America, Meet Your Patriots

As you may have guessed, DiploDad and I have had a LOT of conversations about the last 100+ days in America.  Those of you who know me and are in regular contact with me may just have been part of those conversations, but even then, unless you actually work for the Department of State, you probably haven’t been involved in ones where we circle back to the most personal question of all that just hits us in ways we can’t even begin to articulate.  What’s the question?  Well, it’s really more than one, but they all boil down this:

Why do the American people hate us?

Hate, I recognize, is a very strong word.  I’d guess that even the most conservative, anti-government, lizard-in-a-suit would deny that she/he “hates” us.  I respectfully disagree, and when someone stands in front of me or hides behind a computer and tells me they support diplomacy and then talks about how the foreign service wastes money on things like schools or housing or programming about equal rights, climate change, or events that are really representing U.S. interests abroad, they’re showing their ignorance.

So, let me break it down for you.

  1. The Foreign Service is made up of ordinary Americans from all over America.  People just like YOU.

In the 19 years I’ve been associated with the Foreign Service, I’ve been amazed at the diversity.  “Diversity”, for those of you who just rolled your eyes, isn’t a bad word.  Just shut up about it already, because it doesn’t mean what you think it does or what Breitbart or RT news told you it means.  At the Consulate in Mumbai alone, we have people from the states of Arizona, Oklahoma, California, Illinois, Texas, Florida, Kentucky, New Jersey, Massachusetts, Washington, Michigan, Virginia, Kansas, Minnesota, New York, Ohio, and West Virginia – just to name a few.  That’s a lot of different parts of the country.  Sure, there are graduates in the Foreign Service of some of the elite colleges (yet another bastion of “we hate those people” for the American public) such as Tufts, Columbia, Harvard, MIT, Stanford, Berkeley, and Princeton, but there are also people who went to West Virginia University, Oklahoma State University, University of Virginia, University of Kentucky, The Citadel, University of Arkansas, and Ole Miss.

We come from a variety of backgrounds.  It is the rare creature indeed who comes into the Foreign Service directly out of college or graduate school.  According to AFSA, approximately 20% of us have served in the military prior to entering the Foreign Service, so those of you who think the two career paths or philosophies are incompatible can chew on that for a while and ponder the fact that the kind of people who are motivated to join the Foreign Service really aren’t all that different from the publicly lauded (and deservingly so) military.  In my lifetime, I’ve met people who have had an astounding variety of jobs and careers prior to the Foreign Service.  It’s not just the traditional teacher, civil servant, or military who signs up.  College admissions counselors, social workers, lawyers, Peace Corps volunteers, journalists, photographers, travel agents, ministers, nurses, physician’s assistants, doctors, social workers, and IT folks are all represented in our ranks.  Most of us have had a number of curious jobs along the way too:  Baskins & Robbins ice cream scooper, vintage record store clerk, USO director, and I know of at least one former trapeze artist.

  1. The work the Foreign Service does isn’t glamourous.

I often tell people who make those lame jokes about my “high-flying” diplomat husband that his days “aren’t spent drinking champagne in a casino with James Bond”.  It’s actually pretty annoying how much influence Hollywood has had in pushing out the stereotype of the pampered, ineffective, career diplomat.  He (or now sometimes, she) shows up in the action movie or Bond serial of the year only to provide a comic foil or to get capped before the “real hero” saves the day.  Even in situations where the FSO is the hero, the American public misses it.  Seen Argo?  Remember the scene where the authorities didn’t believe that the hostages were a film crew and they were questioning Ben Affleck?  CIA dude Affleck wasn’t having much luck with the officials and some guy barges in and starts speaking Farsi and next thing you know they’re on a plane.  That guy?  He was a consular officer badass, people.

While that’s not the typical day diplomats have overseas, it is an example of the kind of presence of mind, assessment of the situation, and take charge that diplomats representing you show in their daily work.  It takes smarts, skill, and intelligence, and yes, sometimes bravery to deal with what diplomats do on a day to day basis.

Political officers meet with foreign governments and prominent people who have the power to influence relationships with the United States and issues that matter to the U.S. for reasons of security and policy.  Economic officers usually get rolled into that office, and they look at trade and business issues, interacting with business leaders, providing understanding to American policymakers.  No, you can’t put a dollar value on it, exactly.  But the next time you read about a big overseas transaction, the part you don’t see is that often, a diplomat helped make contacts, connections, and introduced the right people to the American corporation.  They are the eyes and ears of American policy, and they are the constant presence on the ground.  They attend and coordinate American business and political participation at conventions and conferences.  They are the ones at the table negotiating trade agreements, limits on nuclear weapons, climate and clean energy policy, human rights, and military agreements.  They work closely with the Foreign Commercial Service (part of the Department of Commerce) to help American business abroad.

