Fish Lake

The Very Happy Ending to a Very Bad Day

File under:  Never, ever again.

I'm not sure whether we are filing departing for a transcontinental flight any time after first thing in the morning or filing transamerican travel itself. Perhaps, both.

In any event, our day started with an e-mail telling us our 3:30 p.m. flight from West Palm Beach to Dallas would be delayed an hour. Okay, no big deal. We had a two-hour layover in Dallas we were planning to use to grab dinner. That layover was now only an hour, and our dinner plan switched to whatever passed for an in-flight snack box on our connecting flight from Dallas to Spokane. 

When we arrived to check-in for our flight at PBI -- after dropping off our rental car -- we discovered the flight had been further delayed, partially due to weather, we think -- severe thunderstorms had plagued the South Florida afternoons every day of our visit -- partially due to a shortage of air traffic controllers. We would miss our connecting flight to Spokane entirely. 

At the gate agents encouragement, we decided to take a later flight on Alaska Airways out of Fort Lauderdale direct to Seattle.  From there we could catch a 10:15 p.m. flight to Spokane. Without knowing exactly how we were going to get five people and nine suitcases -- including two bike boxes -- an hour south to Fort Lauderdale -- we took the bait and re-ticketed our flight. I immediately ran downstairs to the car rental desk, explaining to the woman there I just turned in an extended Chevy Suburban and I needed it back. 

Fortunately, they hadn't checked it in yet and agreed to give it back to us. We reloaded everyone and everything and headed south on I-95. 

We hit a few spots of congestion but reached FLL relatively unscathed. Only to find out the Alaska flight, too, had been delayed. We would miss the last flight out of Seattle. Left with little choice, we checked in for the flight, and Elise started working the phones. Her brother kindly volunteered to drive south from Everett and pick us up at Sea-Tac and provide us shelter for the night, complete with a metal lunch box full of snacks and travel-size deodorants. A true knight in shining armor. 

A new dinner plan then emerged, Rocco's Tacos, Terminal 1, Concourse C. An IPA and brisket nachos were one of the finest meals we had to date in the States and were a salve on travel anxieties. As we waited for the food, I spied a familiar face leading a wheeled carry-on through the restaurant. 

Serendipitously, we ran into Laura and Greg Bennett. I swam with Laura in high school at the North Palm Beach Country Club, and we were close when she was at the U.S. Olympic Training Center in Colorado Springs and I was living in Boulder, as she was just beginning to begin her professional career in triathlon. I remember her telling me about this guy she thought was cute, an Aussie also on the circuit, her future training partner and husband. (Among other accolades, Laura would go on to place fourth at the London Olympics.)

As promised, when we arrived at Sea-Tac, bleary-eyed and exhausted -- no luggage, clean underwear, or toothbrushes -- Dan was there to meet us, whisking us off in the dead of night and seeing us tucked into cozy beds for a few hours of much-needed and precious sleep. 

I woke the next morning to find Elise snuggling with her two-month old niece, and it suddenly clicked into place. The entire ordeal had been cleverly crafted by Elise so she could get her mittens on her baby niece a week ahead of schedule. Of course, not even Elise could have premeditated such an inauspicious sequence of events, but I wouldn't have blamed her if she did, it made for the happiest of endings to an otherwise thoroughly unpleasant day. 

The $16 Tuna Fish Sandwich

Returning to the United States after so long overseas is always a little disorienting. 

At the top of our to-do list is buy sim cards for the summer. Inevitably, this errand leads to interesting conversations as we try to explain to the salesperson at AT&T why we only need cell service for a month or two. There was the time, several years ago, when we told the salesperson we had just returned from India. 

"Oh, yeah? What were you all doing in Indiana?"

"Not Indiana. India."

The young man who helped us this year had never heard of Sri Lanka. Elise told him it was a small island nation off the southern tip of India, but we're not sure he knew where India was either. He lived in Port St. Lucie, and never left the PSL (pronounced the "pizzle") until he drove an hour or so south to work in Jupiter.  

He seemed to think it necessary to describe the comfort of knowing a place, a feeling that needed no explanation. We're familiar with what we have sacrificed by living overseas, the opportunity cost, if you will. We see and are exposed to a lot but never grow roots deep enough to be, firmly, in any one place, roots that spread, penetrate, and connect one to a community, place, or home. Like grass, we grow no roots, knowing every few years we gave to rip ourselves from a place we have come to think of as home. 

