What we’ve been eating

Tonight is our last night in the hotel: tomorrow we move into housing and return to cooking food at home. Well, at least in a couple of days. We’ll probably eat frozen pizza or quesadillas or scrambled until we get settled in. Only our advance shipment has arrived, and even though we’ll receive “boonie furniture” from the base, we won’t have a lot of cookware to work with.

I think I’m most excited about not having to pay for laundry services. The washer that comes with the house is a brand-new “colossal” sized machine by GE. Can’t wait to try it out!

But it is with mixed emotions that we’ll give up our per diem allowance for food. We’ve been eating well the past few days, although we also have had a few disappointing meals, also. I don’t love spending lots of money on food that is often not as good as what we could make if we had a kitchen. Sometimes I’m embarrassed to admit, my disapproval is obvious to my dinner companions. The kids have figured out that we check menus before we sit down in a restaurant.

We finally came up with a kind of routine: We have cereal or fruit in the mornings with shelf-stable milk, complimentary hotel coffee and juice, which we eat out on the balcony. Then in the afternoons we make peanut butter or turkey sandwiches, with apples and snacks from the little grocery, and eat in the room or on the road, depending on the schedule. Sometimes we stop for smoothies or ice cream treats, but at $3 for an ice cream cone or $5 for a smoothie, that is only very occasionally. Then each night we walk out of our hotel and try a different restaurant with prices under $15. We try to avoid chains and hotel restaurants, but since we’re living in the tourist zone, we did eat at a couple chain restaurants. Once we walked into Planet Hollywood, but walked out after seeing hamburgers on the menu were $17.95.

Our best meals have been at restaurants that are a step up from cheap, without being in the “fancy” range. Actually, I think my favorite was the night we ate at the Chamorro Village: every Wednesday one of the towns hosts a sort of flea market kind of event. Food vendors sell barbecue kabobs, rice mixes, grilled meats and vegetables, smoothies, desserts, and coconuts, while other kiosks sell tourist tchotke: jewelry, Hawaiian shirts, colorful sundresses, statues, keychains, you name it. Two stages have performances by dancers and musicians. On one corner you can ride on a carabao, and on another you can pet a monitor lizard or hold a coconut crab. By the time we left the place was packed with Japanese tourists arriving by bus. But it was probably the most fun evening we’ve had so far. I loved my chicken kelaguen, which is a kind of chicken salad with a sweet vinegar dressing, onions, cilantro, lime, and something else – maybe coconut milk. I’ll have to find a recipe.  But I was less fond of the seafood and mushroom side I had with my meal – I’m not a huge lover of tentacles.

My husband had been eager to eat sushi, so we had oriental food multiple nights, but the best meal was a couple nights ago at a restaurant that offered “sushi sets” and “bento boxes” with samples of different sushi and Japanese appetizers. I had futomaki, which was large and fresh.  Loved it, and the older boys loved their sushi sets with a variety of sashimi and vegetable rolls, pickled vegetables, and tempura shrimp and vegetables. The girls stuck with California rolls, but they tasted fresh and sweet. Meanwhile, the 7 yr old, who is the only kid in the family who doesn’t love sushi, ordered Sushi Spam and fell in love. Although I am morally opposed to Spam, it is a staple on the island. Supposedly Guam is the largest consumer of potted meats in the world. One aisle at the grocery is lined with different varieties of Spam. I don’t intend to buy it for the house, but I’m willing to let the kids sample local cuisine.

Last night I picked a Thai restaurant that has been crowded every time we’ve passed by, and now we know why. The service is slow, but the food is fabulous: fresh and flavorful. We all wanted to lick our plates when we were done. We ordered traditional meals: phat thai, lemongrass chicken, rice noodle soup, but each had a slight twist. My chicken seemed slightly sautéed instead of cooked in sauce, the phat thai wasn’t overwhelmed by peanut sauce. The picky seven year old gobbled up mango fried rice.