Public diplomacy officers respond to questions from the press about American policy, activities of the United States and U.S. persons, corporations, and organizations in the countries they serve in.  They also provide information about U.S. culture, government, and policies that is truthful and accurate.  In some countries, that is quite a feat where a government may not necessarily care if truth is disseminated, or feels that it is advantageous to its own interests to have America be the boogeyman under the proverbial bed.  PD folks also run exchange programs, and help bring talented future leaders to the United States to see what we are all about – the rule of law, freedom of expression, religion and the press, equality, and innovation are all principles exchange participants learn while meeting American officials, experts in the exchangee’s field (e.g., education, journalism, government, or the arts), and ordinary Americans.  So often, exchange alumni come back and say that their most rewarding part of the entire experience was the time they spent with ordinary Americans.  PD officers also engage with the general public of the host country online, messaging about U.S. culture, amplifying policy messages, and covering presidential visits, military activities, and ties between America and the host country.  They shape the public face of America abroad, counter misinformation and inaccuracies, and set the record straight.  If that confused you, PD folks make sure people understand and like us.  Don’t discount how important that is.

Management officers keep it all rolling – making sure the Embassy has power, water, and you would not believe how difficult that can be.  When the President comes to visit, these are the guys and gals making sure The Beast can drive on that bridge (it can’t always, for the record), that the hotel is procured, and the wheels roll on the motorcade of support staff.  They are the ones who do all the logistical stuff when the merde hits the ventilatore and there’s an earthquake, a flood, or other crisis.

Finally, there’s my personal favorite (as you all know) the consular officer.  These are the people that issue those visas for folks to visit the United States.  You know, the people who invested more than $2.9 trillion in the U.S. in 2014*, the 77.5 million international visitors who spent more than $217 billion on tourism to the U.S. in 2015**, and the international students who contributed $35.8 billion to the U.S. economy for the 2014/2015 school year.*** There’s your dollar value, America.  It’s pretty significant.  Then there’s the stuff you couldn’t put a value number on if you tried.  Consular officers issue reports of birth abroad for U.S. citizens who have their children outside the U.S. (including military personnel), visit Americans when they are arrested, ship your dead Aunt Mabel’s remains home, and help Uncle Olaf when he goes off his meds and thinks he’s Captain Marvel.  When Warren Zevon said, “send lawyers, guns, and money”, he was talking about the consular corps.  Do you think you could walk into a morgue with inconsistent temperatures and pick out a body from a stack in the corner?  Ever spent an afternoon supervising the preparation of the body and sealing of the coffin for a two-year-old?  Ever been dropped off in a war zone to assist American citizens with only a few changes of clothing and a satellite radio, completely unarmed?  How about you walk your average joe ass into a jail, a government building, or a police station and demand access to an American citizen, not knowing 100% if you’ll come out?  Maybe your day will be slightly less stressful and you’ll only have to deal with some unmedicated schizophrenic threatening to tear up the American Citizen Services waiting room.  The next time you lose your passport on vacation, need a reference for an attorney because your kid made the poor decision to bring some weed into another country for spring break, or your daughter has just been sexually assaulted and someone shows up to meet her at a police station to file a report in a country where it’s not outside the realm of possibility that she’d have that experience again at the hands of the local authorities, that’s who you should be thanking.

  1. Our daily lives involve a LOT of hassles, dangers, and inconveniences most of you take for granted you’ll never experience.

For the most part, our families and friends stateside live an average suburban existence.  Kid’s soccer games on the weekend, visits to the local playground or park, errands, backyard BBQs.  Ours is often anything but average, and if it is, it’s because we work our ass off to cultivate that normalcy.  Where you might walk your dog in a local park, the city streets, or a manicured suburban area, we walk our dogs (if it’s even safe enough to let them out of our compound) past piles of garbage, on cracked and broken (if existent) sidewalks, and carrying a stick to ward off feral animals.  Even finding dog or cat food in some places is a challenge.  Our kids go to private schools, but that’s often because the local schools consist of nothing more than a basic room, benches and desks, and a blackboard where a teacher writes down what the students have to learn (that means memorize) for the day, and asking a question results in corporal punishment.  The great public education your kids get in the U.S. is available for us only at a cost, and only in very few places.  International schools might have after-school activities, and they may have buses, but you pay for them, and sometimes you pay extra.  Soccer leagues? Tae-kwon do? Baseball? In a lot of places, if they do exist, they are organized and run by us, the facilities aren’t anywhere near what kids get stateside, and can often have hazards like open sewers, piles of garbage, and exposed wires adjacent to them.  Next time you start to bitch about the inconvenience of that Saturday 8 a.m. soccer game at the manicured field, remember that you’re damn lucky if you don’t have to stand next to a pile of live wires on a dirt field edged with garbage, shooing kids away from it when the ball goes out of bounds in 104-degree weather.

Medical care in some of the places we serve is practically nonexistent.  While the average American is whining about waiting for 20 minutes in a doctor’s office, or contemplating a lawsuit because a doctor wasn’t able to extend Aunt Lou’s life for an additional six months, we’re praying to God we don’t go into labor before we’re permitted to medevac, and hoping there’s not a traffic accident or heart attack in the cards while we’re posted here.  We also deal with a host of diseases you’ve never had to worry about: malaria, dengue fever, Japanese encephalitis, typhoid, tuberculosis, and chikungunya.  Google those – they’re lots of fun, and they’re not all particularly uncommon.  I can name at least one friend or co-worker who has had each of those diseases, usually even more than one.  Are your kids vaccinated against rabies?  Nope?  Mine are. You have a lock from your kid’s first haircut?  I’ve got “baby’s first malaria test” glued into the baby book.  Ever had a tapeworm?  Are lice the least of your worries parasite wise? Have you had the unforgettable experience of changing the diaper of a toddler with giardia?  Popped a mango worm out of that boil on your back? No?  That’s stuff we deal with often.

