What, no muumuus?

When we found out we were moving to Guam, one of the first things to cross my mind was that I needed to go shopping for new clothes. I needed a new swimsuit. I needed new flipflops. I needed a sundress. I needed a muumuu. My mother-in-law lived here in the 60s and mentioned more than once how much she loved the muumuu she found and wore all the time.

See http://normatikadesigns.blogspot.com/2010/08/muu-muu-dress.html for patterns!

So far I haven't seen any muumuus. Lots of colorful sundresses are for sale that could be said to be inspired by muumuus - loose through the body, but fitted up top. But I'm not much of a spaghetti strap wearer. 

Although I’m not a fashion trendsetter myself, I’m not immune to the feminine habit of checking out what other people are wearing. I can appreciate a pretty dress and a nice pair of shoes as well as the next lady.  I admit to falling prey to the temptation to fit in, chameleon-like. I don’t want to be the one who stands out in the crowd.

So the other night, when I had to attend my first spouses’ club event, I had my first clothing crisis since we moved.  I needed a cute muumuu to wear...  I had packed plenty of clothes, and while on the road, I even bought a few of those things: a swimsuit, new sandals, and a couple sundresses – things that said “beach living” - all on sale, of course, or from Goodwill.   

When you are living out of a suitcase, getting dressed usually is relatively easy. And since we only have one car, I haven’t been going out much. But this was one of those events that could require something dressier than shorts and a t-shirt. Choosing my attire was complicated by the fact that I had to leave early to go to a football game at a muddy field.  And since we’re new, I wasn’t sure if Guam fashion was going to be like Virginia where the wives dressed more casually or like Mississippi, where getting done up was a regular event.

Of course, a muumuu isn't really appropriate for a Saturday night dessert and coffee party.  In the back of my mind, I was remembering the advice from the 1968 Welcome to Guam magazine that my mother-in-law shared with me when we were visiting.  This magazine suggested packing gloves and hats for wives’ club functions.  No longer necessary, although I think I miss that more proscribed dress code.

From what I can tell so far, the style here is an interesting mix. When we were staying at the hotel, we were surrounded by Japanese tourists. I couldn’t get enough of checking out the Japanese women’s clothing. They have a recognizable style, but I’m not quite sure how to describe it.  Very feminine. Very lightweight, gauzy type fabrics. They wore mostly skirts or dresses in bright colors or pastels and flirty cuts – ruffles, drapes, bias cuts. Even when they wore pants or shorts, they wore them in a feminine way: body hugging styles, cute shirts and accessories. Then they layered on lightweight sweaters or scarves and leggings in bright hues without regard for other colors they were wearing. Even their shoes were multi-hued.  Since most of them appeared thin and graceful, they seemed to float as they walked. I felt like a clumsy moth around butterflies.

But down on this end of the island, there aren’t a lot of tourists. Clothes are serviceable.  At the Mass on base, the military wives are a shorts, t-shirts, and flipflops crowd. Last Sunday at the nearby Church in town, the older ladies wore a lot of polyester that looked like it had been around a few decades. And the younger ladies had on a lot of polyester that looked like it wouldn’t last more than a few weeks.   Next to flipflops, the most popular shoes were slinky high heels, paired with tight jeans - a vampy look copied even by little girls without any curves to flaunt. 

Not my style. I guess I’ll have to stand out in the crowd if we go back to Mass there.

Of course, at church no one is supposed to be noticing.  Our minds are not supposed to be on the shoes of the people going up to Communion in front of us.  I can't help but think that if we all wore muumuus, we'd hardly notice anyone's shoes. It would be like wearing a habit.

In the tourist area, I assume, one of the main pasttimes is noticing what others are wearing and planning or shopping for clothes for yourself.  Since I’m not much of a shopper, I never bought anything, but I did wonder where the Japanese women bought their clothes, because I didn’t see anything similar in the stores here.

So back to the night in question: I ended up wearing capris and a button-down shirt. Unremarkable – easy to slip out early without being noticed.  The attire of the other ladies varied from shorts and t-shirts to dressy sundresses, but no muumuus, so I shouldn’t have worried about being too casual or too dressy.  The irony is that I haven’t worn those beach-living sundresses that I bought back in Indiana. Although I thought I could recraft an identity, I just don’t feel like myself in those clothes.

I’m always a little frustrated with myself for worrying about clothing. It seems vain or lacking in humility. Why should I care as long as I’m clean and covered up? But on the other hand, we so quickly judge people based on their clothes, and here I am in another new place, wanting to make a good impression.  Maybe I can order one of those engravable circle necklaces with “Do you want to be my friend?” on it.

Happily, I’ve already met a few women whom I like in the neighborhood.  Everyone seems really friendly and welcoming. Maybe because Guam is such a small island, people are especially welcoming to newcomers. Since we’re homeschooling the younger kids again, I’m hesitant to reach out for too many opportunities to socialize anyway.  I’m glad to have the excuse to stay home, even if I don't have a muumuu to wear around the house in the hot weather.  No need to get a new outfit – just wear a friendly smile.  I’m hearing that song from Annie on the soundtrack in my mind.

In which we resume life

Moving is not good for blogs.  

