The Road to 40: Month 3

This post is late because on April 1 (when I normally would have made the update), I was stuffing myself senseless on Italian food in Bologna, Italy. My visit to Italy was a cheat day that happened to last 168 hours. Into my gullet went a dozen different hams, tortellinis packed with bursts of goodness, freshly-made tagliatelle in a winey, creamy, rich ragu; light airy ricotta, jazzy artichokes; pungent and sharp parmesan cheese, surreal gelato, and each culinary symphony accompanied by a bubbly and refreshing Prosecco or Lambrusco. Consequences? Yes. Guilt? No.

Weight: up .6kg
Pants size: Same    Belt notch: same   Pants feeling: Snug

This last week, the trips to the gym have had a dual purpose. One, I've needed to rid myself of the toxins of indulgence. After a 45 minute step machine session on the first day back, I swear I exuded a deli-like aroma. I know I should be "making up" the lost time, but I've kept the same routine. I tell myself a half-assed or 70%-assed workout is better than a no-assed workout, but I don't know if it's true and I don't want to google it.

Not only have I needed to burn away the evidence  of sampling culatello ham that had cured beautifully for 24 months, I've had to combat an especially dark and draining bout of depression. I think if anything had gone awry on the Monday morning after the holiday, such as not having milk for coffee, missing the bus, or finding the copy machine broken, I would have dropped to the floor like a wet sack of laundry and remained there until someone carted me out. As it turned out, the day was fine, classes were fine, gym was fine, dinner was fine. But mentally, I did not feel so fine.

But with each subsequent workout, run, and productive teaching day, the pit of despair closed a bit more and as I type this, I feel more or less my usual self--somewhere between Sylvia Plath and Rose Nylan. So what the hell was the problem?

Because I don't have kids, pets, political causes, a garden, or houseplants to take my attention outside of myself, I have a lot of extra time to get stuck inside. Lately, I've become more hyper-aware of the passing of time. When I lived in Thailand, time didn't seem to pass because I wasn't working a lot, there was no changing of seasons to mark the time, and nothing about my life situation felt permanent because it wasn't. Now, the days whiz by and I'm physically assaulted in my chest with the knowledge that there won't be enough time. Not enough time to see all of the world, not enough time to see everyone I miss, not enough time to learn some new trade, not enough time to eat in every restaurant or drink in every pub (if I had a 100 years ahead of me, there wouldn't be enough time for that in Dublin!); not enough time to try every recipe; not enough to read every book, see every film; not enough time.

Am I dying and some part of me knows it? Am I having a mid-life crisis? Should I buy a plant?

I could write something about how I'm learning to "live in the moment" but actually, I think that idea is a load of bollocks. If I didn't have any regard for the future, I would just drink wine or Guinness all day and eat arepas. And yes, I should be more "grateful for the little things" though I do love the small and free random things like Dublin clouds and listening to seagulls, even if they steal snacks from my hand as I walk down the street. I need something more meaningful than platitudes and I feel it's there right on the tip of my tongue. Perhaps I need to quit confusing my tongue with sparkling wines and succulent ham in order to find it.

The Road to 40: Month 2

Well let's cut to the chase. As of today, the following is true:

Weight: Exactly the same as last time. Down to the .4 kg.
Pants size: Same. Belt notch: Same. Body shape: Mostly the same.

I've decided there are many possible explanations for this.

1) The scale is wrong and shows 76.4 kg for every person who stands on it, including the lithe and curvy Brazilians and the even more diminutive 5ft Korean girls.

2) My body, having been used to living in tropical climes, is hording fat in fear that winter will never end and I may starve. A kind body, that.

3)  Fat, that light fluffy stuff creating tiny dimples under the skin, is being converted to that heavy, hard stuff called muscle.

4) I am somehow magically eating the exact same number of calories I am burning, therefore not gaining or losing any weight.

5) I totally suck at this.