We’re repeatedly told we’re spoiled because we often have nannies, cooks, drivers, and housekeepers.  Yes, we have help, and I’m not going to apologize.  Where I live, I have no mother-in-law or close family to watch my kids if I have an evening work event, and babysitting is pretty much a U.S. concept.  If I want or need something done or need to navigate the very complicated local social and economic net, I need to pay someone.  While you’re ripping open a bag of pre-washed veggies, I’m soaking mine in bleach solution and rinsing them with distiller water.  Most Americans can swing by the grocery store and get everything they need in one place at pretty much any time of day; we may have to go to three or four locations just for “normal” ingredients, never mind all the gourmet and prepared stuff you folks stateside rely on.  That giant parking lot you leave your car in (safely) while you run in for a moment?  Doesn’t exist.  Without a driver to wait for you and watch the car, you might just return to nothing, and you’re parked on a crumbling side street if you’re lucky, because again, parking lots are a U.S. concept. Another reason we have help is because stuff breaks.  Often, and someone has to wait at home all day for the repairman.  When’s the last time you had to call in an air conditioner repair?  I do it biweekly.  I don’t deserve A/C?  It’s a “luxury”?  Fine, then you turn it off when it’s 102F outside.  I’ve had to replace all the water heaters in my house since I moved in 3 years ago – all five of them – and they were new.  Changing a light bulb here involves wiring it in, and with the fluctuating current, you need an electrician.  Many of us live in places where you wake up wondering if you’re going to have power or water or both that day.  You just hit the ground running and don’t even consider that as a possibility.  It’s really frustrating to look in the newspaper, watch television, and hear people (sometimes even our own family) begrudge us any kind personal comfort with the epic amount of inconvenience, danger, and hassle we are confronted with daily.  Stop it.

  1. We’re on Duty All the Time

And I mean all the time.  With the exception of a very few posts, the locals know we’re Americans, and if we’re in the capital city or any other frequent haunts such as business hubs or cultural centers, they figure out who we are soon enough.  After you leave work, school, your home, you can pretty much disappear, and we can’t.  Whether we’re in a taxi, at the grocery store, or at a party with friends outside of the Mission, we are still working, because what we do and say reflects on us, and on you, the American people.  Our kids aren’t excluded from this either – if one of the DB’s acts out at school or in public, it’s that “American Kid”, and his behavior is setting the standard and expectation for all American kids for many people who will never know another American kid.  That’s tough to put on a child, but that’s what my kids live with.  Beyond just stressful, it can get downright scary – when DB1 was five, some random guy came up to him in the grocery store and said, “I know who you are and who your Daddy is” and proceeded to tell him DiploDad’s current position.  I don’t need to tell you how freaked out I was, but he literally ran off when I approached him and I still have no idea why he did that.  The anonymity you enjoy hasn’t been ours for quite some time, but we recognize that part of diplomacy is showing people in our host country what the average American is like, what our values are, and that we are people with families.  We may be the only American some of the people we know ever meet – and we take that seriously.

  1. Terror Attack threats are real for us.

When I get pulled over during air travel (which I always seem to), I can’t help but roll my eyes, because dude – we are the target.  I just want to laugh when I see some guy in the backwoods of Missouri or Oklahoma on CNN or Fox News going off about the terror threat, because the likelihood of him or his family ever getting hit is beyond miniscule.  No, we don’t usually have embassies blowing sky-high and assassinations, but they have happened, and there’s a wall in the State Department with the name of everyone who has died in the line of service to our country.  We take a lot of precautions, and a lot of calculated risks.  We drill.  We have diplomatic security who keep their ear to the ground, work with local and national police to keep on top of threats and take measures to avoid and disable it.  We don’t have the freedom to go places that we can’t restrict for a backpacker tourists in some places, because we know what’s there, and while we warn with advisories, we’re bound by them and others aren’t.  A dead diplomat is still a goal for a lot of very bad people, we know it, and we live with the knowledge that it’s often up to us, or fate, as to whether or not those bad people get one.  As for the rest of you stateside?  Get over yourself.  You’re more likely to die from a legally-owned gun at the hands of a family member.

If you’ve made it this far, it’s nice to meet you.  We’re your foreign service, and we’re a lot like you. We deal with shit you so you don’t have to, take care of business, and advance interests of our country on YOUR behalf because we are Patriots, and we believe in and love America.  We’ve got your back, America – it would be great if you had OURS.





It Follows You Everywhere

In Janaury, R and I got an email from Judy Frater, director of Somaiya Kala Vidya , asking us if we would be interested in some tickets to see two of her proteges debut their creations at Lakme Fashion Week.  Judy is an American who has been living in India for many years, and focuses on traditional weaving and education in Bhuj, a small town in the Kutch district of Gujarat.  R is a traditional fabric FANATIC, and I always love to learn new things and see beautiful handiwork, so we responded with an enthusiastic “YES”!!! and marked it on our calendars.

The date actually snuck up on us, and if I hadn’t programmed it onto my calendar, we might have missed it.  Good thing we didn’t, because it was absolutely fantastic.

