Taking the Road Less Traveled; or, Hotel California, Part Deux

El tiempo hoy en Bahía de Guantánamo, Cuba: 85º y está un poquito nublado.

One of my friends calls this place Hotel California (as in, "you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave").

And you know the opening lyrics. Here's my version, which really go well with a little bit of recent excitement in my life:

On a dark desert highway
Cool wind in my hair
Warm smell of [banana rat poo]
Rising up in the air
Up ahead in the distance
I saw a shimmering light (the stars!)
My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim. . .
And then I busted by butt.

About half the time I run, I run alone. As a female, it took me a while to feel completely safe running at night alone here, because we ladies have a fear ingrained against taking stupid risks. And running alone at night is a stupid risk I rarely took until I moved here. I still use common sense---reflective gear, well traveled routes, and honestly, we are in such an isolated place where everyone here has had a background check, I feel comfortable as a female running alone at night (and unlike anywhere else I've lived, I don't freak out a little when a man I don't know is running towards me in the dark). This past week, I was so incredibly bored with the same route I've run for 15 months or so, I took a turn into a neighborhood I usually don't run in. It was, literally, the road less traveled. This is supposed to be a good thing, right?

There is a long stretch in this neighborhood that is very dark---no street lights---and although the moon is super bright here, as are the stars (no light pollution), it was really too dark for me to be running this particular stretch at night without a light.

But I did anyway.

I did think, "Wouldn't it be awful if a banana rat ran in front of me" (it has happened---more than once---and I almost tripped on it). What I didn't think was, "Wouldn't it be awful if a car came down the road, and I ran to the shoulder, but there really wasn't a shoulder."

There was no shoulder.

There was a 2 foot drop off.

Skinned, bruised, and bloody, I limped the short distance (1 mile or so) home, and my oldest was in awe over the blood covering my leg and my blood-soaked sock from my skinned up knee. Then I look down at my other leg and realized that I had a huge bulge on the side of my ankle. And I realized what I thought was dirt was just chunks of dead flesh peeling off my knee.

Yuck.

The ER trip was fine---I've had to go before, and as always, the staff is very efficient and friendly. They got me cleaned up and told me I couldn't get stitches (not enough skin) and the Xrays showed no break, just a sprain. They sent me home with crutches and medicine and directions on how to take care of my injuries, and followed up with a phone call the next day to see how I am doing.

Back up a few days before "the incident." I got a Fit Bit. No, I'm not going to be one of those people who gives you a blow by blow of how many steps or miles or calories or sets of stairs I go through in a day. I will just say this---if you think librarians live sedentary lives, you need to hang out with one for a day. Especially one who doesn't have an assistant (and has to split time between two campuses---a ridiculous expectation, but it is what it is). I love when people say, "Oh! You are a librarian! You must love your job! You get to sit and read all day!" and I want to ask, "Um, when was the last time you were actually in a library?" I don't know any librarians who get to actually read on the job, even those librarians with only one library to maintain and an assistant or two. I hit my 10K step goal before I get home every day. Living in a 2 storey house (yes, that's how you spell "storey"), I go up and down the steps a minimum of 20 times a day (I have proof now!). I am hoping it's building my legs and glutes and not blowing out my knees.

Having a Fit Bit just proves what I've suspected all alone---I am fidgety and hate to stay still. I remember when a study came out a few years back that said fidgety people are much, much, much more apt to be lean and less to be obese than people who don't fidget. So there! I don't feel bad about my inability to stay still; I am wired to burn calories all day long, so please don't make me stop.

And now. . . I am in pain. But the worst part? I have to be still. I can't run up and down the stairs 20 times in a day. I missed the Dr. Seuss Fun Run. I can't move around the house cooking, doing a load of laundry, picking up the den, and catching up on email all at the same time, like I do every evening when I come home (and if it's M-W-F, watering the yard, too). I am not a  television viewer. I watch 2-3 shows a year, and having to stay in bed, foot elevated, looking at t.v. is killing me. THIS IS BORING. I can't concentrate enough to read (it's the pain). I tried getting out this weekend for a while, ran a few errands and went to the Mardi Gras parade, and then spent a fun evening with our fun neighbors (even if one of them made fun of my new, singular "cankle").