The explanation that I'm going with is a combination of 3 and 4. I've been mostly consistent with the regime of alternating morning runs and afternoons of cardio, free weight exercises, and planking. I may be completely deluding myself, but the jiggly areas do seem a bit less jiggly. I can see the top of my rib cage and I can tell a bit better where muscles in my arms begin and end.

Ah, food. My muse and my monkey. On the positive side, I've cut out a lot of garbage like biscuits (cookies in American English), chocolate bars, pastries, and cake. For snacks, I eat more nuts, hummus, fruit, etc. I cook dinner 6 days a week, using all fresh ingredients. But what can you do when your sweet Korean student offers you a chocolate moon pie at the bus stop?? Or when you've had too many pints and the only thing open is the chipper? Or your husband feels like he can't face the next day if he doesn't have pizza?

I was reminiscing today about my weight loss attempts in my 20s. How many of those disgusting, non-filling Lean Cuisine meals did I eat? Will I get cancer from all those medallions of mystery meat? There is absolutely no way that I'm going to stop cooking (and eating) natural, quality food. But as I said in my post last month, I need to do better with portion control. So I think in general I'm eating better calories but still too many. Some food scientists say that eating 800 calories worth of salad and nuts is better than 800 calories of crisps because your body uses more energy to process the salad and nuts than the crisps. But it probably doesn't really matter if really you should only be taking in 300 calories.

One thing I've realized is that any lifestyle change must be maintainable and sustainable. This is why I no longer dye my hair or pluck my eyebrows. There's no way I can keep up with the maintenance. So I was a bit wary when I joined the gym. I actually hate the free weights part of my health regime. Oh God, is it boring. Lift your arm 10 times. Squat 10 times. Rest. Repeat 3 times. Try not to make eye contact with any other people doing the same thing. But I can maintain this because it is only 30 minutes out of my day. 30 minutes less reading or watching TV. And I save my most interesting podcasts just for this bit of torture. Or I daydream about my next life. Or whatever. It's doable.

So my mood today is "feck what the scale says" because after a session of 40 minute cardio and sets of free weight exercises or a 10k fun, I feel freaking fantastic. And that's the real point.

Typed after a decadent meal of Chinese take out..........

The Road to 40: Month 1

In a status update at the end of last year, I wrote that in 2013, I had become a wife, runner, and resident of an English-speaking country. What I didn't write was that these three things had made me feel permitted to consume everything in sight. I didn't just "let myself go", I let myself go berserk, packing on pounds by stuffing my face with all that a Western country has to offer: fish&chips, cheese, pizza, bread, actual beef, sausages, chocolate yule tide logs, etc. And even though I usually cooked healthy meals full of vegetables and all natural ingredients, I ate enough for 2 or 3 people, giving myself permission because I run 4 days a week.

So January 1 arrived and with it, the awareness that in exactly 6 months I would crest the big hill of 40 before starting the downward slide. But rather than feel depressed and anxious about this milestone, I felt inspired to see it as a challenge and opportunity. I don't know where it came from. I really did just wake up one day and feel that way. The first thing I had to do was decide what my goals were and then make them realistic and measureable.

The thing I'm more afraid of than my life being one giant waste is that I'll get cancer. I convince myself that every weird twinge, pain, or weird mark is cancer and that I'll have months to live. More than anything I want to live a long pain free life. I want my body to feel good and be able to fight against any of the damage caused by living in China, genetics, and my 20s. Having low stress, good health, and a strong social network are some factors that prevent that terrible disease. Low stress, check. Strong social network, not so much. Ok, let's tackle health then.

had not yet mastered setting the camera to take self pic

Setting a specific weight goal was a bit tricky because I grew up with someone who definitely has a textbook case of body dysmorphia and I didn't want to have the same fixation and perpetual dissatisfaction with both how I perceive myself to look and the numbers. In fact because of this fear, I hadn't stepped on a scale in years and barely looked at myself from the waist down. After getting on the scale this month, I know I'm not that overweight and maybe not overweight at all. My BMI (body mass index) is 24 and according to WebMD, 25 is overweight. After a fair bit of looking at various health websites and soul-searching, I decided on one aspect of the Road to 40 Plan.