There were four of us escaping the humdrum of the week for the magic of fashion make-believe that evening:  me, R, P, and H, and we met up first at a fun restaurant in BKC near the Consulate called “NRI”, or “Not Really Indian”.  Name and un-PC nickname notwithstanding, the staff was attentive and kind and the daquiris were pretty fabulous. I have to give a shout-out to the waiter who was nice enough to let me talk him into serving us the cassava fries before the designated 7 p.m. time — Africa anywhere on a plate makes me happy.  After a yummy pre-show dinner, we headed on over to the Jio Center to crash the event in our Ann Taylor and Nordstrom Rack fashions and gaze at the high-end duds.  No disrespect meant to Ann or Nordstrom – we looked awesome.

Lakme Fashion Week is fun.  There’s always something kind of crazy in the design world, and there’s so much to take in.  We had a few brief moments to check out the outdoor displays before heading into the runway area and taking our seats.


There were so many photos by the growing FW it was impossible to get a shot without at least one person in it.  


The tree thing was cool, and gave a nice “fall” feeling that felt like home.

We ran into Judy on the way in, and she was her usual sari-clad, cheerful self. She was so excited for her artists.  We thanked her for the tickets, then headed for the nosebleed section to go sit down.  Wedging ourselves in between the beautiful, young, and fashionable, we settled in to watch the traditional textile show.  A band of local Kutch musicians played traditional music.


The lights dimmed.  And then, the creations appeared:

It was over too soon.  The last model strutted down the runway, the lights switched on, and everyone rose to vacate to let the next collection prepare for its debut.  Next we headed over to the stall area.

Every designer has a stall where they show their collections and take orders.  As tempted as I might be, I’ve never had the courage to brave both sticker shock and some random stranger calling my measurements out to her assistant in front of a bunch of size zeros, so I’ve never taken the custom plunge in public.  Grab a card for “later”, forget about it, that’s my personal strategy.

People talk about how silly fashion is, how it’s frivolous, and I think that’s fair.  I also think it’s unfair.  Many designers over the years have taken on social issues such as child labor, racial discrimination, and poverty, to name a few.  In India, one of the issues that I’ve written about before is gender-based violence.  In an effort to explain, help combat, or justify, it, individuals, groups, schools, and public and private organizations and entities have often pointed to what women are wearing.  Recently in Mumbai, two schools issued dress codes for female college students, prohibiting shorts, sleeveless tops, and ripped jeans.Even more recently, a female administrator at a local college cordoned female students off in the cafeteria and said that when female students wear the same uniform of “men’s clothing” consisting of a pair of pants and a shirt that it causes polycystic ovarian syndrome.  And this was at a technical college.  A display next to the door of the building where the display stalls were located called attention to the issue in an interesting and creative way.

After visiting all the stalls, we came out the opposite door and were met with another display calling attention to a current social issue.

Sponsored by Diesel, the Italian fashion brand, was a display that obviously addressed one of the more contentious issues that has recently been blowing through the world consciousness.  Walls.


I don’t think I need to tell you what popped into my mind within 1 millisecond of seeing this.  I’m pretty sure it was the first thing that popped into yours, and into my friends’.  And suddenly, I felt hyperaware of a lot of things.  I was aware that we were some of the very few Americans present.  I was aware that people probably knew we were Americans.  And I was aware that as we stood there in front of the display, that they were wondering what we, as Americans, were thinking.

We were there on a night out.  Girl time, a few drinks, some fun fashion, meeting a fellow countrywoman who is doing amazing things preserving cultural history and engaging in economic empowerment of those in areas where the economy isn’t robust, and sharing her passion for India and Indian textiles.  We wanted to just have fun.  But staring us in the face was a commentary on world affairs and current debate in our country.

If you’re not an expat, or you’ve rarely traveled abroad, you probably don’t feel it the way I do, but the truth is, if you’re an American, especially one associated with the government abroad in some way shape or form, whether military or civilian, you run into this sort of thing a lot the longer you reside outside the U.S.  After a while, you realize how different your experience is from other expats.  If I were a Swede, or a Botswanan, or Vietnamese, I seriously doubt I’d run into public or private commentary on my country, its policies, and its culture.

This isn’t the first time it’s happened to me.  It won’t be the last.  America is on many people’s minds in many countries for the position we play in the world, and everyone has an opinion.

I’ve seen people pretend to lift their leg like a dog on dishes with an American flag on it.  I’ve had a waiter go off on me while I was about 8 months pregnant and out with friends, asking me if I felt guilty that my baby would live and the poor Iraqi babies in the area we’d just started bombing in response to the 9/11 attacks probably wouldn’t.  I’ve had people accost me on the bus to tell me what is wrong with American foreign policy.  I’ve also had people tell me that the best year of their life was the year they spent in Michigan on a student exchange.  I’ve had people tell me that the American volunteer in their village helped spark a passion for reading that propelled them into the upper echelons of society when they realized reading was key to learning and learning was key to success.    And I’ve had people ask me wistfully if I could get them a Reese’s peanut butter cup, because they remembered the American soldiers in their town would hand them out to the kids.  Most of these conversations happened before they even found out I had any connection with the United States government whatsoever.  They were completely unsolicited; honest, and each one of them hit me deep within my soul in some way or another.