Our dinner tonight was perhaps our most unusual. It was again my husband’s turn to pick, and he had been wanting to try Korean. I had ruled out a place that was next to a dance club, so we decided to splurge on our last night and eat at a hotel down the street. This was not typical hotel fare, however. We were the only Americans there, and it was obvious that we didn’t understand Korean food when we ordered. The waitress attempted to explain several times that we couldn’t order what we asked for without ordering something else, although her English skills were only a little better than our Korean. We knew we didn’t want the beef tongue or tripe dishes, but we wanted to try something authentic, so we finally ordered a couple of items that were pricier than our usual limit, but fortunately decided to share, as we quickly realized they were meant to be.

Not only was this one of our most delicious meals, it was also one of the most fun.  First the waitress served tiny dishes of different relishes: seaweed, kimchi, tiny broccoli with red pepper sauce, pickled bean sprouts. We weren’t sure if we should eat them or not until we slyly peeked at our fellow diners and watched how they ate. Then on one end of the table the waitress set a grill and at the other a Bunsen burner. The boys had ordered meat that they had to grill themselves, and the youngers and my husband and I shared a hot pot with beef and mushrooms – those thin white ones that grow in bunches. It all was served raw, until we poured it into the broth in the pot on the burner. On son had a dish that was a hot pottery bowl that cooked his meal as he stirred it.  Everything was flavorful and delicious. We all decided that if any relatives or friends come to visit us, this is one of the places we’d like to take them.

So tomorrow back to shopping at the grocery.  Fortunately the commissary does carry some international foods: we’ve tried seaweed chips (high in omega 6!) and coconut water soda. We plan to go back to the Chamorro village multiple times to try different foods. And we’re hoping to plant a banana tree and a mango tree in our backyard.  We’ve already got a coconut tree. I have to admit that I don’t love coconuts myself, but I do like the little coconut cookies we’ve sampled. Perhaps I’ll grow to like them more the longer we live on the island.

Resolutions

Yesterday at Mass, after reading the Gospel when Jesus asks Peter “Who do you say that I am?”, the priest talked about the different images of Jesus that we all create. He grew up in the time of “Jesus Christ, Superstar” and “Jesus the liberator.” The Jesus of my college days at Notre Dame was Social Justice Jesus.  But I remember sitting in my art history class in the basement theater at the art museum on campus while my professor clicked through slide after slide of Jesus through the ages: plague Jesus emaciated and tortured on the cross, pale Northern European Jesus, baby Jesus with magi and patrons, toddler Jesus with Mary in Renaissance robes, etc.  Jesus belongs to our time and to all times. This isn’t the eureka moment, though, as the priest pointed out; what is important is that his message of mercy and love has remained constant through the ages. The question we were told to ask ourselves as we left mass is how do we relate every decision we make to Jesus’ unchanging message of mercy and love.

I have to admit, I haven’t really been thinking about “what would Jesus do” when trying to decide where to live and what to drive. In fact, mostly I’ve been thinking “what should I do” and “what is best for our family.”  But of course in the long run, it doesn’t matter to our salvation what car we drive or what house we live in. What matters is that we’re good neighbors and good stewards and that we don’t drive our kids and husband to the edge of insanity with our fretful indecisiveness.

Easy for me to say now that our decisions are made: we bought the used Corolla, and the waiver to live on base went through. (We needed a waiver on two accounts: one to live in a house that was reserved for another rank of officer and one to put two kids over age 10 in the same room. That’s one of those rules you have to question why? Why can’t kids over age 10 share a room? I’m a strong believer in the benefit of sharing room space for kids, even though I well remember moments when I was ready to strangle my younger sister for touching my stuff. We drew lines down the middle of the room and threw things at each other across the line. We got into each other’s diaries. But in the end we learned about forgiveness and compromise… I think.)

You would think I would be celebrating now that these decisions are resolved, and we did celebrate last night with our best meal yet at a Japanese restaurant. Everyone sampled something different, and I was charmed by the bento boxes and the beautiful, simple designs of the plates and the sake carafe. But I had to quell the slight disappointment about not living on the scenic side of the island, even though now we’ll be able to send the kids out in the street without worrying about them getting run over or attacked by boonie dogs.  And I felt sorry for my husband, who was the one who gave up his ideal of a new car, even though he admitted that he was glad that he wasn’t in a brand new car when he picked up our muddy, smelly teenaged son after football practice. I told him he’ll have first choice on our next car.  I even felt a small wave of sadness about leaving the hotel beach and balcony, from which we watched the human slingshot ricochet in the distance last night.  Ah, the heart is never satisfied!