Weight as of Jan 1: 167 lbs (76kg)
Pants size: 12 (14 UK)
Weight Goal: 150-155 lbs, pants size 10.
Reduce ostrich stomach.

self-taken mug shot January 6.

To lose one pound a week, I need to take in about 250 fewer calories and burn 250 extra. I run about 4 times a week, each run is about 9km and 50 minutes. This probably burns about 400-500 calories. But rather than do more running, I decided that I needed to work on my entire body and not just the few muscle groups used in running. And a stronger body burns more fat and yadayadadadyadada. So I joined a gym that is about 2 blocks from my apt. And lord help me, paid to have someone torture me a few times so I could learn how to torture myself. The Sadist (a.k.a. Dean) is an incredibly knowledgeable young lad with various degrees and accolades who believes strongly in weight training and something evil called planking to work The Core. After the first session, I couldn't walk for 4 days, but my body is beginning to relent and just go with it. In fact, my body seems to really be enjoying it like its got some kind of Stockholm Syndrome.

Exercise Goal: do the workout Dean taught me M,W,F with a bit of cardio thrown in. Keep running on T,Th, S mornings.

I also set intellectual/creative goals when 2014 rolled in and one of these was to approach my love of cooking in a systematic way and learn basic techniques and classic recipes as well as practice the more difficult dishes of European and Asian cuisine. I have been a rock star at this goal (the posts are braising in my mind as I type) but creating (and enjoying the creations) is in direct conflict with my weight goal. I've been cooking things like standing rib roasts, legs of lamb, shepherd's pie, cannelloni in béchamel sauce topped with cheese, braised pork belly and apples, various risottos, kofte platters, French onion soup, Spanish omelettes, real Bolognese sauce, Thai bbq ribs, a ton of different curries, and so so many more.

my unorganized pantry

Eating less is my biggest challenge. I love food. I can barely remember any of the museums, temples, and UNESCO heritage sites I've seen in the last 8 years, but I can remember EVERY great meal: the flavours, textures, and smells, the setting, my mood, etc. So I'm not going to give up good food and start eating a grilled chicken breast with a side of steamed vegetables. But I need to do portion control and cut out processed desserts (someone please tell my husband to stop buying chocolate cookies and lemon cheesecake!), and eat naughty food (pizza, pub food, Chinese take out) less frequently.

Food goal: Experiment with vegetarian dinners 2-3x a week, fish 1x a week. Make less food and/or immediately put some in a container for next day's lunch. Go out for dinner only 1x a week.

It's February 1 and some goals are on track while some are definitely not. In my defence, I didn't actually start until January 6 when I went back to work and there were those four days I was out for the count due to my inability to move my legs, but I could do better and shall.

Weight loss goal: 0 lost, pants size the same. Ostrich stomach still in place.
Exercise goal: about 75%. I cheated and finished workouts early a couple of times. Running is on track.
Food goal: FAIL. I've been cooking much healthier meals but I still eat too much of them in one sitting and my cheat day often turns into a 2 day binge fest.

However, I do feel something going on internally. I have more energy and just simply feel better.

I'm writing this post mostly because I believe that "saying it out loud will make it more real" and will keep me from cheating and just going back to old habits. But as I write it, I'm thinking about how people will react, so let me just say to the critics that are in my head: I  know I'm lucky that I don't have kids, that I only work about 30 hours a week, and that I have the extra income to stock my pantry with exotic spices and fresh veggies and meat. I know I don't have that difficult of a road to travel. But it's my road and I just want to document what happens. That is all.

