Great Falls Park: Our 60 Minute Quickie

Maybe I am weird, but there's something quite calming and therapeutic about watching water crash violently over rocks and cliffs, merciless for anything in its way. It's especially weird because I don't generally like water or getting wet.  But perhaps it is because the violence puts me in my place, forcing me to check in with my mortality. I love the intimidation and beauty of it all. Last weekend we went to Great Falls Park for a quick escape from the sludge of suburban life. Like, really quick- it took only a 15 minute drive to get there. After hopping off Highway 66, we gaped at gigantic mansions and their fancy manicured lawns, wondering about the large number of "For Rent" signs, when we found ourselves completely surrounded by thick green forest in a matter of minutes. 

Not pictured: Mom stomping her feet, impatient to see the water. 

We arrived at Great Falls Park shortly after 9:00 am before the crowds rushed in about an hour later. Even at the entrance we could hear the water's roar, which made me extra excited, almost panicky to see what I was missing as if the water might run out before we got there. Now for those not exactly into hiking, there are four observation points of the river, all close to the parking lot. I think the excursion alone to see Great Falls is worth the trip, but the park also has a good amount of hiking trails and a visitor center with (probably) knowledgable park rangers. While swimming is strictly prohibited here, we did see kayakers hanging out at the base of the falls too.  Deets and Margo seemed impressed, but were probably more amused my frantic gestures, pointing out all the cool things I saw: "Look a bridge! Look at the birds! Ooh- check out the flood sign!" I might need to get out more.  Sadly, my oldest turned into a pumpkin quicker than I had hoped, leaving little time to explore the grounds more but at least my curiosity was sated. We left in the nick of time as hundreds of vehicles lined up down the road for entry. Go if you ever need a quickie. 

Overhead with circling vultures, probably picking out their choices of tourists.  

Looking for kayakers.

Feels even more violent in black and white. 

VW: Sold! Mazda 3: Bought

For those who had bets on how long we'd last without a car in the US, it's time to cash in! We made it six months. The beloved VW that was bound for Brazil took a dramatic turn to the US after Brazilian authorities decided diesel cars were un-importable. It came back here instead where it was promptly ticketed by the Falls Church parking enforcers, due to not having plates on the car. Mark decided this $50 dollar ticket was worth the fight and after three visits to City Hall, they dropped the issue. 

The adventure continued as he navigated the vehicular laws of Virginia, three trips to two DMVs and paying $850 dollars in registration/taxes the car was ready to sell.  Luckily, our TDI went to a friend within a few weeks who hopefully will enjoy it as much as we did. Of course, we ended up replacing the missing parts that went in our HHE and will show up in Brazil this fall: a spare tire, jack, floor mats, trunk cover for several hundred dollars more. Meh- what can you do?

That said, the short week of car ownership was quite refreshing. Like awkward teens talking about the prom, Mark and I hid in bed one night and he asked if I kinda-sorta-maybe might be interested in buying a car for the summer. Already feeling like a mountain yeti, herding my children around in the bike trailer in pouring rain and raging spring winds, I was pretty thrilled with his acquiescence. So off to the Internet he went, searching for a new car and with two trips to the car dealership he ended up choosing a Mazda 3. I find this somewhat ironic considering the NYT chose it as a classic hipster purchase. (Mark denies any association with that label- says the man who rides a bamboo fixie with a messenger bag and sports one hell of a beard in the fall and winter...) 

At any rate, we got a car! I drove it to a newly found local beer garden today while reminiscing over 16 hour European road trips with two young children in our wagon. Wasn't it magical when we had to reverse of up a 15% grade incline on a cobble stoned road in Greece? Or how amazing was our VW when we crossed the Hungarian border with four tires on the brink of exploding? I know we will create new memories with this new car, but I think the VW will be hard to match. 

Giving it a test drive. 

Waxing and Waning of FSI Life

More than a few people in my life have shared their advice about managing stress during periods of change or difficulty. The more delicate folks said, "don't make any drastic decisions if you don't have to" while others sensibly suggested "don't do anything stupid." Well, we all know that is easier said than done. 

