Moving is always an adventure. Always. Sometimes that adventure is fun and exciting. Sometimes that adventure is nerve-wracking or lonely. And sometimes that adventure is exhausting.

Exhaustion has been the overriding feeling for the past few days.

Last week, I was thrilled to hear that our UAB and HHE and consumables had all arrived at post. This is a bit of an anomaly for a couple of reasons. First, UAB is shipped via airplane, so is usually the first thing to arrive at post, often well-before any other shipments. In a “normal” world, it is followed by HHE and consumables, both of which come by ship, sometimes weeks or months after the UAB. Needless to say, when I heard that it was ALL here, I was skeptical, but also super excited. Getting your stuff is what really helps a new country start to feel like home. Your apartment goes from a beige-on-tan-on-white motif to one that you have created through your random collection of goodies from around the world. For us, that means bright pink sitting pillows, blue rugs, a floral armchair/ottoman combo, and lots and lots of framed photos.

With the delivery scheduled and the movers’ arrival time drawing near, my excitement at getting all our stuff turned into trepidation at getting ALL our stuff. Usually, UAB is a couple of large boxes and gets put away in a few hours. Then, we have time to organize and arrange those items while we await the next shipment, but with it all coming at once, the timeline gets shrunk down like Wayne Szalinski’s kids. The plan was to get UAB at 9AM and then HHE/consumables at 2PM. That’s a great window for putting away the first boxes of stuff (mostly clothing and bedding), but in past moves, that has been the end of the day. This time, instead of a few hours of work and then time to take a little catnap or finish off a book, it was going to be straight from the unpacking frying pan to the unpacking fire.

It wasn’t intentional, but it did turn out that the day of all this movement ended up being a day I could not take off work. I had a series of meetings that would have been a real pain to reschedule, but Thad was free! (Okay, not totally free. I did come home mid-afternoon to relieve him so he could put in a couple of hours as well and not feel totally swamped the following morning.) This meant, for the first time in our Foreign Service adventure, he was the one to receive the shipments- solo. It also meant he was the one who got to scramble around in that unpacking frying pan before the fire arrived.

UAB all placed in its rightful locations (or at least out of the boxes and off the floor), it was time for HHE and consumables to make an appearance. I lost count of the number of boxes that rolled in the door Monday afternoon (due to a heavy rainstorm, delivery got delayed until after I had swapped work shifts with Thad), but it felt never-ending. At least the brown of the boxes blended right in with our neutral-to-an-extreme apartment vibe. I am not entirely sure they all made it here, but I’m assuming what did not show up here (my tall bookshelf in particular) is in storage in Hagerstown, WV.

This is where the real work begins.

Opened boxes reveal an occasionally odd organization on the part of the D.C. movers, but more often just display another set of things that need to find a new place to live for the next two years. (Imagine what your junk drawer looks like dumped into a cardboard box and covered in packing paper. Now have several of those.)

I feel like we’ve been good about trying to whittle down what we have, but there are some things that just make me happy to have in the house. I love my antique typewriter (and want another one!), but it needs a nice place to sit on display. I love my teal cabinet that I got at Eastern Market in Washington D.C., but sometimes it is hard to find a spot for another piece of furniture. And I love my throw pillows and blankets in the living room, but maybe I don’t need six of each?

The arrival of HHE is all about sorting and organizing and then finding hiding places for the things you really want, but don’t need to have handy. It’s more of an art than a science. Every time this happens I think of things I will do better next time. Then, next time rolls around and I find another set of carefully laid plans switched and tossed and upended willy-nilly. In the end, it’s best to just go with the flow or you’ll drive yourself nuts with the process.

As tiring as the process has been, we are down to just wall hangings left to organize, as I am a firm believer that if you don’t get things out of boxes and put away within the first month, you’ll never do it. After that, you may as well leave them in the boxes to make the next move a tad bit easier!

Pinks and blues and teals and purples are splashed across the apartment, and Caracas is finally starting to feel like home. Until we do it all again in two years!


Old Panama, New Panama, and Bread

When you hear “Panama,” you probably instantly think “canal.” That’s fair. It is a good association. I guess you could also go with hat. We did see a lot of dorky people rocking the straight-outta-the-store-Panama hats while we were there. But, there is more to Panama than just the enormous ditch that cuts through its waistline and a rather dated fashion choice. We only spent a few short days in Panama, but I feel like we found some places we would definitely go back and explore again.