We moved into our new home in the military housing community that is not far from the Navy base after only 12 days in the hotel. I feel a little guilty for how smoothly this overseas thing has gone. I keep hearing stories about months in hotels and lost shipments and trials aplenty, but so far we’ve sailed through this transition.  The housing office brought our loaner furniture, “boonie” furniture, the day we moved in and the next day our advance shipment goods were delivered.  We have beds, two tables and 8 chairs in the kitchen, two small, sturdy couches, two small, sturdy armchairs, two small, sturdy end tables, and an indestructible coffee table. The closets have shelving to organize all the clothes we brought.  The linen closet is serving as a bookshelf for all the books I sent in the advance shipment.  Everyone has one cup to use, a bowl, two plates, and a set of silverware. Housing also loaned a microwave, basic cookware and a few kitchen utensils. I could complain about the small coffeepot, but it prevents  me from overdoing the caffeine.

We’re all set for life to resume.

And slowly, a daily routine has started to take shape.

This housing community is a little like something out of Edward Scissorhands: cookie-cutter homes in two color schemes and about 4 floor plans.  We lucked into one of the larger models that has never been lived in. The walls were immaculate for about 4 hours. The flooring is all tile, which makes for deafening acoustics. And the color scheme is peaches and cream, which gives it a tropical feel, but I’m not sure how our reds and greens will coordinate. Since the paint is all mold resistant, we are not allowed to repaint, so we’ll make do.  Judging by the few houses I’ve seen inside, no one is competing for coverage in Better Homes and Gardens around here, so our hodgepodge won’t be an impediment to entertaining.

For a week we were without internet, phone or television service.  The kids played cards and rode their bikes up and down the street trolling for friends.  And they were successful. Kids are lurking everywhere. Surprisingly few play in the streets like mine; they must be entertained by their toys inside or their electronic devices.  I could hope they are reading. They show up at the playground in small bunches after school, and they sometimes scooter around the cul-de-sacs.  They show up in droves when the ice cream truck, something I thought we might escape, slugs through the neighborhood.

I spent most of the first week rearranging the garden. Since these houses are all new, the landscaping is pretty fresh also. My neighbor told me that the contractors were required to plant 35 foundation plants. Each house is a variation on the same theme. I’m not sure of the names of the tropical plants, but they are mostly vivid foliage plants.  The concept of setting out the landscaping is attractive, but what the grounds crew did was plant everything in straight lines with little regard to height or color. So I had bright green low growing flame plants behind tall reddish croton like plants.  One of our first purchases was a shovel, so I could move stuff around. The impetus behind the do it now, besides the fact that I had nothing better to do, was that the neighbor across the street is getting ready to move in a couple weeks, so she was giving away all her potted plants.  Not only was I blessed by her generosity, but I also found out that the housing authority also gives out $10 vouchers for new plants once a month. So we have planted a lemon tree and a Barbados cherry, some herbs in pots, and some colorful flowering plants in the front of the walkway.  Then my middle son brought home from some vacant lot a small banana tree and a young papaya tree. They are looking a little wilty right now, but I’m hoping they are just suffering transplant shock and will revive soon. After a hiatus from gardening at our rental home in Mississippi, I’m looking forward to seeing what we can nurse along here.

We ourselves are recovering from transplant shock, also. We’ve met the neighbors, started school, added some event s to the calendar drawn on sketch paper until our real calendar arrives with the rest of our household goods.  I am both dreading and desiring this event.  I will be happy to see our blender to make smoothies out of the bruised jungle fruit the kids bring home.  I will be happy to see our computer and printer, so I don’t have to hunch over the tiny netbook anymore. I will be happy to see our 12 cup coffee pot.  But the toys, the clutter, the random bins of stuff to keep in closets for holidays, the books with no place to sit, … they can all stay on the ship a few more weeks.

And I admit I will be happy to see our big car. I have complained about driving that hulking vehicle since we bought it 7 or 8 years ago, but I miss having seatbelts for everyone in the family when we go out.

While we’ve suffered some minor inconveniences, it’s been a pleasure to live a life with minimal belongings and responsibilities for the past couple of weeks.  The kids seem to have been more sociable with each other.  I don’t feel rushed to cook fast meals because of sports or meetings after dinner, nor obligated to make anything fancy that requires more than a stockpot or a skillet.  We’ve read more together in the evenings and haven’t had too many fights over who is cheating in Life or Clue.  I admit I have been making lists of things I want to buy for the house, mostly storage items, area rugs, and my own indestructible coffee table, but there aren’t a lot of shopping options, other than buying things like utility shelves off my neighbor as she figures out what she doesn’t want to move. I feel a little sorry I myself gave away a similar item, along with a couple cute kids’ carpets, in some move or another, but I’ll either find something to make do or make do without eventually. I’m giving myself pep talks to be ruthless in giving away more when our stuff arrives, so we can make do with less, even though my natural – or inherited – instincts are to hold onto things to prevent just such a scenario from happening again. 

I don’t want to give up the freedom of having little to dust or clean, or give in to the tyranny of a schedule full of practices and meetings.  On the other hand, I found out this week that preparation for Confirmation and First Communion start this weekend.  My two older sons will both be in Confirmation class, and the youngest son will be a First Communicant in the spring.  I had thought we might go to church out in town, but the acoustics at the nearest church and a language barrier at another parish nearby are conspiring to make the chapel on base an attractive alternative.  Add to the list of things to do, daily requests from 2/3rds of the kids to play soccer.  The oldest made the travel football squad and came home from his first away game covered in claylike mud that does not want to be removed from the synthetic fibers of the jersey even though I’ve washed it 3 times with 3 different soaps, despite the wonderful new washing machine.. (Oxyclean has been defied!)  And I admit that I am a joiner. I want to get involved in the action somehow too.

Ironically, being busy might be better for my blog, since I won’t be as tempted to while away time outside looking at the garden, walking to the park, watching the sunset.  

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.