It won’t change anytime soon.  So even if I want to just have a fun evening and forget what’s in the newspapers, what’s on TV, or on Twitter, I don’t always get that luxury.  I’m American.  It follows me everywhere.


America, Please Show the World Who We Really Are


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I’ve been really, really, REALLY quiet lately.  I’ve had some fun adventures, but I’ve not felt bubbly and exuberant enough to give credit to Halloween at the consulate, a tea walk tour, or a few really cool trips.  Mostly, because I’m trying to be a Good Expat.  Then there’s that nasty thing called the Hatch Act, which makes me nervous and err on the side of keeping my mouth shut.  Finally, there’s the issue of friends and family – I don’t, as most everyone else, agree with all of them, and I really like them and don’t want to piss anyone off.  Well, not most of them – some of them, sadly, I’ve lost this election year when I got one too many nasty comments on my Facebook feed or saw one too many posts denigrating women, minorities, or common sense.

Again, I need to start with a disclaimer.  Or two.  First, this is typed on my own personal computer, on my own personal time, and no government resources were used in writing this post.  Second, I’m not the diplomat!

OK, then.

Let me be clear:  this election has been really, really difficult for me.  I’ve seen elections come and go, and several come and go from abroad, but none of them has ever had the amount of vitriol, hatred, partisanship, and yes – INSANITY – that this election has.  It comes at a time when we’ve seen minorities, including women, persons of color, and LGBTQI individuals in civic and public life at unprecedented levels.  It also comes at a time when there is still a lot of discrimination against minorities and we’ve got a long way to go, and some of us are pretty pissed off we’re still having this conversation.  It’s been a year of women calling out men on sexist Olympic coverage, of more unarmed black men being killed by law enforcement, and more threats to reproductive rights and personal freedoms by religious fundamentalists who seem to forget about that little separation of church and state thing, and attacks agains Muslims and other religious minorities.  I’m sure I’m missing something, but it’s been a sad tone all year.  The left has had quite a bit to rile it up this year – with good reason.

On the other side, and one that I can certainly understand as a native West Virginian, are who I will call the Angry Non-Urbans.  Remember how Romney said that 41% of the country could be written off?  Well, let’s be honest – there are a lot of people in “fly over country” who feel that they have been by the left, and frankly, there’s plenty of evidence to support that.  Before you go pointing to a bunch of statistics on job creation or benefits paid, take a good hard look at yourself.  Ever made a redneck joke?  Said that “those people” are “white trash”?  Made every effort you possibly could to distance yourself from that little hometown you grew up in because it was “provincial” or “backwards” as you ran like Hell to the big city?  I can’t tell you the number of people I have run into over the course of my life who have felt it’s perfectly fine to make West Virginia jokes, comment about how I probably married my brother, or ask me if I have indoor plumbing.  Some of those jerks even worked for me or DiploDad, and said such things at public events.  Every time I take one of those stupid Facebook quizzes that guess where I’m from, they automatically place me from an urban coastal area when I say that I’m well-traveled or like to visit museums or often watch films in a foreign language.  Because, culturally, educationally, and yes – OVERALL, if you are an Angry Non-Urban (or hail from that area), you’re inferior.  That’s the underlying message.  That’s a whole other post though, so I’ll shut my trap on that front and stop right now, but if you can answer “yes” to any of my questions above, you might want to think a little bit more about whether or not you’re including every single American in your whole “love thy neighbor” philosophy.

I’m also conflicted because in complete honestly, I am not thrilled about Hillary Rodham Clinton.  There, I said it.  Sorry, Pantsuit Nation, but I don’t share your unbridled enthusiasm.  I recognize that she’s qualified.  I recognize that misogyny has been part and parcel of this campaign from Day One.  But I have questions and concerns, and I think I’m well within my rights to have them without being called a traitor to my gender.

Then there’s Donald Trump.  I don’t even know where to start on that one.  I guess I could start by saying that he’s crude.  Or that he’s sexist.  Or that he’s stoking racism and hate the way no one has publicly gotten away with since, oh, the 1940s.  Every single time I thought I couldn’t hear anything worse, he said it.  Every time I thought he could sink no lower, insult no one else, or be more vulgar, he did it.

For the first time ever, I’ve had to completely remove “likeability” from a political election.  I don’t “like” either candidate.  But I also think that we went a bit too far when we started asking voters who they’d rather have a beer with as a way of implying that’s whom they should vote for.

I know where I stand on the issues of foreign policy, women’s rights, Black Lives Matter, immigration, fiscal policy, reproductive rights, LGBTQI rights, and a whole host of other topics.  I know which candidate represents my views, and I will vote for that candidate.

But somehow, even more important this time, and especially poignant to me as an American abroad, is the message America will send to the world with this election.  And I’m really scared.

At a diplomatic event I attended earlier this year, a third-country diplomat asked me about the U.S. presidential election.  I groaned and pointed to my watch, informing him it had only taken seven minutes since I arrived for someone to bring it up.  But we’re interested in your elections, he informed me, and do you know the reason he gave me?

“Where America goes, the world follows.”

Tomorrow is election day.  Don’t fuck this up, America.


Dear Consular Chief . . . .