But now, I am sort of  hurting and know tomorrow will be even worse (I seem to hurt more every morning instead of less). And I am really wishing I were the sitting and watching type, not the fidgeting and moving around type. I have no idea how I'm going to do my job that has me doing 10K+ steps a day when I can barely do ten. I won't be able to run or exercise for weeks, and I'm stuck in a stupid boot (and stupid crutches---I need a remedial crash course on using them, because I am evidently too stupid to use stupid crutches).

Did I mention I'm cranky??

(I am cranky).

So taking the road less traveled sometimes isn't the best plan. From now on I'm use my instincts more, take stupid risks less. I still can't believe I literally plunged into the dark unknown.

My pity party is coming to a close, and now I'm thinking of the first place I'll run and the first day I'll be back to well over 10K steps once I have healed my ankle and my knee. I can't believe I'm saying this, but I really, REALLY miss running, and that same old stretch of Sherman doesn't seem quite so boring now that I can't get out there and run on it.

Hotel California; or, Firsts, Lasts, and In-Betweens

The past few weeks have been frustrating, with the hurry-up-and-wait mentality of someone (DoD? Congress? DoDEA? I don't even know whom to be frustrated with) about furloughs. We get emails basically saying, brace yourself, letters are coming soon, and then we get another saying, we jumped the gun, it's going to be a few days/another week/another 2 weeks before we know something. 

You know, there is this saying about poop and a pot, and it really applies to this situation. 

And now. . . 

Some more firsts here in Gitmo: 

1) I ran my first chipped 5K! There are hills, and then there are Gitmo hills. Dear lord. We ran from the downtown Lyceum to Girl Scout Beach and back. I realize that this means absolutely nothing to 99% of you, so I'm going to pretend that I have posted a map and you are amazed at the route I have taken. As my husband has reminded me, I really don't want to be the one who gets in trouble for posting a map of this place online, so use your imagination and be impressed.

Texas Hill Country hills ain't got nothing on Cuban hills. There were some VERY steep ones there and back, and all I can say is, when I get back to flat Texas, I will be able to fly. Or at least run five or so miles without passing out. 

2. Some of you ask about my kids, and honestly, I feel that this isn't the place to talk about them. That especially goes for my teenager. If he wanted you all up in his business, he would have his own blog thing. 

But I am in constant awe of him and how he is NOT like I was at that age. This kid left his only home he really remembers of 9 years to come here---a real leap of faith, not that he had much choice. He went from a large group of life-long friends to being one of about 50 highschoolers, and one of only 10 or so students in his grade. Yes, ten. Like 1-0. He's had to take some classes online to get everything he wanted on his schedule (not that easy, especially with The World's Slowest Internet). 

Got a few days? You can download that file---

actual screenshot from our house.

He wanted to continue tennis, so he is one of four kids who play on the team. That means tennis tournament season is him, his three teammates---and lots of lots of grownups. Yes, when you are a teen here and participate in sports, it means you play either individual or group matchups, depending on the sport, with JTF, active duty, civilian, foreign national, DoD adults, and/or their spouses. It's crazy watching your kid play in a match against someone much older and experienced in the game. He made it to the second round before being eliminated, and I'm SO proud of him. There is absolutely, positively NO WAY I could have played adults in a competitive match at his age. First, they would have slaughtered me (and he definitely held his own), and second, I would have chickened out. So kudos to my kid. 

Also, he is thisclose to being SCUBA certified. I was scared to death at 22 of getting certified. I'm so happy he's a much gutsier and braver kid than I ever was. 

But that's the joy of having kids, sometimes----they aren't like you were at their age. Thank God. 

3. Pearl the Blazer has a new companion: 

We hasve looked at Jeeps several times over the years, and now we are living in the best place on earth to have one. The stars aligned and we found the right one at the right time for the right price. People call our stretch of road "Jeep Row." There are at least 10 on our street. 

We haven't named her---or him----yet. Suggestions? Anyone? 