I need to remember to keep things simple: love and mercy, mercy and love.  This week has been a test of trust, and I didn’t pass with high marks.  I thought I could find the perfect answer myself. We received answers anyway, not perfect, perhaps, but perfectly fine for us. I may have failed yet again to have complete trust this time, but the lesson that trust will be rewarded has been confirmed yet again.

Living as Nomads

I have to give my kids credit: they’ve really been on good behavior for the last week. Other than racing down the hotel hallways to fight over pressing elevator buttons, doing flips on the king-sized bed, and conversing about 1500 decibels louder than our Japanese neighbors in the hotel, they’ve been angels. They haven’t maimed or broken anything or anyone. And we’ve been keeping them on a pretty punishing schedule. Every day we’ve left the hotel about 9, after a morning swim, to spend hours in the rented mini-van that only seats seven. (Don’t tell the police or my grandma. We’ve driven by the gate guards at the base multiple times without comment on double bucklers. Since the fastest speed limit here is 45 mph and in most places it is 25 – 35, if we’re in an accident at least we aren’t going very fast.) Then, depending on the day, we alternate between shopping for cars and shopping for a rental house.

Our feet and bums are tired, and my head hurts from all the decisions that need to be made and all the money we have to spend. So far we haven’t found anything that screams “Drive me!” or “I’m your new home!”  A week can make a big difference in perspective.  For instance, we were planning to buy a cheap second car when we got here. The only problem is that all the cars under $5000 are held together with duct tape. Also, the fact that we spent close to $4000 fixing old cars before we left Mississippi has made us skittish around used vehicles.

Then we thought we’d find a mini-van to seat us all, but the ones in our price range were pretty well worn, to put it generously, and we found that with gas around $4.67, we’d be spending a fortune driving around town. My husband came up with a spread sheet that calculates the yearly cost of each car we’ve considered based on purchase price, gas consumption, estimated repairs, and resale value. Based on these numbers, it looks like buying a new car is just as economical as a used car, if we’re willing to spend more upfront. Then we debated paying a little more for a car with name recognition (resale $$) or the less expensive brand with more options. But as we were sitting in the office of the sales manager at the pricier car place, ready to sign a purchase agreement, we both got cold feet. My husband pointed out that we were going to have a new driver in a year and a half. Were we going to let him behind the wheel of this sporty new car?  And we realized that the extra cash we’d be spending upfront on a new car could be invested and make a tiny bit of interest, a value not added into his spreadsheet. So we got up, shook hands with the dealer, and went back to looking at used cars.

Why does this make my head spin? I hate cars. We may spend a few dollars more here or there on one car over another, but after looking at so many, they all seem to have problems. And we have a gender issue: my husband doesn’t want to drive a little junker efficiency car. I don’t want another gas-guzzler. Which one is the lesser of necessary evils?

Next decision: housing. We drove around with two different agents, because the first guy didn’t call us back. He could probably tell we were an indecisive bunch on whom he would lose money.

 

Although they do not love being dragged around to look at cars, the kids love house shopping.  They love going into bedrooms and claiming them, flushing toilets, testing out railings, etc.  So far we have not found the perfect house. In the back of my mind, I keep hearing that Melinda Lambert song, “This is my temporary home,” every time I think we might be able to make this or that work.  If only we could exchange the nice house in the bad neighborhood with the bad house in the nice neighborhood.  Tile or marble floors are the rule here, and when we looked at a carpeted house we could see why: carpets in this climate must stain and become dingy looking and slimy feeling quickly.

A funny thing: the bigger houses are less child friendly: they have loose second story railings or slick marble stairs or are just off a busy street. You’d think the big house would be the family showcase, but so many big houses are just for show. (Big also is a relative term: it’s hard to find anything larger than 2000 sq ft, although every time I look at anything with more space than that, I begin to calculate cleaning time.)