Why I Retired from the Grammar Policeforce

One of my favourite grammar memories involves beer and a sharpie. My best girlfriend and I were at our local, drinking $2 pitchers of Bud Light on a Friday after work. We both noticed that in the bathroom, someone had written, "Where my bitches?". We could not let this travesty pass, so wrote under, "Where's your verb?" to which some genius replied, "Where my bitches at?" It was a magical moment, one we were able to relive every Friday as we voided our bladders of cheap swill.

So this title may seem strange coming from someone who corrects graffiti in dive bars, who studied English at university and has been teaching its finer points for the last 18 years. And even stranger from someone who is required to specifically teach grammar 10 hours a week.

I used to get riled up by the incorrect use of your/you're and the abuse of other homophones. Using "less" before a countable noun once made me batty. I delighted in the uproarious results when the Oxford comma wasn't used. And I cared a great deal when people threw out a flippant "I could care less".

There was a time I could spend hours debating the finer points of grammar such as the subtle difference in meaning between "He likes to dance" and "He likes dancing" or how to add a tag question to "He must have had a good time.".

But then I became an ESL teacher and found that I was overjoyed if a student could use "you're" and "your" at all. A typical  exchange with an elementary level  student can go something like this:

Me: Who do you live with?
Student: Your family.
Me: You live with my family? (pointing to myself and then pointing to the student) No, your family.
Student: Yes, your family.

And it will go on for ages like a 'Who's on First?' sketch.

Once upon a time in graduate school, I spent hours in a classroom debating the nuances of grammar that matter to about 11 people and then later writing papers about it. I regarded English as both an art and a science and revelled in its complexity and intricacy.

I remember very distinctly the white hot anger I felt when my Thai colleagues had typos on their English grammar tests. I felt it was an injustice to the language and an insult to the English majors. I spoke passionately to them about how careful and thorough they should be when using MY language. As if it were a Faberge egg that would break at the first lack of subject-verb agreement. Every time they forgot or misused the particle in a phrasal verb ("wait me downstairs"; "take care yourself"; "pass away the salt"), I cringed and felt a piece of the egg stab me in the heart.

                                        

But over time, though I still enjoyed a grammar challenge, I lightened the hell up (notice my use of a phrasal verb, but what is "the hell"? Not an object. Adverb? Does anyone care?). If I were to get annoyed at every grammar mistake I encountered on a daily basis, I would need therapy (notice my correct use of the subjunctive there). For my own sanity, I had to make the transition from always seeing right and wrong to analysing what is most important to survival in an English speaking country or when dealing with English speakers. Survival rests solely on the ability to communicate and be understood and not necessarily on correctly placing a preposition or even using the correct preposition, for that matter. And let's be honest. English is a difficult language filled with exceptions to most rules. To correct EVERY mistake a student makes in writing or speaking (especially mistakes with grammar points they haven't learned) would be a soul-crusher for them. So at times, I've had to put the Grammar Police badge aside and focus on the fundamentals of the language they need most.

                           

A major difference between Grammar Me now and Grammar Me then is that I no longer see every rule in English grammar as having equal weight. And I no longer feel my blood boil when I see mistakes, especially those that don't impact the overall meaning. I can calmly and coolly point out the error without stabbing the paper with my correcting pen. One topic that carries a lot of weight in speaking and writing is verb tense. Consider the question, "How long you stay in Thailand?". I heard this question a dozen times a week and I always had to go through the long difficult process of extracting the meaning from the nice person who was just trying to have small talk. "Do you mean how long have I stayed in Thailand so far or do you mean how long am I going to stay from this point forward?" It was maddening and I always felt like an asshole afterwards. Or when a student feels they need to maintain the same verb tense throughout a written paragraph. "My sister was born in 1979. Her name was Lisa". What? She's dead? I'm so sorry.