Casco Viejo, the old town, was beautiful. It is filled with super narrow one-way streets that are edged with old building facades of a colonial style- tall and narrow, wooden shutters, bright colors, cast iron railings, etc. It’s not a great place to explore via car, as it doesn’t take much to snare up traffic in that one-way grid, but on foot it is perfect. With no real destination in mind, other than Casco Viejo, we hopped in an Uber after our visit to Miraflores Locks and headed into town. Our driver was young and super chatty (lots of thoughts on Venezuela!) and wound up through the snaking streets of the old town to drop us off in the heart of the action. After pointing out a few good lunch options, he sent us on our way to wander the streets for the afternoon. (Casco Viejo is edged by some neighborhoods that are slightly less than tourist-friendly, so it is probably best for daytime exploration.) We ended up in a little Panamanian pub where Thad had the first of many bowls of ceviche and I had a less-than-stellar hamburger (too much random filler in the meat), but my poor lunch choice was overshadowed by the great venue. We enjoyed a bit of shade and cool air and some icy drinks before heading back into the labyrinth that awaited us outside. Casco Viejo has lots of restaurants, a few small museums, and an outdoor market in a central plaza. After traipsing about for a while, we decided it was again time to beat the heat, this time with popsicles! Popsicles seem to be a “thing” in Panama; we saw several different chains that sold nothing but ice cream on a stick, all with increasing levels of complication and sophistication. Popsicles are not just for children, my friends! Thad went with the “American” flavor, which was peanut butter dipped in chocolate and I went with mango, a flavor option that seemed more refreshing in the hot afternoon sun. I supposed tackling Casco Viejo with a map or a plan might lead to more specific sightseeing, but our unplanned strolls through the various narrow streets was a great way to whittle away an afternoon.

As much as I like to get off the beaten path and explore new places, I am also a sucker for a total-tourist shtick. Boardwalks with their Ye Old Fudge shops draw me in every time. I can’t pass up an opportunity to wander through a souvenir store (although I rarely buy anything). And if there is a chance to touch something weird or ride something crazy, I’ll stand in that line longer than a more sane human would. The Amador Causeway in Panama City gave me just the tourist fix I was looking for. We took an Uber (so cheap and easy, a luxury we do not have in Caracas) to the end of the Causeway and then the plan was to walk back to the mainland. (The Amador Causeway connects a series of islands to the mainland via a narrow spit of land built up to hold the road. At points it is only as wide as the road and sidewalks on each edge and at other points it hits the small islands and has shops and restaurants.) We hopped out of our car at the end and found a restaurant that sat above the water with a small boat marina attached. Lunch was massive shrimp skewers for Thad and a weirdly textured chicken breast for me. (I apparently made terrible food choices the entire weekend.) As we walked out of the restaurant, headed for the Causeway, I spotted an option that beckoned. Pedal carts! (I actually had to Google what these things might be called. I started with bike-carts and went to umbrella-bikes before figuring they probably had an actual name.)

Pedal carts are awesomely touristy!

The one we rented was a bike built for two, although there were options for four-seaters. We paid our nominal fee and made sure we were hiring it for a one-way trip, sorting out where to deliver it back on the land-side of the Causeway and then we were off! I’m pretty sure we made about a foot of progress for every fifteen cycles of the pedals, but we weren’t in it to win the Tour de Panama, but rather for the sightseeing, so our slow pace let us intimately examine every pelican we passed! There were faster ways to get back to the city. And there were easier ways to get back to the city. But there were no more fashionable ways to get back to the city!

Sadly, ranking right up with these previous two adventures, was our trip to Riba Smith, a local grocery store chain. We purposefully packed light when it came to our bags on the way into Panama in hopes of doing a bit of shopping to supplement our cupboards while we were in the country. We were not disappointed! Riba Smith would be a normal grocery store in the United States, but after just a month in Venezuela, it was Shangri-La. There was an entire aisle dedicated to bread. Sandwich loaves. Rolls. Baguettes. White. Wheat. Multi-grain. The choices were vast and glorious. We walked up and down every single aisle of the store, getting an array of random things that are either unavailable in Caracas or ones that caught our eye because they screamed of home. At the end, we did some slight damage to our credit card (not really a problem since it is nearly impossible to spend money in Venezuela) and came out with enough bags to fill up every inch of baggage space we had available. (Also, we looked like slightly crazy tourists walking back into the fancy hotel lobby, hauling plastic bags of food. Just smile and keep walking.)

Panama was just a short trip to get out of town for a bit, but ended up being a lot of fun and definitely somewhere that I am sure we are going to end up again (and maybe again) over our two years in Venezuela. Who can argue with direct flights to a land of bread-aisles?