This past week was a little tougher than usual. Nothing significant happened other than dealing with the elation-depression cycle of seeing friends and family come and go. It's always the feeling of "didn't you just get here?" Class continued on at its usual warp speed but this week we learned the fourth out of God-knows-how-many-Portuguese-verb-tenses and I completed my first evaluation.  Not a super-mega fun time, but also no big deal. I did fine, yet oddly I found myself emotionally overwhelmed. Suddenly I couldn't engage in basic Portuguese or even English conversations; still no big deal-- logically I knew life would go on, but I started crying. I HATE crying. I am an ugly crier too. I get the type of swollen-face-blotch that takes days to go away and with the amount of tears and snot I shed, I also look dehydrated and listless. I will make a great zombie, come the day.

Ok then. I cried at school. I was stressed about small stuff, and even more stressed because I know there's an infinite amount of worse things in this world than stressing about my self centered feelings. So once more felt the urge to make a change; to do something drastic. When I don't feel like dealing with stress, usually the first thing I want to do is get a hair cut. To me, there's something satisfying about the sound of scissors cutting snippets of hair and watching it fall to the floor, and letting go of what little control I think I have. I've had many, many bad haircuts because of this, while knowing full well I shouldn't do anything drastic when stressed.

Did I get a hair cut? Not exactly. In the spirit of pending beach time, tropical weather and Brazilian beauty standards I felt the need to try something new. Knowing full well I could regret my decision, I marched (ok, skirted) into the salon for my first bikini wax. Can't say I felt too great about it as I stared wincingly at the ceiling, with visions of Steve Carrell seared into my brain- but I followed through. It's too soon to tell what my next move might be, but right now I'm thinking a traditional hair cut might be nice. Or maybe a pedicure.

Portuguese Class

To my surprise, the past few months of my life have involved extraordinary amounts of role playing, experimentation, and self study. I've been singing in public, developing intimate relationships with more people than my husband, and working on what I hope to be an improved worldly version of myself: After six weeks,  I'm ankle deep into a full body immersion of learning a foreign language. As many people already know, the Schlink's are bound for Recife, Brazil this fall and I've had the fortunate opportunity to take a full time, 24 week Portuguese class.

When I'm not trying to find my head from my ass, I am genuinely enjoying my time. I have about five hours of instruction per day, sprinkled with several hours of computer lab time.  My three classmates, all officers and all bound for Sao Paulo are remarkably tolerant of my bizarre sense of humor. I might even dare to say they like me. We spend a lot of time together stumbling through the language but what's cool, is how we bring different strengths to the table. One student has amazing comprehension, one has great accent and is very deliberate with speaking. The third has an intense dedication to learning and as for me- I am good at asking interesting questions and I can keep dialogue moving along.  Despite the obvious building of accents, sentence structures, and vocabulary skills, we act out plays, sing songs, play games and drink Brazilian cocktails sometimes. And, because we learn the language by talking about what we know, they know a lot about my family; and subsequently how boring my life has become since starting class.

Caprinhas: made with Cachaça, a distilled sugar cane juice,
açúcar e limão verde. It will knock your socks off.
Seriously. I don't have anymore socks.

In fact, one of the most "exciting" things in my life right now is when I record my voice while reading sentences in Portuguese. The lab is frequently stuffed with students practicing anything from Chinese to Amharic to Italian so it is essential to keep our voices low. We wear headsets that allow us to listen and speak our chosen language, so imagine ME whispering a grocery list into your ear with my husky Portuguese accent. Pretty disturbing isn't it? Every time I play back my recordings, I can't control myself; I feel like a 1-900 girl. Hopefully it will all be worth it in the end.