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The first thing that I thought after I read about the Ryan Lochte Incident in Brazil during the Olympics probably wasn’t what most Americans were thinking (although that was probably my second reaction).  What popped into my mind first was, “Ugh, I feel sorry for the consular officers in Rio.”  Because I’ve seen enough mess go down in the last 18 years that I know it sucks to have any AmCit in trouble, but when it’s a public figure or other celebrity, it’s even more excruciating with respect to time invested, red tape to unstick, and embarrassment.  I mean seriously, dude – do you realize that the length of text on your Wikipedia page discussing your false police report is longer than the text discussing your Olympic success at Rio 2016?

Later on, I got to thinking, and I wondered:  Did Ryan Lochte ever even apologize?  Did he realize the impact he had on other people’s lives?  Not just the direct impact of the people involved in the incident, but the ones who were left behind to deal with the ramifications of his behavior, even after he was long gone and the Olympic torch had dimmed?  Probably not.  After all, it’s hardly on anyone’s radar until they need help abroad and turn to “lawyers, guns, and money” and the consular officers step in.  So why would it be on the radar of someone who had other people who dealt with the “other people”.  It wouldn’t.

Still, if Ryan Lochte deigned to write a letter, it really should read something like this:

Ryan Lochte, U.S. Swimmer, Lane 3, U.S. Swimming Training Center

August 20, 2016

The Consular Chief, American Consulate General Rio de Janiero, Av. Pres. Wilson, 147, Centro, Rio de Janeiro, 20030-020, Brazil

Dear Sir or Madam,

Please accept my most sincere apologies for the incident that happened in Rio on August 14, 2016. My teammates and I had been out drinking, and while that in an of itself isn’t a problem, some of us had been drinking a bit too much, and our judgment was impaired.

Because of that, we made some bad choices. I truly am embarrassed at my actions and am grateful to you and your staff for your assistance in helping clear up this matter.

Oh, fuck it. That’s what my agent and PR dude is telling me to say.

Here’s what I should be saying to you:

I’m a moron. I’m 32 years old, and I really should not have been drinking like a 14-year-old who laid waste to his parent’s liquor cabinet. Moreover, I should not have run off like a coward, leaving my less-famous buddies behind to take the public embarrassment and the heat of having to sit with you and your staff for hours while trying to get them to tell you the whole story. I’m sure you had more than one very painful conversation with the police, probably several, as you worked your way up the chain of command, trying and figure out how best to resolve this situation. This would not have occurred if I were not such a self-absorbed ass.

I apologize for adding extra pressure and a headache to a time when you and your staff were already spread thinly enough with the increased workload due to the influx of American citizens and public officials coming through Rio during the Olympic Games. My stupidity kept you at the office even longer than usual, away from your families and your personal lives. While I know you take your work seriously, are dedicated, and are willing to put in the time you know you need to do the job right, you didn’t need to be dealing with my garbage. I know that you and your fellow diplomats keep your noses clean and act appropriately for two, three, or even four-year assignments, and I didn’t even hold it together for a few weeks. I’m an entitled jerk who didn’t think of anyone but himself.

I promise that if I get to the Summer Olympics in 2020, there will be no need for a special session discussing the possibility of Ryan Lochte needing a bailout during an All-Hands Consular Meeting. I also promise that I’ll donate some of the gratis tickets that the swim team gets to the Embassy there with the stipulation that they go to career Foreign Service officers and specialists and their families, and not to political appointees who might be in town or heading things up. I’ll even throw in a meet-and-greet for the families at the end of the games to say thank you.

For you and your staff, however, I can do no such thing as I have already departed Brazil, medals in hand and tail between my legs. Instead, I’ve had several bottles of Johnny Walker Blue bottled individually so that each one is valued at a very acceptable $24.99, and stays within the guidelines of the acceptable gift amount under the government ethics rules. Please enjoy them. I’ll be teetotaling for the foreseeable future.

Sincerely and apologetically,

Ryan Lochte, U.S. Olympic Medalist







Vaulted Aspirations


Rio de Janeiro : India’s Dipa Karmakar performs on the vault during the artistic gymnastics women’s apparatus final at the 2016 Summer Olympics in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, Sunday, Aug. 14, 2016. Photo Credit:  AP/PTI(AP8_14_2016_000252B)

I really, really wanted Dipa Karmakar to win the women’s vault competition in the Rio 2016 Olympics.  I really did.

Given the hellish time difference between Rio and Mumbai, most of what I have watched was on YouTube.  I admit it.  Try as my tired, old self could, my bed just seemed so much more – exciting than most of the Olympics.  Sure, I like watching the swimmers just as much as anyone else, and the men’s synchronized diving team gives me palpitations, but after snippets of the opening ceremonies (Hello, Tonga!!), I just gave in and waited until the next morning’s paper told me who I should watch by googling highlights.

Except for one woman.

Dipa Karmakar, the first female Indian gymnast to qualify for the Olympics, only the second Indian ever to qualify, and the first Indian to qualify in 52 years.  When she qualified for Rio, the papers went nuts, giving her front page headlines.  I was completely intrigued, and followed her in the media.  She’s not quite the usual gymnast – at almost five feet, she’s a bit on the taller side, and at 23 (her birthday was just a few days before the vault final) she’s a bit on the old side these days.

Dipa’s specialty is the vault, and she is only the third woman to land an extremely difficult move, the Produnova.  It’s wicked hard.

Watch her here –  It’s amazing.