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Photo credit: T. Ross

A 5th Grade Dream Fulfilled

The Panama Canal has been a fascination of mine since I first watched that old black and white movie about it when I was in elementary school. My brain places me in Mrs. Papapietro’s fifth grade classroom overlooking the basketball courts at Washington Elementary, but it could have been a year before or a year after that. All I know is that I could have watched that scratchy movie over and over. The grainy fast-forward-y footage of men running around, rail lines chugging through the long hole, and rock spewing up in huge explosions was fascinating. The fact that these people were cutting a path from one ocean to another was unbelievable to me, but also not-so-far-fetched, as I was born into a world where men had walked on the moon. Incredible, and yet still totally credible to my young mind. (Also, there was a bit of heart-warming patriotism knowing that the French couldn’t finish the job and the United States swooped in to save the day. At least that’s the way the story went. Granted, that’s an extremely simplistic view of the entire undertaking, but for a 5th grader, it was all “rah-rah America!” All I needed was a flag and a slice of apple pie and I could have rivaled Uncle Sam for patriotic supremacy, at least in the world of Caldwell elementary schools.)

Without giving away exactly how many years it has been since I was that scrawny fifth grader dreaming of world travel, let’s just say that three-ish decades later I finally stood above that famed canal and watched ships make their way from the Pacific to the Atlantic. (Now that I think about it, it was totally 5th grade because that was also the year we had to memorize the oceans and the continents and take the test on them and I was terrified I wasn’t going to pass, which meant having to go in at lunch to retake until you did pass, a situation that caused my gold-star-obsessed self some major anxiety).


Who knew that container ships could provide hours of entertainment?

Miraflores Locks is where the visitor center is and where most tourists go to see the transit happen. For your entrance fee, you get a fifteen-minute video of mostly canal propaganda, which we don’t need because at that point, we’ve already paid our money at the window! I doubt there are canal-refunds.  The movie felt more like an advertisement for the visitor’s center than information about the canal. Good thing I took 5th grade history! You also get access to the four-floor museum. Unfortunately, when we were there, the first floor of the museum was closed for renovations and even more UNFORTUNATE was that the place was filled to the brim with screaming school children.

Now, don’t get me wrong. My background is in education and I am all for kids getting out of the classroom for learning experiences (heck, I was desperate for that exact fieldtrip when I was in the 5th grade!), but OMG. This was utter chaos. I am pretty sure the adult-to-child ratio was 1-9074 and the one adult in each group pretty much just hung out with their own child. On top of that, not a single uniform-clad student seemed to have any type of learning task to complete. As far as I could tell, the objective for the day was to run screaming through the museum, jamming the elevator (seriously, the firefighters had to come rescue a group of them), and ignoring anything that looked slightly instructional. Mission accomplished.

Oddly, there were no ships in the morning. (Apparently, we were supposed to check the schedule before coming to visit. We did not.) But, our tickets were good for the whole day, so we went out to see more of Panama City (possible blog post coming) and then came back in the late afternoon to watch the evening transits. (Who knew the Panama Canal was a one-way street?) When we came back, the school kids were gone for the day, hopefully out terrorizing their neighborhoods instead. We were able to stake out places at the 3rd floor restaurant and enjoy an icy cold beverage as the ships made their way from one massive ocean to another.

It was fascinating to hear how much the ships pay to go through (up to one million dollars, all of which much hit the Panamanian bank account before they are scheduled a time to transit) and to watch the enormous cargo containers stacked one upon another. Honestly, the only thing I could think of as those rolled through was how many of them contained State Department HHE shipments. (Not ours this time, since it went Miami to Caracas, but maybe past ones floated though. Such a cool thought!)

So the big question of the outing is, “Was the Panama Canal everything my 5th grade self hoped for?” I think it is a resounding “YES,” but with a caveat or two. First, I need fewer screaming youngsters next time. Second, I’d love more history/better video. I suppose I should just go to YouTube and find a documentary or two to watch, and I will definitely do that before our next trip to the canal. (I see one, if not more, adventures to Panama, as it would make a great place to meet up with friends/family who don’t want to do the Caracas-thing.)

A man, a plan, a canal- Panama. The palindrome drew me in as a kid as continues to beckon to me as an adult. I’m not done with you just yet, Panama!

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Language-Induced Diabetic Coma

Now that we are living in Caracas, my college Spanish gets me around town sufficiently (it definitely could be better and has some weirdly Chinese quirks to it!) but there are times that it utterly fails me. Friday night was one of those nights that a mixture of cultural confusion and language nuance left me in the lurch- or in this case, a near diabetic coma.