Making the decision to take a full time class wasn't one I made lightly. For weeks I agonized over education versus a triumphant return to nursing while back in the states. I missed being a financial contributor and wanted to dust off my scrub pants and feel like a real professional again. I missed playing with blood and guts, and taking care of patients. But after looking past the 8-10 month training period, Mark and I agreed language would better benefit my independence in Recife, and with luck I could get a job down there; maybe as a nurse, maybe not. We made our decision, designed a budget and a schedule to keep our lives somewhat in control and went for it. I don't regret it, though the student on the computer next to me might once he hears my grocery list in Portuguese.

Planes, Bikes and a Whiny Mom

Even though I usually enjoy my daily bike commute, for some reason Mark's suggestion to take a family ride simply felt exhausting this weekend. I whined for about 24 hours before I realized how ridiculous I sounded. So on the following morning, after I needlessly agonized over clothing selections (who looks good in cycling gear anyway?) we hooked up the trailer and took the kids down to Gravelly Point. The park, located 400 feet north of Reagan National Airport was once a landfill and is now a hugely popular stopping point along the Mount Vernon Trail. Trip Advisor ranks it 8th out of 32 Arlington attractions, even if there have been rat-sightings near the rocky shores of the Roaches Run Waterfowl Sanctuary.  But the huge grassy field, people watching, and plane sightings more than make up for it. Planes fly directly overhead onto the runway, sometimes as low as 100 feet and as often as every two minutes. 

Deets' reaction was extraordinary. He howled, cheered, and danced around; He climbed onto the picnic table trying to get just a little bit closer. Margo, though slightly confused chimed in too, affected by his enthusiasm. Before long he was mimicking the scene from Wayne's World, laying down on the table letting the planes come to him. I hadn't seem him that happy in a long time. It put my earlier protestations to shame and I resolved to pull my bike shorts out of the tight crevice I stuffed them into. As good as a hiding spot as I think it is.

Okay, okay- keep looking up!

Flag Day: A Story Involving a Vibrating Phone and a Prostate

Last week the latest A-100 group enjoyed a snow packed Flag Day. I spent some time chatting with spouses about their fantasy posts, dreaded posts, and realistically-this-is-what-we-will-get-posts. They shared their strategies on how they ranked their listed countries, many of which were identical to how Mark and I did it three years ago: preference based on job availability, departure date, and whether there would be required use of wearing leotards, fishnet stockings, and pasties.

It got me thinking about my experience with Mark's Flag Day and it occurred to me I never wrote my story. At the time, I was Nurse Manager running busy urology clinic in DC. While it was a rewarding job, it was very demanding and it left me unable to take time off for the big announcement. Not really a big deal in the whole scheme of things, but as we all know, bidding takes an inordinate amount of obsession and strategizing. Even if it makes a difference or not...

The patient obediently laid on the exam table, clothed only in a giant hospital gown and a pair of socks. In the urology office, they always wore socks; as if to retain any shred of dignity during examinations. I can't really blame them considering what little else we had on offer: a crappy paper pillow, a cold uncomfortable exam table that held the bodies of countless half naked men, and an impending anal probing.  Rolling onto his left side with his knees tucked, the doctor snapped on his latex gloves and lubed up the ultrasound wand. I stood there assisting when I felt my scrub pants buzzing. This was the moment of truth: a prostate exam and biopsy would determine the patient's path and the vibrating cell phone would determine mine. I'd been nervous all day, worried about missing the important phone call and stress sweating through my scrubs while I hustled patients in and out of the clinic. Of course my destiny would have to wait a few more minutes.

The doctor did his thing, checking out the patient's prostate and firing off several rounds of the biopsy gun. In less than 10 minutes he was finished, murmuring something about next week's follow up and was out the door onto the next patient. I stayed with my patient helping him get cleaned up and dressed. Bending over to put his pants on, the man sheepishly asked if this was just another typical day for me, manhandling scared men and their prostates? I jokingly told him absolutely, except that I was more gentle. Only after I bagged up the specimens, saw him off safely and sanitized the room did I dare to look at my phone. At first I thought I'd have a terrible time getting ahold of Mark since he was likely in the throes of celebration and congratulatory backslaps. But then I realized he never called me in the first place. I got a text message. A text message, that would reveal our first two year posting in the Foreign Service. I mean, really?! A text?! Jerk.