Last night, the eve of India’s Independence Day, I stayed up until 11:20 p.m. to watch the gymnastics vault finals.  Dipa wasn’t the only gymnast to attempt the Produnova in Rio, a 41-year old gymnast representing Bulgaria who had medaled in London in 2012 was also ready to deliver it, but landed hard and added a sommersalt to her landing.  A few gymnasts later, Dipa took off and landed her first, easier vault, scoring a 14.866.  Solid, but not what we all were waiting for.  She then took off on her second vault, flying down the runway before flipping through the air.  She landed low, though, and the judges counted that bobble as a “fall”.  She still scored a 15.266, which gave her a combined score of 15.066 vaulting her into second place, behind Guilia Steingruber of Switzerland.

But the Big Kids were still to come.  Simone Biles, USA, and Maria Paeska, Russia, wound up taking first and second place, respectively, and Dipa was in medal-less fourth place.

I won’t begrudge the Swiss their medal – Guilia was good, and she’s physically a throwback to the old days of gymnasts – she’s not a waif, and she’s not a compact powerhouse.  If anything, she looks like a regular woman, and I don’t think you’d be clued in she’s a gymnast if you passed her on the street.  I kind of like that.  I also love Team USA, and Simone Biles is the most amazing gymnast I’ve seen, ever, so I have to say I’m thrilled she has gold.

But a medal by Dipa Karmakar would have meant SO much.  Gymnastics isn’t one of the sports you hear about, and even in Mumbai, a large metropolis, I’d be hard-pressed to tell you if, and where the gym is where the serious gymnasts go to train.  The money that is funneled into the sport here is in no way even close to what the U.S. and Russian teams put into it.  There is no way the gym she trains at and prepared at for Rio is anywhere near the U.S. National Team’s home gym.  So it seems to me that the fact that she was up front on the international stage going head-to-head with some of the most renowned names and well-sponsored gymnasts in the world was nothing short of amazing.

In a pretty dismal olympic showing by India this games, a woman earning a medal would have really made a statement.  It would have shown the nation that women’s athletics were something great.  That in beauty and grace there is strength, and national pride in women’s athletics.  The support for her, women’s athletics, and for the sport, would have followed, and potentially even planted the seeds for a national gymnastics program in preparation for a new generation of Indian gymnasts.  Even better, the headline would have hit on Indian Independence Day.  Jai Hind, indeed.

To be sure, she’s still amazing.  I’m still in awe.  She’s still going to inspire little girls all over India to turn even more cartwheels in their gymkhanas, and to climb higher on the monkey bars, and to try that penny drop.

But man, I wish that one athlete I didn’t mention fondly had tripped.  (Ooops – that was out loud?)

If they had given out medals for putting your heart and soul into it, Dipa would have swept the event.  Solid gold.


Photo Credit: Indian Express



All About Hell – er – HOME Leave


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I loathe home leave. Well, not always. After six months back in India, I’m sure that I’ll wax nostalgic on the idea of it, if not the actual practice.

In its infinite wisdom, congress decided that in order to prevent its diplomats from sympathizing too much with the situation of whatever country they are posted in and “going native” or “going rogue”, that every so often, they would be have to come home and reorient themselves to life in the U.S. This fantastic concept, codified in Sections 901 and 903 of the Foreign Service Act of 1980, as amended, requires the diplomat to spend a minimum of twenty business days in the continental U.S. after each assignment abroad before heading back out, or after two years of a four-year tour.

I see some fellow diplomats posting fabulous photos of themselves on home leave, and they seem to relish it and do all kinds of awesome things. They also tend to be single, childless, and either come from intact families, or families where the divorce was Amicable. When some twenty-something, clearly single junior officer posted on Facebook that he thinks home leave can be fun and great and told me to just book a house on airbnb, I wanted to kick his unattached, millennial ass to Kingdom Come. Twice. Maybe even four times. I know he was trying to be upbeat and helpful, but FFS, dude, Get. A. Clue.

You might notice that thus far, this post has more than the normal amount of swearing in it, and I’ll get to that eventually. You’re on notice, Mom – I’ll probably drop an F-bomb or two before I’m done here.

Home leave and its mechanics are nothing if not predictable, so there are inevitably Certain Things That Happen Relating To or During Home Leave. Let me narrow that down to the top FIVE here:

  1. There will be some fucked-up regulation that makes you file extra paperwork or waste valuable time.

Turns out that when you extend and take a four-year tour overseas, the law requires you take your Home Leave midtour – which they define as within a month of arriving at post. Most families with children, like us, arrive in the July-August timeframe; especially if they have school-age children and they are dealing with camps, pack outs, and finishing up school (which is virtually NEVER compatible with the school they will start in the country they are moving to). We arrived on August 1, about ten days before school started, so DiploDad could leave the position he was vacating unfilled for as short of a time as possible (so the new guy could take HIS home leave) and so the DBs had a bit of time to shrug off the last vestiges of jet lag before starting school.

Fast-forward two years, and DiploDad has to take home leave. Given office staffing requirements (summer is, after all, a busy time for consular officers), a heavy rotation of folks in and out of the office, and the DBs’ school schedule, it made sense to take Home Leave in June and July. But nooooooooooo – that’s too early, the Department said.