One benefit of driving around is discovering the beauty of the east side of the island. It is hilly and green and secluded. I’d enjoy the quiet life, I like to think, if it were just me, but then I get back in the car with the kids and remember how much I don’t like driving around for hours, as we drive around for hours looking for a home.

We spent another day registering the oldest two kids at the Department of Defense school. Yesterday we attended orientations. My first impressions are mixed. The middle school and high school are relatively small but seem to offer a fairly challenging curriculum. Nevertheless, a couple things bothered me: for example, the principal of the high school used poor grammar. The high school orientation began with a video about the inevitability of social media and the need for students to learn to use it responsibly. I agree that responsible use is important, but I don’t see the need for ANY use while at school. Last night I went to work researching Catholic high schools online.  Only one offers AP classes, and it is expensive for one child and out of our price range for two.  The second option, the boys’ school, would require a 30 minute commute if we do end up living in base housing. The third doesn’t offer any honors courses. I’d be better off home schooling, or using an online curriculum for the older boys if we didn’t use the DOD school.  Since the diocesan school year already has started and my second son is adamantly against being home schooled, I am probably going to follow the ball that is already rolling, and steel my self-discipline to school them in theology and values at home.

In the evenings and poolside, I’ve been reading Anne Lamott’s  Traveling Mercies. In one section, she talks about a movie she saw about gypsies called Latcho Drom, which means “safe passage.” This quote caught my attention:

“Those faces: the gypsies are all born old…. The middle-aged mothers look just like me and my friends – tired, baggy, in some need of repair. Their faces are exhausted from all that it takes to raise children on the tightrope of gypsy life. When you’re on the high wire, you have to use every ounce of grace and skill and awareness and loyalty you can muster just to get to the other side. But that’s the gift, to have to use that kind of attention and focus, and it shows up around your eyes.

They seem always to be walking. As with all nomads, if you don’t keep walking, you die – so you figure out how to keep walking.  This also shows up on the mothers’ faces, the exhaustion of exposure, of making sure that the old people keep moving and that the babies are carried safely.”

She goes on to comment on the beauty of the young girls and the freedom of the old women, and how fortunate it is for the middle-aged women to hold both of these personas inside.

I crave a settled life when confronted with all these decisions. But I also am happy that I have had to the chance to experience life on the east coast, the west coast, the midwest, the deep south.  Despite my fears and misgivings about the unknown, I know that I’ll leave this Pacific island with happy memories, even with the unidentified struggles this life may bring.

Whew, I’m tired after all this blathering about decisions to make.  I’m sure I’ve lost any readers except my mom.  I hope to call soon with an address, Mom. The good thing is we have fully adjusted to the time change – it took about 5 days before we weren’t carrying sleeping children from the car to our room after dinner at 7 p.m.  Now they want to stay up watching Discovery channel until 10. This hotel has fewer television channels than any we’ve stayed before.  My favorite is the Japanese language channel for business travelers. I’ve learned you only say “Sayonara” when you are going to be gone a long time. You say “Mata Adote” when you mean “see you later.” So Mata Adote, Mamasan.

Lessons on Seaside Living

Some things we’ve learned in a week on a Pacific Island:

Touching a sea urchin leaves a tattoo on your finger. Flush immediately with hot water.

http://aquaviews.net/wp-content/uploads/2010/10/sea-urchin.jpg

Coral scrapes hurt worse the next day, unless they are flushed immediately with hot water.

Those long blackish lumps dusted with sand are sea cucumbers, not dog dirt. But you still shouldn't step on them.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Holothuroidea_(Sea_cucumber_feeding).jpg

Humbugs are cute little black and white fish that will come up to you and nibble at your fingers and toes.  Nemo should have been a humbug.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dascyllus_melanurus

Picasso triggerfish, on the other hand, are territorial. They will chase a creature 10 times their size away from their chunk of coral. But they are so darn funny looking that they don’t really scare you.

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/10/Rhinecanthus_assasi_1.JPG

If you sit still enough in a pile of rocks along the shore, you might discover a hermit crab nursery. The teensy baby hermit crabs are so minute that you can’t find them unless you study the sand closely and train your eyes to ignore the movement of the ants. Eventually you’ll see dozens of these little guys where before you saw nothing but sand, old shells, and ants.