He did express an interest in moving to Canada, though, when we shared we'd be going there later in the summer. And maybe that was our good deed for the day. To inspire this boy who had never left his small, Florida town or been any where, really, to spread his wings and fly. 

I think often of the choice we have made -- and the cost that comes with it.  For those who never leave their small town, a life of overseas adventure sounds exotic and romantic. For those who live in many different countries and cultures, a life in one small town sounds comfortable and quaint. The grass is always greener. I wish we could have it both ways. 

Also, near the top of the summer to-do list is engage in some retail therapy. The kids are growing fast and, seemingly, constantly in need of new clothes. 

We picked Elise up from a hair appointment in Juno and headed to the outlet stores. She missed lunch, so we ducked into Toojay's delicatessen to grab her a quick bite to eat. After perusing the menu, I asked the woman behind the counter if we could just order a tuna fish sandwich. She said of course. No problem.  Wheat or white? Lettuce and tomato okay? Dill spear? Cole slaw on the side? 

That'll be $16 dollars. 

I was too stunned to do anything except slowly tug my wallet out of my back pocket, then even more slowly unfold it, and even more slowly still pull my credit card from it. 

Had we not been so shocked, I think we would have given thebl sandwich back to the woman with a polite, "No, thank you." The sandwich wasn't on the menu, so there was no way to know in advance how much it was going to cost, nor would any reasonably sane person have any reason to believe a tuna fish sandwich on wheat would cost that much. As it was, the price made it difficult to enjoy the sandwich. Despite telling ourselves my mom -- a huge Toojay's fan who always had a plastic tub of Toojay's tuna fish salad, carrot raisin salad, or potato salad in the fridge -- would have wanted us to have the sandwich. 

A day or two later, Peter convinced me to drive him to Target in torrential rain to buy a Transformer. As we made our way to the toy section, a woman stepped in front of me and asked me who my home internet provider was. 

I initially didn't realize she worked there, because she wasn't wearing the customary red apron, but it didn't take me long to realize she was trying to sell me something. I didn't know what to say, because the truth was too complicated and would take too long to explain. In a panic, I thought of lying and saying I didn't have home internet, but that would be barely believable, would have led to even more probing questions, or been perceived as rude; of course you have home internet. EVERYONE has home internet. 

I panicked and said I don't live in America. Not quite untrue, but then she asked, "Oh yeah, where are you visiting from?" To which I finally had to admit I just was here to buy my son a Transformer.

We ended up not finding one he wanted, but I shudder to think how much that -- or new home internet-- would have cost. 

Sand Bar Boat Picnic

Wide, Open Spaces

America is a country of continental proportions. Spacious skies, amber waves of grain, the fruited plain, and the distance between one shining sea to the other. The enormity of the land is one of the distinguishing topics of the anthem "America the Beautiful". 

So, little wonder I feel a little agoraphobic upon my return to the States after living on a tiny island in the Indian Ocean for the past four years. 

We landed in Florida, and everything seems so...spread out. If nothing else, America has space. It may be one reason qualms over sprawling development are mostly muted. (And don't even get me started on golf courses, black holes sucking up space, water, and resources over hundreds of acres so the privileged white male elite can have their tee times.)

Elise and the kids slept through the final meal service on our 15 and a half-hour flight from Doha to Miami. It took us two and a half hours to go through immigration, collect our seven suitcases and two bike boxes, and pick up the biggest rental car Alamo had available, a gigantic, boat-like extended Chevy Suburban that bobs down the interstate as though cresting rolling swells. They were hungry as soon as we pulled out of MIA. We stopped at a McDonald's drive-thru in Hollywood. As we waited for the attendant to bring us our food, I gazed upon a 20,000 square foot PetsSmart surrounded by acres of empty asphalt, a temple to consumption. I was struck by the amount of space dedicated to commercialism. 

Materialism and the accumulation of goods is, seemingly, a central tenet of Americanism. I realize we need things, and pets need things, too, but do we really need 1,600 Petsmart locations in North America at 20,000 square feet a store? That's 32 million square feet of chew toys and cat food. Not counting the parking lots, drive ways, landscaping, and rain retention. And before Petsmart's legal team comes after me, I don't mean to pick on this one retailer; Petco and Pet Supermarket are also fine examples, as well as hundreds of other big box stores. 