4. I ate these:

Two sea snail shells, a snail foot, and a dime for size comparison

Sea snails, picked from the ocean, grilled in their own juices and eaten right there on the beach. 

And I KNOW some of you eat clams, escargot, or (raw) oysters, so don't even pretend to stick your nose in the air. A mollusk is a mollusk is a mollusk. 

And they weren't that bad. 

5. Today I climbed a tree for the first time since I was 12 or so with our youngest. It was one of the strangely twisted, gargantuan, and beautiful banyans in our neighborhood. You know what? It was fun. I need to get out and climb more trees. I really forgot how much I loved doing that as a kid. 

And lasts. . . or one last. . . 

I try not to take too much of the rumor mill seriously, but when I heard a few months back that our one and only commercial airline was leaving the island, right after my parents had bought tickets from said airline, I panicked a little. They called IBC and were assured that it was not going out of business. 

Well, IBC is leaving the island. Their last day here? The day before my parents were scheduled to fly in. 

"Disappointed" is a word I use when I forget to catch the latest episode of a show I like, or realize I can't cook something I want because I'm missing one ingredient. I'm really not sure what the word or phrase is I want to use. "Pissed off?" Not really that. . . I am angry, but also disenchanted that they were sold something and guaranteed they could use it when, in fact, it is void and null. And there's that possibility the airline knew it when they sold the tickets to them. It's complicated when there were other stops and hotels and cities along their path here. Cross your fingers this sorts itself out and they can get on what is now one of only SIX flights a month to this place. So it's my last time to take rumors so lightly. 

As my pal Beth says, "You are living in Hotel California. You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave." 

I'm going to submit that as my entry to the (Un)Official Gitmo Tourist Slogan contest (especially since "It's On the Barge" isn't so funny anymore). 

Hoarders, Unite!, or, Speculation and Conjecture

The thing about being in a small community, whether a small town or a small military base (and we are both), people tend to feed off each other's energies and gossip can fuel hysteria.

A few months back I wrote about how the ridiculousness of waiting a week for bacon to arrive on the barge is what unites people here in Gitmo.

Waiting for the barge to bring groceries, clothes, cleaning supplies, gardening supplies, not to mention household goods and automobiles, is a sport of sorts here. People actually post on the roster or facebook page when coveted items (block cheese! bread!) show up at the Commissary. So in light of the recent horrific news that the barge had 22 containers that fell into the Atlantic and are unable to be salvaged, the irony of the famous Gitmo saying "It's on the Barge" hasn't been lost on anyone. At first, it was kind of preposterous---seriously, how can so many containers fall off a barge? Then it got scary. How many people have been waiting for their household goods for months, and now they are chewing their nails to the quick, waiting to see if all their worldly belongings have been destroyed? The news has been slow as to what exactly was on the barge. Again, more gossip, more hysteria.

In the haste of moving here in less than a month, we brought things that, in hindsight, should have been left with family members back in the States. As I have been busy in the never-ending quest to downsize and simplify, simplify, simplify, I have not been able to part with sentimental items. I would be crushed if I lost my favorite stuffed animal from childhood, or a necklace my grandparents gave me for college graduation, or the portrait on my dresser of my grandfather and five of his brothers in Newhebron in the early 1900s,  posing in their best clothes (some of them barefooted)---it's proof of roots, as my mom likes to say.  All those items and more are part of who I am, and remind me of people and places I miss. I can't imagine the agony those folks feel, waiting for news about their own sentimental things.

In yet another case of gossip-fed hysteria, I wish I could say that panic didn't set in for me when I realized how dire the situation is if we don't get any shipments of groceries, dry goods, clothes, and everything else, but I found myself joining dozens of other people, grabbing toilet paper, eggs, bottled water, and other necessities that we may go weeks without seeing. Usually we are a civilized lot---you see 2 cartons of eggs left, you take one. This time, people were going for it---I saw people with several boxes of cereal, cases of beer, multiple bags of dog food, etc. I wish I could say the community has faith that the Commissary will pull through and has enough items in reserve in case of a shortage, but the weekly empty shelves here tell another story.