The novelty of snorkeling still hasn’t worn off. From the hotel balcony, or the beach, or even as you wade in the shallows, the ocean appears green and blue with dark streaks that look like rocks or algae from above. But as soon as you put your head under, a new world appears. Hundreds of brilliant fish have been swimming around your ankles, and you don’t realize it until you’ve got your mask on and peek under the surface. Tiny clicks or snapping noises from the fish feeding on the coral sound thunderous underwater. I can’t believe you can’t hear it from above.  I can’t decide which sight I love more: surprising a particularly colorful bannerfish or Moorish idol or puffer fish from some cave in the coral, or being surrounded by a school of hundreds of iridescent blue fish that look like spangles in the filtered sunlight.  I think they are bluegreen chromis.

The Moorish Idol: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Zanclus_cornutus_in_Kona.jpg

The Pennant Bannerfish or Coralfish:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Pennant_coralfish_melb_aquarium_edit2.jpg

The chromis viridis: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Chromis_viridis_2011.jpg 

Although hotel living quickly becomes cramped and uncomfortable when you don't know how long you are destined to share two rooms with 8 people, including 3 or 4 who think the first thing you do when you reenter the room is to jump from bed to bed, run in the hallway, and fight over the tv remote, I think I will miss early morning snorkeling expeditions and walks along the shore - and having my bed made and trash removed daily - when we do finally move out.

Greetings from Guam

Hafa Adai! – which is Chamorro for hello or greetings from Guam. It is pronounced “half a day” because Guam is half a day ahead of the rest of America . . . As I am posting, it is 7 a.m. on Tuesday, but it should still be Monday afternoon in mainland America.  I'm in the future.  When I started writing thiu post, before getting distracted by swimming, snorkeling, and car and house shopping, it was 4:30 Sunday morning.  A belated Happy Feast of the Assumption! We attended the Church of the Assumption, one of 26 parishes on the island. (There are also 3 military chapels here that celebrate Mass.)  We had heard that each parish has a big fiesta for its patron's feast day, but we were a day late: Assumption's festival was on Saturday. It was a friendly parish, but had perhaps the most garish stations I have ever seen in my life. They were plastic light-ups, like those cheap nightlights, only when lit from behind they revealed rainbow colors. The false eyelashes on the statuary took a little getting used to, also.

In promotional material, Guam is described as “Where America’s Day Begins!” The 14 hour time shift ahead of the people we would want to call on the phone in the continental United States will cut back on our phone conversations, as will the fact that our AT&T phones will not work here, even though we asked twice at the AT&T service center back in the states.  Jet lag has set in, only in our case, it’s jet jump. We’re not lagging; we’re ready to go. At 3:15 a.m. the first day, I woke up to the sound of the 7 and 9 year old chatting out on the hotel room balcony. They were sound asleep at 7:30 the night before, so I guess they had had enough sleep, but we called them in and ordered them back to their beds. Five minutes later, the 7 yr old was saying he couldn’t sleep because he kept dreaming of tidal waves. (I made the mistake of letting the kids watch a show about how the forces of nature change the face of the earth on the Discovery Channel. Footage of the tsunami in Malaysia has seared itself into the 7 yr old’s brain. Nightmares brought him into our bed the first night here, also.) We all laid awake for 45 minutes or so before deciding to take advantage of a couple extra hours.  My husband took the three younger kids down to the basement of the hotel to do laundry, while I tried to collect my thoughts here.

I thought about abandoning this blog altogether while we were on vacation. Maybe all the talking with family and friends took away the need to write anything down. We no longer have a view of Back Bay of Biloxi. But all day yesterday I was thinking “blog post idea . . .” “blog post idea . . .” Since calling home is going to be extremely expensive until we figure out our phone service, this blog can serve as the letter to the family.