These buildings are modern temples to mercantilism. This particular shopping center even had doric columns like the Parthenon. Developers and retailers aren't dumb; shopping centers are designed to separate shoppers from their disposable income in the most efficient, comfortable way possible. This means wide, easy-to-navigate aisles, acres of parking, and lights that obfuscate the night sky for miles around. It struck me as just a monumental waste of space. 

The accumulation of material possessions seems a primary preoccupation of many Americans. We drive from our suburban oases, down wide eight-lane divided highways filled with luxury SUVs, stopping and staring across intersections as wide as the Great Salt Lake, bodies of asphalt so expansive you can just see the opposite shore, to park in seas of cars. 

I know people need stuff, but there's got to be a better way. 

Instead of bigger, wider, and broader, shopping centers should now be smarter. Most shopping centers are designed with enough parking to accommodate the busiest shopping days of the year, so there are enough spaces for everyone on Black Friday or the last few days before Christmas. For the other 360 days, these spaces largely sit unoccupied. What if parking lots were half or a quarter their present size? Mass transit could be put into action for the busiest days, bringing shoppers in from convenient community collection points. Or the parking lots could be sodded with grass for 360 days and parked on for the other five busiest days when extra parking is needed. 

Grocery stores could also be a half or a quarter the size and just have produce, meat departments, a deli, and bakery. No dry goods. Dry goods are all ordered online and delivered directly to your house. A box of Cheerios is the same everywhere, but a mango bought in Florida may be different than a mango bought in Minnesota, and, in both cases, you'd want to see, feel, smell, and squeeze the mango before committing to it. 

Most developers completely raze sites before building a shopping center. In Florida, on lots with dense vegetation, large canopy trees are uprooted and replaced with pencil-thin palms, not quite a one-for-one carbon trade. The palms are chosen because they are less of a liability in a major wind storm, but mostly because the facade of the shopping center is more visible through skinny coconut palms than a stand of oaks. But do we really need to see a shopping center? If you don't already go there almost everyday anyway, then you're probably navigating there by Google Maps. Keep the lush forest in front. Save a tree. Be kind to Mother Earth. 

I'm hopeful my reverse culture shock will wear off in a few more days, and I'll stop stumbling around, mouth agape, amazed by the vastness of stores and selection. Full assimilation comes when I am no longer impressed by the variety of Pop Tarts on grocery store shelves. 

Fishing with Jidu

Big Feelings

Clementine's promotion ceremony marking her completion of the primary year's program and movement up to the middle year's program.  

Pack Out.

Peter's leaving assembly. 

Clementine was awarded the Presidential Silver Award for Academic Achievement, one of three individual awards presented at the primary school end of year assembly.  Couldn't be more proud of her. 

Clementine leaving assembly. 

My Friend Ashok

Last week, Elise accused me of not having any friends. I'm not exactly sure how this came up, but it is, I think, largely true. 

There's a lot of emotion around out leaving Sri Lanka, a place we have lived for four years, longer than we have lived anywhere as a family, longer than Brazil, India, Jordan, or even the United States, a place that kept us safe during the pandemic, provided safe haven and shelter, and a place where we shared the experience, alongside millions of Sri Lankans, of an economy collapsing and a society bottoming out. But not a lot of that emotion comes from me. (Or Clementine, for that matter.) 

I rhetorically ask Elise if she thinks it would do us much good if I was an emotional wreck. I mean, someone has to keep this train on the emotional rails, make sure we're chugging out of the station on schedule with all the cars coupled together. 

Her observation is largely accurate, and it got me to thinking why that might be. When I think back on the friendships I had -- not only while growing up, but also stretching into college and the first, formative, post-college years -- I remember those friendships as mostly damaging. It seems as though Sam (maybe more so than Peter) has genuine friends, people who like being around him, care about him, thinks he's funny and genuine. I didn't know anyone like that. My friends were hurtful and manipulative. Not across the board, of course. I can think of good friends, but not more than I can count on one hand, and I wonder if that experience traumatized me in such a way to steer me away from wanting to spend time and energy making new friends or forging new relationships, knowing that, on some level, it was a form of self-harm. 