The night started out great. It was our inaugural Taste-Testers outing, a monthly dinner scheduled through the CLO office to get folks out and about to new restaurants in town. For the first one, we decided to stick fairly closely to home, at a place just down the hill from the embassy. With a reservation limit of 16, we were pleased to get nearly a full house. Dinner was fine. It started with a variety of appetizers, including ceviche and spring rolls (both of which I passed on, but I did enjoy the herb butter and bread that also showed up on the table) and then moved in a rather timely fashion (not a service to take for granted) to main courses. Around the table there was everything from pastas to fish and chicken dishes and I think I even saw a burger at the far end of our group. Overall, the restaurant was good (although I must admit to liking the one we went to, directly across the road, last week better) and the company was great. It was nice to get out of the embassy and spend time talking about life beyond work.

After dinner, as the ubiquitous discussion of how to best pay the bill was happening, a side-conversation about dessert was also taking place. (By the way, the bill discussion was not at all about how much to pay, as that wasn’t a big deal, but more the actual method of payment, as this is a perpetual issue here. Do you pay with your debit card? Who has already hit their daily limit on their card? Is cash even possible? What about the tip?) Some of the group sorted out the split and the tip (paid on different machines, because “it’s Venezuela”), while the rest made plans to walk across the road to an ice cream/pasty shop.

This is where my issues begin.

I always have room for dessert. As a matter of fact, I am fairly sure that biologically I am created for a sweet treat after meals, as I am a firm believer in the “dessert stomach.” I may be full of pasta or steak or pizza or what-have-you, but I can always find room for cake or a doughnut or a brownie on top of dinner.

The sweets shop we went to was enormous, with a huge selection of gelatos and baked goods. The way it works is you decide what you want after drooling over the offerings beautifully displayed in glass cases and then you go to the cashier to pay, taking your tiny receipt back to the food counter to get your actual order. While Thad went with a mini-strawberry pie thing, I decided I wanted ice cream. There were these cute little waffle cups on display, which I figured were the perfect size for a single scoop of ice cream. So I pieced together an order for a waffle cup in Spanish and was a little surprised at the total that popped up on the register. It seemed rather pricey for a single scoop, especially in Caracas where I just paid about $13 for a fine dining dinner and drinks across the road. But, whatever. Expensive for Caracas is normal (or less) in D.C.

With my little slip of paper in hand (little slips of paper are pervasive here- you get a receipt- or two- for everything and that’s IF your debit card is accepted on the first try), I went to the ice cream counter to get my goodies. The girl asked me what THREE flavors I wanted. Three? I told her I was just one person and one scoop was enough, at which point she told me that the little bowl I had ordered was actually a three-scoop undertaking. A bit shocked, I explained that it was just for me, so please make them little scoops (less scoops was not an option), and ordered Oreo, brownie, and chocolate chip. (For the record, I am pretty sure all three of those were actually the same thing.)

Fine. I have a three-scoop bowl coming to me. Not the end of the world.

I was wrong.

It wasn’t just three scoops. It was three scoops of ice cream and then dessert art on top.

Watching my after-dinner snack come together was like watching the creation of a sculpture. It started with the three scoops in the waffle bowl. From there, the girl added florets of whipped cream over the entire structure. (It is basically a mini-mountain at this point.) Obviously, this is not enough sugar for one human being, so once it was fully covered in a thick layer of whipped cream, a healthy amount of unhealthy sugar-syrup-coated strawberries were added to the pile. But, strawberries are not a finishing touch. That was still to come. On top of the strawberries went drizzles of both chocolate and caramel syrup and then, as a flourish on top, the entire thing was covered in sprinkles.

As I became more and more horrified watching this thing that I had innocently ordered take shape, the other gal at the counter told me to go ahead and sit down and that they would deliver it. Apparently, it is too much to self-carry. (Everyone else in our group just got their small, little treats at the counter and took them to the table themselves.)

A few minutes later, my mammoth dessert arrived at our table. What I pictured in my mind and thought I ordered was a far cry from what showed up in front of me. So much for a little Friday night treat! This thing was enough to feed a small family and definitely enough to put someone into diabetic shock.

Needless to say, after scraping off the outer layers to get to the ice cream (the thing I actually wanted), I passed the remains around the table for others to sample, and no, I did not clear that plate before leaving the restaurant. There was just no way that was going to happen.

Looking back, I am still not sure where the communication broke down. I looked in the glass cases and decided what I wanted. I went to the cashier and ordered that thing. I ended up with Mt. Vesuvius recreated in sugar. But, I did learn an important lesson. From now on, when ordering, I will always ask “how many does it serve?” because my dessert debacle was served with three plastic spoons! If only that had come up earlier…

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