And yet MORE news. . .

I have several people asking me weekly now about the sequestration and furloughs.

Am I going to be furloughed? Maybe. Probably. Most definitely. Not a chance.

It depends on who you ask, what's happened with Congress that day (stop laughing), and what kind of mood everyone is in.

Add the speculation and conjecture about furloughs to the gossip mill. So many of us here are government employees of one type or another, and thought of going 22 days without pay is not fun for anyone. And misery loves company, so you have to avoid the glass-half-empty folks while managing to keep your head out of the sand.  (How is that for mixing metaphors?)

It is what it is. So it goes. I'm just going to keep on running (hate it! HATE it!) and hopefully let the stress melt away.

Speaking of running---the youngest and I did a Dr. Seuss 1 mile Run Fun at the North Gate last weekend. The North Gate is the point where a select few Cubans who were allowed to continue working here used to enter US territory after the fence (and embargoes) became the norm. The last 2 Cubans retired in December to much fanfare---they were celebrities here of sorts---and it is now just another relic of the Cold War. We ran on the fence line and I couldn't help but wonder what the heck the Cuban guards only yards away in their guard towers thought about us in our Dr. Seuss costumes. I wonder if Cubans know about Dr. Seuss. Hopefully, that's not on the banned reading list or considered dirty American propaganda---although who knows. I have to say, after reading Dr. Seuss books to several classes all week, I feel like I've been through a government run brainwashing program. (I have to contain myself and not scream lines such as, "I do not like them on a boat! I do not like them with a goat!" at random moments. I need a Dr. Seuss de-tox, Sam-I-Am).

I am also signed up for a 5K this weekend. Woot! Cross your fingers that I don't fall into the Bay or whatever. I really don't even know where it is. Nobody does. We are bused from the Downtown Lyceum to the super-secret route, which will be revealed on race day.

Expect the unexpected---and make sure you tell everyone about it. Welcome to Gitmo!

Postscript: just read from an official source (yes, really) that the containers on the barge had NO personal goods (yay!), but did contain items bound for the NEX/Commissary (boo!). So no regrets for hoarding!!! 

What I Talk About When I Talk About Running; or, Suffering is Optional

I have a love/hate relationship with running. 
Actually, it's more of a hate/hate relationship. 

I have a hard time with pacing myself---I almost always, without fail, start out way too fast and end up having to catch my breath (asthma doesn't help). I'm slow. I'm lazy. I have old lady bunions that hurt. 

But I also like to do nothing but think about my (mildly asthmatic) breathing, and count steps, and check my time as I go. It's sort of like meditation. 

I see how people are addicted to it. 

And that's why I also love it, although I really hate it, too. It's so hard. How can a sport requiring nothing more than 2 feet and a good pair of lungs be so difficult??? 

I have finally done a first here---I've joined a runner's group of sorts. If you like running, Gitmo is the place to be---I counted 26 people running in the few miles to and from the NEX one day. It can be 6 am or 11 pm and you'll see five or more people running on base. My "runner's group" is actually just a group of ladies from my neighborhood, and when motivated to keep up with the leader of the pack, I have managed to run faster the last 2 nights than most of the 2-3 years I've been running. 

"Pain in inevitable. Suffering is optional. Say you're running and you think, 'Man this hurts, I can't take it anymore. The 'hurt' part is an unavoidable reality, but whether or not you can stand anymore is up to the runner himself." ---Haruki Murakami, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running

So I am a big---huge, actually---fan of books with non-linear timelines, quirky characters, multiple storylines, and exotic locations. My favorite book is One Hundred Years of Solitude. I have recommended it to dozens of people. I can count on 2 fingers the number of people who liked it---but those two people felt like I did when I finished it the first time---it was a spiritual experience and the final scene delivered a full blow to the gut. I also feel this way about most of Japanese writer Haruki Murakami's books, especially my favorite, The Wind-up Bird Chronicles. Man, it blew me away. 

So when I heard he had written a book about his experiences as a marathoner---he's a hard core runner---and it owes much of its title to yet another book I love by the late, great Raymond Carver, I had to get it. 