When I started my current job in 2010, I did meet new people and make new friends. The nature of the work keeps us all moving, arriving and departing frequently, often under the curtain of night, but we share a unique lifestyle, a way of living few can identify with, and that draws us closer together. Of course, the frequent movement means we're rarely in the same place at the same time, so most of these connections eventually become virtual, making it impossible to meet over a beer on a Saturday night.  

But I don't miss not having anyone to grab a beer with. In that sense, Elise and the kids have always been enough for me. Though I know a sense of social fulfillment is essential to overall health and wellness, I've never felt malnourished in this aspect of my life. 

Last week, when I went to go look at a house to potentially add as a new residence in our corporate housing pool, the last thing I was looking for was to meet anyone new. With only two weeks remaining in Sri Lanka, now was not the time to start a new friendship, but, inevitably, it always works out this way; you meet the coolest people right before you leave. 

The owner of the house introduced himself as Ashok, a writer by profession, a fact I was drawn to as -- during different periods of my life -- describing myself as having been an aspiring writer, continuing to be a struggling writer, and having an unrequited love for writing. We chatted as we toured the house and the surrounding garden, discussing the challenges of running in the city and motorists disdain for pedestrians and crosswalks (which he refered to as 'zebra stripes'), and I left letting him know we loved the house and my staff would follow up with his realtor. 

A few days later, I received an email from Ashok Ferry, a Sri Lankan author of seven novels, five of which have been nominated for the Gratiaen Prize, Sri Lanka's highest literary award, founded by Michael Ondaatje. His latest novel, The "Unmarriageable Man" won the Gratiaen Prize in 2021, and his book, "The Ceaseless Chatter of Demons", was also longlisted for the DSC Prize for South Asian literature. 

He told me he was leaving for London the next day, but perhaps we could meet for tea when he returned later in June. We'll be gone by the time he returns to Sri Lanka, but maybe -- just maybe -- if we had met sooner, we would have been friends. 

Driver 8

Every once in awhile, I'll hear a song with lyrics that seem particularly relevant to the moment. This is how the soundtrack of our lives is crafted. You hear a love song when you're in love or hear a sad song when someone close to you has passed. The song becomes inextricably linked to that moment in the soundtrack of memories.  

Last year, during the economic crisis, when the country had shut down, Jose Gonzalez's song "Stay Alive" (written by Ryan Adams and Teddy Shapiro) spoke to the moment:

"There's a rhythm and rush these days

Where the lights don't move and the colors don't fade

Leaves you empty with nothing but dreams

In a world gone shallow

In a world gone lean

"Sometimes there's things a man cannot know

The gears won't turn and the leaves won't grow

There's no place to run and no gasoline

Engine won't turn and the train won't leave

Engines won't turn and the train won't leave

"I will stay with you tonight

Hold you close 'til the morning light

In the morning watch a new day rise

We'll do whatever just to stay alive"

The country had, literally, run out of fuel, and the trains had stopped running, and the period did seem to call for a special kind of perseverance and faith that we could get through each day. (I thought I remembered a line in there, too, about the sun still coming up even when it's raining, but that must have been from another song or a line I made up in my head.)

More recently, as we prepare to leave Sri Lanka in a week and a half, the lyrics of R.E.M.'s "Driver 8" stick in my ear:

"The walls are built up stone by stone

The fields divided one by one

"And the train conductor says

Take a break, Driver 8

Driver 8, take a break

We've been on this shift too long

"And the train conductor says

Take a break, driver 8

Driver 8, take a break

We can reach our destination

But we're still a ways away, but it's still a ways away

"I saw a treehouse on the outskirts of the farm

The power lines have floaters so the airplanes won't get snagged

The bells are ringing through the town again

The children look up, all they hear is sky-blue bells ringing"

I've always loved the line, "The power lines have floaters so the airplanes won't get snagged" and often wondered if that's really the reason the power lines have floaters (and also love that they're called 'floaters') or if it's just something Michael Stipe made up. 

The Conductor is pulling a reluctant Driver 8 from his shift, telling him he's done enough and they can make it the rest of the way without him at the front of the train. Driver 8 isn't ready to relinquish control; he thinks -- perhaps mistakenly, delirious, a function of his exhaustion -- they're not close enough to the end. Without having an overinflated sense of my own self-worth, through the pandemic and the economic crisis, there were days it felt like I carried the weight of the office on my shoulders. But those days have passed, and it's time for me to go. 

They can reach their destination.