                                   

Now don't get me wrong. I do teach all the grammar rules that are appropriate at any given level, of course. At the elementary level, students learn basic verb tenses, subject-verb agreement, correct use of articles, prepositions of place and time, etc.  At the more advanced levels, students study more complex grammar like 3rd conditional sentences (If I had known the level of English I would be teaching, I would have never studied for a Masters degree.); negative adverbials (Hardly had I opened the wine, when the dinner started burning.); cleft sentences (What Tom hopes to do is never talk about correct grammar again.); participle clauses (Having arrived late for work smelling of booze, Jack was given a stern verbal warning.); etc. We grammar teachers focus on accuracy and fluency in written and spoken communication fairly equally and do error correction in a  variety of ways. Oh, but how I could go on and on about all the little frustrations that come with teaching the minutiae of such a crazy language. I really feel for the students at times. Don't even get me started on pronunciation (which is actually more important than grammar, but that's another post).

 

 I know at least one of the five people who read this will think, "But she's talking about non-native speakers. Those memes are about people who use English as their first and likely only language. If anyone should be able to follow the rules, it's certainly those nimrods." And how true. If you use a sub-standard level  of English, people make assumptions about your education and intelligence level. Facebook status updates that are unpunctuated gibberish riddled with errors do bother me. I once would have studied the update and mentally calculated the errors. But you see--now I don't even bother to read them at all. I still feel the pang of annoyance when I see a sign that says, "Your in America. Learn English". And I still get a chuckle when I see one that says, "Sausage's for sale". I still notice every single error (you can't turn it off), but because of what I do on a daily basis, it doesn't make as much of an impact as it once did. So while I can't say, "I couldn't care less", I certainly do care less. And while it hasn't made me more careless, it certainly doesn't entitle me to a Grammar Police badge.

 

 

 

I Had Myself A Merry Little Christmas

Talbot Street

For the first time since Christmas 2008, I was in an English speaking country to celebrate the holidays. Not only an English speaking country, but a country that celebrates Christmas (i.e., predominantly Christian). China and Thailand have caught the commercial fever of lights, Santa grottos, and shopping, but there is something lacking in the overall spirit in these places. Not to mention that in Thailand, it's 32/90 degrees on Christmas just like every other day of the year. So here are some things that made this particular year special.

 

1. City Sidewalks
Every major shopping street on both sides of the Liffey River was awash in the glow from strung lights, Christmas trees, and store window displays. Because I go for a run well  before sunrise,  I was  able to see the lights every morning and feel a bit of Christmas magic. I've never lived in any city that works so hard to create such a festive and elaborate setting.

window display Henry Street

2. Shopping
I was the last person to be hired at my school so the first to be "laid off" as students drifted away to their home countries for the holidays. So instead of finishing on December 20 like the other teachers, I was given the heave-ho ho ho on December 13. This gave me an extra week to do some shopping. In the past, I was limited in my shopping venues. China has a lot of stuff for sale, but it is mostly crap found at EuroGiant and the Dollar Tree or in overpriced hippy stores selling colourful bags, incense, and  iron-on patches with marijuana leaves (I've  never actually seen these ironed on anything). Last year, I bought all my gifts on Amazon, but it felt like cheating.

O'Connell Street

So this last Christmas, I wandered in and out of all the nooks and crannies of Dublin I could, seeking out the perfect gifts. The days were bright and sunny, carollers were out, men in gaudy Christmas jumpers were beginning their Twelve Pubs of Christmas crawls, and different locations had Christmas markets selling locally made food and crafts. The city was absolutely abuzz with Christmas energy. I wasn't happy with all the gifts I bought, but I loved the process.

Moore Street-where you can get fresh meat, veg, and fruit, hair extensions, and SIM cards

gifts disguised in boxes

Speaking of gifts. I don't know if all Americans do this, but my family always wraps gifts in leftover boxes like the boxes shoes and irons come in. I bought S's cousin a lovely silk tie and to hide its tie shape, I put it in the box that once contained the Christmas lights bought at Eurogiant. I  noticed later that the box had been unwrapped but unopened. I explained the tradition and the cousin seemed pleased with the "real" gift. But to imagine him sitting there a good 30 minutes thinking I bought him Christmas lights! Ha!


