I will pay about $45/month for. She can set it up in her brother’s name and he’ll take it over when he returns. The prices for cable internet are similar to what you would pay in the U.S.
• She has offered to let me spend some time there this month testing the connection so I can decide whether to get my own installation, so I’m going there tomorrow with my Macbook Air to test it for a while.
• Other handy things: a nearby pharmacy with an ATM machine, purified water delivery for very low cost, garbage gets taken out for a very low cost, laundry nearby where you can drop off your clothes and pick them up later.
• Bedding, sheets, towels, fan and kitchenware all included.

Possible negative things:

• It will probably be a bit noisy, since the bedroom balcony looks out over a busy street. But it’s something I’m willing to live with, since I like living in cities, rather than out in the countryside or suburbs.
• I could have rented something about $100 cheaper and much smaller, but I just didn’t love the layout of those places compared to this one. This one just feels right.
• The kitchen and bathroom are really small and not quite as nice as where I am now, but they are good enough for me. I don’t spend a lot of time cooking anyway, just making smoothies and salads.

Here are a few photos.

Entrance to the apartment courtyard from the street.

Beautiful courtyard entrance

Entrance to the apartment (2nd floor)

Yellow bench just inside door. Tiny kitchen behind the wall.

Looking back out to the balcony facing the courtyard.

Bathroom enclosed in brick, with 2 tiny windows.

Living room area looking into bedroom

Small dining area

Double bed and twin bed with super-high ceilings.

Balcony looks out to the street.

Love the high ceilings and open balcony doors.

This is where I’ll set up my laptop.

My balcony railing

View of the street from my balcony.

Looking out from my 2nd-floor apartment to the courtyard.

LIttle table on courtyard balcony. Eat or work outside.

Two levels around a courtyard. You can leave your door open for the breeze.

100% Natural Restaurante, Oaxaca

Some places to look for apartments in Oaxaca

• Oaxaca Times listings
• Craigslist listings
• Visit the Oaxaca Lending Library! (best bet)

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Women all over the city start to switch from their winter boots to sexy high sandals and ever so flowy dresses. It’s Milano da bere (Milan to drink) they call it and the city is at it’s best in this period, as are the people!

Buon Milano!Buon Aperitivo!