So a narrative of our trip and impressions of our first day in Guam: This will not be a travel rant post. Our trip when remarkably smoothly. No trouble dropping off the car to be shipped at the transport station on the Mississippi River. No trouble moving our 36 bags, all marked with duct tape labels, into the hotel in St. Louis just before our flight or out of the hotel the next morning at 4 a.m. No trouble checking 22 of those bags through to Guam. The attendant was exceptionally patient, and the kids were too stupefied with a lack of sleep to complain about the time waiting. They meekly filed through the security lines with their backpacks of traveltainment and other carry-ons. (A couple overnight bags, a bag of snacks, an extra book bag, the top-secret-don’t-lose-on-pain-of-death bag of important papers, a bag with a uniform for my husband in case all the other bags got lost so he could still check in to work.) No one was searched; no bags caused alarm. (Good thing I had double checked them: prior to leaving, I confiscated a slingshot in my 14 yr old’s backpack, and empty shotgun shells and a folding shovel in my 13 yr old’s overnight bag, and stowed them into luggage being checked.) 

No troubles at our transfers in Houston and Honolulu.  The kids slept well on the last leg of the flight from Honolulu to Guam. I don’t think anyone ever said “I’m bored” on the entire 24 hour excursion.  All of our bags, easily identified by their duct tape tags, showed up at the luggage carousel.

I had worried about how to transport our bags from the airport to the hotel here in Guam, and had even checked our cartop cargo bag to attach to our rental minivan when we arrived, but I needn’t have worried because we were met by a big crowd from the wardroom here (and given two other bags with snacks and maps, and very helpfully, laundry detergent). After introductions (I caught a lot of names, but I’m not sure I caught which name goes with which face), we were herded into a couple waiting cars and given a lift to our hotel a few blocks away. Again the shifting of bags took place with ease (thanks to helpful bellhops at both hotels. Now we are just running out of cash for tipping.)

Although it was close to 8 pm in Guam at this time, we were all hungry and eager to get a look at what was outside the door.  So we walked down the block a ways to find a place to eat. My husband had a craving for sushi after hearing about the Japanese influence here. This is apparently a favorite Japanese tourist destination. All the signs in this area are written in both English and Japanese, and some just in Japanese. However, I am beginning to question the taste of Japanese tourists. There is nothing quaint about this part of Guam. The area where we are staying near the airport is called Tumon, and the hotel is right on the beach of Tumon Bay. This area is the most built up on the island. The main drag right outside our hotel is lined with strip mall type development, and lit up brightly with advertisements. 

Last night we turned south out of the hotel to find a place to eat. Just a block away we found a Japanese hibachi grill, but my appetite was lost because on one side of it was a tattoo parlor, on the other side was a massage parlor, and on the floor above it was a night club. My husband, led by his stomach, forged ahead nonetheless. But after we sat down and looked at the menu, we all decided to try someplace else. The family meal, serving 4, was $193. Too rich for me. Just a few steps away was a Jamaican grill that had a family meal, serving 6-8, for $58, so we settled there, and thoroughly enjoyed our taste of island food. The appetizer was a Guam dish: chicken kelaguen, and a pitcher of mango juice came with the meal, as did a fried banana and ice cream desert, so the meal felt celebratory.

On the walk back to the hotel, my legs felt loose, like after a session of yoga. I think all the tension of travelling had left them, and endorphins of relief were happily coursing through my veins.  It didn’t take long to get everyone settled into bed back at the hotel, even though we don’t have much room to maneuver in our two rooms with all the corners stacked with luggage. But I laid awake a long time, agitated by excitement and anxiety. I felt a little trapped by the realization that here we are stuck on an island, and we probably won’t be leaving for a year. A feeling not unlike claustrophobia threatened to keep sleep at bay, but was conquered by repeated rote prayers.