3. Being Home for Christmas
The main attraction for Christmas is spending it with your inner circle. This was my fifth Christmas with Stephen but my first with one of our families and our first as a married couple. S and his brother's family gathered at their parents house for the day and we enjoyed the relaxed chit chat. Children don't hide their joy at having presents (like adults do), so it was great fun to see them tear through their packages and signal their "thumbs up" by playing with something for longer than 2 minutes.

Sean uses a gift to deliver beer to Daddy

Christmas Dinner is one of my favourite parts of the day. Paul made a lovely lemongrass coconut soup before the main event. Turkey and stuffing (strange to have on Dec. 25, I know), baked ham, and roasted potatoes and vegetables, all covered in gravy if desired. Followed by trifle and Christmas pudding. Christmas pudding is this crazy fruit cake concoction made weeks in advance and soaked in booze. It's wonderful.

Ciaran enjoys pre-dinner sausages from Munich. The sausages were later stolen and consumed by the dogs.

4. St. Stephen's Day
Everything is closed on Christmas Day, so on Christmas Eve and the day after Christmas, St. Stephen's Day, people go to the pubs to drink as if they've been in a desert for a year. Perhaps because of this tendency towards excess or because the publicans need time off too, the pubs are only open a few hours on Dec. 26. We took a long uphill walk to the Summit in Howth, had a pint next to the fireplace in the Abbey Tavern and then met Stephen's parents in their local. The place was packed and everyone was in good form.

pre-pint walk to Howth Summit

5. Godfatherhood
When I moved to Istanbul in September, 2009 S was also there with his university friend from Ireland, Richie and his American wife, Kim. The four of us hung out a few times and then said our goodbyes the following February when we left for Poland and have stayed in touch since. While S and I were drifting from one country to the next, Richie and Kim stayed in Istanbul and had two beautiful sons: Liam Ulysses and Frederick Seneca. S was asked to be Fred's  godfather and so we went to Templemore (about an hour from Dublin by train) to be part of the christening. Templemore is a beautiful little town in Irish dairy country.

Stephen, Kim, Fred, Richie, Freida (Richie's sister and Fred's godmother)

I have no idea where I'll be the next Christmas. Estonia, Malaysia, and Mexico seem just as likely as Dublin given the unpredictability of the ESL industry. So I'll hold on to the memory of this Christmas which was as Christmas as Christmas gets.

Henry Street at night

Two of my gifts from S

Christmas morning walk through St. Anne's Park

one of us is happy with this arrangement

Maura and the Sausage Thiefs

Teaching monkeys to read is hard work

Sean seems unsure about this gift

view outside of Abbey Tavern in Howth

The christening

not a typical picture for this set of Clarkes

park in Templemore

Templemore

some of my favourite gifts. I found the pots on the right near the bins in my apartment building!

Henry Street at sunrise

real live carollers!

Christmas market at the Docklands. I got there too early...

A Homebody Finds a Home

Here's a confession: I am a packrat. In a collection of boxes in my mother's garage attic, an assortment of treasures is slowly decaying and being consumed by whatever lives in garage attics: homework from elementary school, passed notes (remember no mobile phones then!) from friends and boys in junior high, ticket stubs, dried corsages, rocks, marbles, bad poetry, and thrift store classics. I kept everything, as if I were seized by a childhood clairvoyance that I would one day not be able to remember where I left my keys or why I walked into the kitchen let alone what my childhood self dreamed about.

In my 20's after every new career, educational, or relationship pursuit ran its course and/or failed, I  packed my belongings and treasures (which now included grown up stuff like framed pictures, linen, and cooking gear) into computer paper boxes, and loaded them into my mom's trusty minivan to be unpacked at a new, usually smaller abode. But some stuff was forced into exile in the garage attic, too useless to fit into the new place, but too dear to part with.