Except, I haven't gotten it yet. It's not at the library here, so I'm mulling over getting it to read on the iPad or bringing yet another paper book into the house. (The floor boards are straining. The bookshelves are crammed. Confession---I have at least one---maybe more, but I ain't telling---boxes of books in storage. STILL. I know, I need help). 

But that quote---"pain in inevitable. Suffering is optional"---it's so true. It's the first Noble Truth of Buddhism. The way he applies it to the act of running makes so much sense, and I get it---I wish my mind-over-matter just worked a little more efficiently. And so it goes with life, too. 

It is hard not to wallow in self-pity when things aren't going my way. 

I've stayed in jobs (and probably relationships) waaaay longer than I should because I was paralyzed by despair AND too afraid that change would make things even worse. 

I have learned through running that I am not as stubborn as I thought. I really want to go up a hill, but I can't make my legs keep going some of the time. It's frustrating. Why do I start walking? What switches in my brain to make me stop? 

I also found that if I chew gum, put my hair in a bun (ponytail swinging really messes up my groove), and never, ever look down, I do better. 

And it's the silly things that get you through life, too. 

My heart really hurts today because my former school lost a precious kid. He was a senior, with a great smile and a mature way about him. He was a regular in the library, and it was very easy to fall into conversation with him and forget that he was just a kid. He loved books---especially zombie books. What's not to love about a kid who loves zombies? 

Last night he took his life, and I'm sad to think that he didn't learn the lesson that "Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional." 

So it goes. 

Well, this is the most depressing thing I've written in a while. It started with running and ended with an unrelated tragedy. Talk about a strange tangent. 

So here are some Gitmo firsts from the last week plus, and small reasons to celebrate: 

1)I did finally get to see the Bay from a boat this week. The oldest kid and his English class took a boat cruise to a cay while wearing togas, read letters they wrote in character, enjoyed Greek food, and after putting their letters in bottles, threw them out at Romance Cove. The book was The Odyssey, of course! This was their class odyssey, and quite a brilliant plan. He'll remember That Time I Wore a Toga on a Boat in Cuba for the rest of his life. 

2) The youngest and I have become regulars at the Arts and Crafts Shop---we are now masters of ceramic painting (and hopefully, I'll learn some pottery while I'm here---there are wheels, an extruder, that thing that rolls clay out, and something that looks like an air brush machine for painting pottery. In case you haven't guessed, no, I have no clue how to actually use any of that equipment to throw a pot). And you know just what we need---more (ceramic) trinkets for the house! I'm still purging! I promise! The boy actually said, "You know mom, we can always sell this stuff in a yard sale." That's my child! 

3)Ummm, we sorta had a small earthquake Friday. Or maybe just aftershocks from elsewhere. Two of the four of us felt it (I didn't), and there is absolutely nothing in the news about it, but we know enough people to verify that 50% of our household is not completely delusional and insane. Nobody and nothing was hurt so---another reason to celebrate! 

4) FIRST DIVE IN NINE YEARS! It went well, despite some lingering asthma (yes, that again) causing me to have problems at first. I rarely get asthma, and only when my allergies turn into a severe upper respiratory infection---but when I do get it, it is hell to shake off. It will be a few more months before I'm breathing normally again---and yes, I am taking medicine for it every single day. 

I love my dive buddy---he's been with me for over 20 years. I'm so happy that the fun (and funny) guy I took lessons with as a grad student is still by my side. I am thankful that he is still a wanderer and traveler and adventurer. We didn't take Cheese Wiz and hot dogs to feed the eels like we did on one of our first dives together, but we did manage to see some amazing corals and fish. The comments in the dive logs from our '92-93, '04, and now Cuban experiences are hilarious to read. I guess we are on a 9 year cycle---wonder  where we'll be diving together in 2022? 

post script: There is a possibility that Todd's death was an accident (and what a horrendous accident it was). My understanding is that the evidence is inconclusive. I would like to think that he had a change of heart and it was an accident; whatever happens does not stop that an incredible, bright young man has been taken from this world. See? I'm a downer again. Sorry about that.