And so the anticlimactic realization read: "Bucharest, Nov 2011" and nothing else. This meant ten more months of pee soaked stories and erectile dysfunction teaching moments, ten more months of living in DC, ten more months of language and additional training for Mark. Well okay then. It wasn't a bad thing. My job challenged me everyday, our son enjoyed day care and Mark's career was just beginning. It was simply not what we expected since his "people" hinted at our "very likely overseas move to happen in a month or two" and it was "very likely we'd be heading to Algiers." 

It wasn't the first time we'd hear disappointing news and not the last either. All in all, we knew it would be an incredible adventure. What was your Flag Day story?

Bike Commuting in VA

After two weeks of spousal deliberation, Mark and I decided that I will forgo potential nursing employment for sake of a full time Portuguese language course. It wasn't an easy decision to make considering future car purchases/registration/shipping fees. And preschool. And student loans. And phone bills. And food. Just good ol' life getting in the way of my dream of slathering sunscreen on a meat-and-rum-slinging Brazilian beach boy. It's okay though, I always have enjoyed public transportation and bicycling out here. In fact, I sometimes feel hard core. When other parents get out of their warm toasty cars, wearing fancy pea coats and fur trimmed gloves, I pedal into the school parking lot with my windbreaker pants, butt-frilled neon jacket, and lobster gloves. Oh, and my giant bank robbery balaclava, wool beanie and helmet. I AM fashion. And fashion is danger. People literally turn their heads to see this lithe babe trucking down Arlington Boulevard at 15 MPH:

Wanna tap that? I thought so.

I am as graceful as they say...

As if my commuting attire wasn't bad enough, I managed to take embarrassing to a whole new level the other day. Parents watched on as I walked out of school with Margo and Deets by my side. While lecturing Deets to not eat the Magic Wizard Rock Salt off the ground, Margo took this opportunity to gleefully sprint into the parking lot.  Though she was in no immediate danger, I had a childhood flashback of running into traffic at the King Soopers parking lot. It resulted in considerable amounts of well deserved guilt-ridden reprimanding. I grabbed her and turned my attention back to Deets who had picked up a 7 foot PVC pole. He was pretending to fish for octopi (that's right he uses the proper plural) but lost control and smacked the pole into a classroom window, startling everyone inside. I waved an apology and got the heck out of there with a now loudly protesting daughter strapped into the trailer.

One of the many amusing toys at school.
Deets also enjoys gravel clod ice cubes and broken tree branches.

Loudly protesting daughter

The good news about riding bike with a trailer is I generally can listen to the babble of my children, or totally ignore them especially if they are whining about being confined. I almost made it home when the most horrific noise begin to follow me. The kids began to match the noise, screaming at me to make it stop and the faster I pedaled, the louder it got. I thought maybe I was dragging discarded antlers or picked up someone's broken muffler! Looking over my shoulder I realized the flag holder on the back of the trailer wore through and my safety flag was dragging along the road.

"Only 500 feet to our apartment," I yelled to the kids, determined to get us home. An SUV pulled up beside me, rubbernecking something fierce. He slowed down just enough to stack up honking cars behind him before he decided I wasn't worth the time and stepped on the gas sending exhaust into my face. Rounding the corner to turn left into our parking lot, another car made a wide turn around me with the driver shouting over the scraping, screaming and honking: "You broke your flag pole! Your flag stick is dragging! Hey! IT'S THE STICK!"

She even threw her arm out the window pointing to my rear end situation as if I was totally unaware...then she tried to drive around me in the turn lane, the crazy blow bag. What nerve. I had the right of way dagnabit and was already in front of her. I tried to yell this at her, but I doubt she heard me behind my scuba suit. So instead she was forced to hit the brakes and merge back into the proper lane to avoid hitting the curb. Or me and the kids. <insert deep sigh>. But we made it home without incident.

Note to self: buy duck tape to fix safety-flag-pole-holder. And possibly consider getting a bull horn.