In the last 10 years, I've had a dozen or so apartments in 5 countries. Packing up and shipping boxes of useful things like sweaters, rice cookers, and sheets seemed pointless and expensive, let alone any memorabilia or knickknacks accumulated along the way. Ok, I did send some stuff (the poster from the propaganda museum in Shanghai is way too cool to just leave behind!) to mom's warehouse in Iowa, but mostly I limited myself to one bag of necessary and favourite garments and left the rest for the next temporary teacher to sort through. And besides, each new place on the ESL trail was usually equipped with its own set of gently or roughly worn linen and cookware.

 When living abroad, I always did a few things to make the furnished apartment more "homey" such as put up pictures, stock the kitchen with my favourite spices and cooking tools, get a plant, place some smell good candles about, and put on soft and cozy linen on whatever passed for the bed. But it was always with the feeling that it would all be temporary and there was no need to go too crazy. And though I still collected treasures like shells and other bits and bobs from the beaches, museum brochures, beer mats, cards from students, and various ticket stubs, I found it easier than before to put them in the bin when possessed by a cleaning fever.

Some might think: Ah, she learned the valuable lesson that things we cannot take with us are not important in this life; it's the relationships and the memories that are of value. WRONG. One of the most idiosyncratic aspects of my character is that though I have itchy feet and love to roam the world, I am also a homebody who likes to be at home surrounded by my things. I found this to be especially true in countries where being outside was so horrible (choking smog, noisy traffic, thousands of people crammed onto a tiny, dirty sidewalk) that I needed a sanctuary that was peaceful and contained at least a few things that reminded me of who me is. And in every new place, the packrat in me missed being able to sit down on a rainy day and go through a box of tangible memories, junk or not. I never learned any lessons about how freeing it is to be unencumbered with stuff; it was just that logistically, I couldn't have a lot.

So here I am in the present, married and living in a place that is "home" for as long as family and employers want us here. When we moved  into our current apartment, it was with the knowledge that it might all be temporary. After all, the field of ESL teaching has a lot of turnover and is dependent upon the economies of the students' countries. The business is seasonal and only a small percentage of teachers are given (or even want) permanent contracts. We signed our lease knowing that at any time  the work could dry up and we'd either have to start working at a hotel or call center (shudder) or venture back out into the field. However, I decided that because there was a stronger chance this might be more permanent, or maybe because I'd had enough of half-hominess, I would make it homier than our usual place.

We had known it was the right place immediately. It's in the city centre next to a cinema, away from the busiest streets, at a great price and very cosy. Some might say it's rather tiny. It is smaller than the apartments we had in the four countries we've lived together in, but it's so dang cute and cosy. And because it is furnished, I had to do a little extra to make it mine. So I called up Mom's Storage Facility in Iowa and had some of my collection of stuff sent to me and put it on the walls. I went a couple of blocks to buy my casserole dishes and a Dutch oven and went to the Asian markets to stock my pantry. Stuff is being stuffed into drawers and boxes for a later perusal. For the first time in years, I'm behaving as though I'm not going anywhere, because  "here" is my favourite place to be.

living room with view of antique shops across the street

pictures from Arizona, Japan, and the painting a gift from Elaine from Cuba

need to cover the sofa. Ugly pic above sofa replaced by old poster of Istanbul

the beads have grown on me

quite small but perfect for chopping things and easily getting them to the pan

behind the cupboard doors is my dream pantry

a bit of a mishmash but I'm working on it

typical bathroom but with a nice reminder of Thailand

my wedding shower haul!! Lots of new stuff to make the apartment a home

I've always wanted yellow walls. The bed cover is from India

 

apartment building at sunrise. the cinema is around the corner on the right.

festive lobby of apartment building