I’d like to say that the next day was entirely glorious. And it began beautifully. The younger kids woke early and headed to the balcony. We joined them there and watched the sun rise over Tumon Bay from our balcony on the 15^th floor (yes, we have caught the kids spitting from on high and have forbidden them to do it again). The sky was dramatic with giant clouds in varying tones of white and gray.  July to November is the rainy season in Guam, and several of the clouds looked like they could hold a downpour. After watching a few people wade into the water down below us, we decided to take the younger kids, who were now turning up their volume, out, so the olders could sleep a little longer. We left a note and headed to the beach. I took a short walk along the waves while my husband swam with the kids.  Resort hotels line the beaches, and a couple wedding chapels also dot the shoreline. Apparently Japanese people come here to marry.  I passed multiple other beach walkers and joggers, most chatting quietly in Japanese. In the bay, a dozen or so outrigger canoes were engaged in a race. From above they had looked like rowing teams, but they used oars, and instead of yelling coxswains in the prows, some of the boats had a drummer beating a deep rhythm to keep time. As I walked to where the beach ended at a rocky cliff, a rainbow appeared over the water. A sign from God?

Back at our spot on the beach, the older kids showed up with our assortment of snorkel gear. For a trip to the Virgin Islands a few years ago, my husband and I had purchased some snorkel equipment, and we picked up a couple other sets before we left Mississippi. The kids had tried them out once or twice in the neighbor’s pool, but no one had much experience with snorkeling. Nonetheless, the four older kids were naturals. They swam around the coral reef a few meters from shore like snorkel pros.  They barely paused from studying the array of tropical fish feeding on the coral to notice a second rainbow, this one double and spanning all across the horizon. I regretted not having a camera, especially when the 7yr old pulled up a bright blue sea star and asked “Is this real?” At first I thought it was a plastic kids’ toy myself because it was hard and such an artificial shade of blue, but it had a fishy odor. The guy at the hotel’s dive shop confirmed it was alive, although it would die quickly if it weren’t back underwater soon.  So we replaced it, and continued to hunt for and find sea life closer to shore until the older kids were finally driven in from the reef by hunger.

After this splendid morning, our lunch excursion was a bit of a downer. Turning north this time out of the hotel, we again were met with advertisements for gentlemen’s clubs and passed by multiple lounges, tattoo shops and massage parlors with names like “Oriental Pearls Massage,” “Joyce Happy Massage,” “Island Grace Relaxing Massage.” Aren’t these types of establishments usually down back alleys and hidden in dark corners? But here is the main drag dotted with these places, right next to Louis Vuitton, Esprit, and Cartier.

My mood sunk more and more as we walked to find a place for lunch that looked child friendly and that wasn’t next door to a nightclub or massage parlor. We passed up Subway and a fancy Burger King, and finally stopped next to a smoothie place near a small amusement park advertising its main attraction: the human slingshot.  The kids were fascinated by the pod attached by bungee cords to telephone pole-sized posts. We couldn’t figure out the price to ride it because the sign with rates was written in Japanese, but judging by the high cost of the smoothies, it probably is an expensive thrill.

After lunch we were given a tour of the base housing options by a couple of the other officers whom Dan had met previously.  There are basically four different housing options spread across the island. And of course, our top two choices have a wait list.  None of the houses is beautiful. Think concrete bunker stained with black mold.  All the construction is designed to be typhoon proof.  We could look for civilian housing, but although the offbase houses come in more colors, they are not any prettier. Short and squat seems to be the style here. Nor does Guam have any cute walkable villages, as far as I can tell. Basically, the island is circumscribed by a main highway, along which you can find small strips of shops and restaurants. The interior of the island is less populated and hilly.  Mango trees and avocados grow wild. Brilliantly hued tropical flowers I don’t recognize are a nice contrast to the uninspired architecture.

After the driving tour, we were treated to a beach party by some of the other Navy families – an instant welcome we haven’t received at any of our other tours of duty.  The party was doused by a cloudburst, but everyone just clustered around the picnic area and kept eating. Apparently showers are so frequent, they don’t stop activities here in Guam. Unless the winds pick up, recreational events are rain or shine. We have been advised to expect frequent power outages, but no tsunamis have hit recently, so here’s hoping the 7 yr old’s nightmares end soon.

Wet and cold after the picnic, we were all ready for bed early. Half the kids were already asleep before we returned from the base to the hotel, a twenty minute drive. I was too tired myself to think much about what our future is going to look like in this place. The natural beauty is breathtaking; the human influence is disappointing. My challenge will be to be inspired by God’s handiwork – both the natural beauty and the human kindness.

Thus ended our first full day in Guam.