DiploDad: I have to wait until August to take Home Leave? Seriously? No, you’re kidding. This makes absolutely no sense. My kids start back to school August 8th. I’ve got folks who have leave dates and transfer dates in, and I’m trying to work this for the least amount of disruption. There’s got to be something we can do about this.

Random DC Bureaucrat Who Never Goes Overseas: Well, you can leave your family behind. They don’t have to go. But you do. Or, you could just go early anyway, and lose an R&R.

DiploDad: Excuse me? You mean go by myself and leave my wife to deal with the kids alone at the beginning of the school year, or give up one of the tickets home that I get as part of my compensation? How is that reasonable?

RDCBWNGO: Alternatively, you could fill out a form for an exception to policy.

DiploDad: That sounds like a much better solution.

I should note that this conversation is condensed from about three or four separate conversations, because it took THAT long and THAT MANY conversations to get it out of RDCBWNGO that one could file for an exception. Asshat.

Attention AFSA (American Foreign Service Association for the uninitiated): The next time you get all crazy and decide that you need to lobby congress about something, let me flag this for you and even set it out in writing. Home leave should be given flexibility when taken mid-tour. Most officers with families will try to eventually get on summer cycle to make school and transition easier for DiploKids, which means that they will want to try and take home leave in the summer usually between mid-June and mid-August. Argue for a 60-90 day window of flexibility for Home Leave from the original date of arrival. Trust me, very, very, few people will skip it, the Department will have to process fewer exceptions, and it will be easier for HR folks. I suppose this may mean that a RDCBWNGO or two may be out of a job and have to find their sadistic “say-no-to-everything-not-be-helpful-ever” kicks elsewhere, but I’m sure there’s an office somewhere in DC hiring.

  1. There Will Be People Who Are A Pain in the Ass About Visiting Them, Whether You Can or Can’t Visit.

Once you get your dates and reservations, you send out the email to everyone in the family and try to alert friends. Some folks jump at it, and some it makes sense to visit because you have similar goals for the summer and they make it easy. Others, you go round and round with and nothing works out and they accept it, or you keep looking for chances to get together. Either way, in about a month, you’re fully booked. Let’s say this all happens about January.

You know where this is going now, right?

In April, you start getting emails and messages from a variety of family and friends asking if we could get together, and oh – when were we going to be in the country, and could we possibly drive to California/Nebraska/Texas/Alabama/Florida/Timbuktu to visit them?

Now, some folks get it and put no pressure on you. And if you possibly can, and are along the way or they are in your neck of the woods or willing to take the time to drive a bit, you get to see them and they are SO happy and you are BEYOND SO happy to see each other. I was lucky enough to see a former sorority sister this trip that I’d not seen in 20 years. One of the highlights this year was catching up with her. Others just know that if you CAN, you will definitely reach out to them, and so they don’t even ask, or just send you a message saying, “hey – we’ll be around this summer on these days, so if something works out, let me know – we’d love to get together” and that’s it. I love these kinds of people.

Then, there are the ones who not only pressure you to visit, but also insist it must be on their terms. They are often, but not always, the ones who never respond to the initial email/text/message where you gave dates you’d be in country. But two weeks into your trip, or a couple of days before you depart, you’re bound to get something like this in your inbox:

“Hi! If you guys can come over, it would be awesome. I’d love for you to drive to XXX (name town three hours from anywhere you’d be going normally, if ever) and spend some time, but only during the hours of 11 a.m. and 2 p.m. on the first and third Tuesday this month, and only if the temperature reads less than 75 degrees Fahrenheit between 9 and 10 a.m. Oh, and we’ll only be serving shredded wheat with bayberry juice because we’re all on a really restricted diet, and there will be NO WINE because we read somewhere that the prices are inflated this year because of drought in the Sahara and wages have gone up and we don’t support this.”

I wish I were kidding.

Let me be clear: I love my relatives. I love my friends. But we are travelling two days, going through security checkpoints twice, eating shitty plane food, getting DVT symptoms, and dealing with a bitch of a case of jet lag. By the time I landed at Dulles Airport in June, I’d been awake for 47.5 hours. You read that correctly. So, for the love of Peter, Paul, & Mary, please make it easy on us. We don’t really want to take a long plane ride again or drive 15 hours; it’s exhausting, and then we don’t really enjoy it at all. Ease off the guilt trip. If you think you might even be a tiny bit guilty of this, here’s what you do: when we send out the email telling you when we’ll be in town, jump into the queue immediately, and propose something halfway, or something near us, or, if we’re talking about doing X while we’re back, jump right on in and ask if we’re up for company. If we don’t want to go to Swaziland with you and want to go to Cape Verde instead, consider it – this is the only chance we have all year to escape the craziness of whatever post we’re at that means we GET a home leave. If it doesn’t work out, and our interests don’t align, you can always visit us, or we’ll try again next year.

If you think I’m being totally selfish about this, here’s a nugget for you – I’ve been trying to get to California and have a family trip driving Route 66 for four years now. We compromise. I lose out. And we try to put the grandparents first while they’re still around – for good reason.

  1. Even After It’s “Settled”, Something Else Will Pop Up and Try to Fuck Up Your Home Leave.


RDCBWNGO: Your home leave dates aren’t sufficient; you have to make a change.

DiploDad: Say again? I’m going for four weeks. Twenty weekdays.

RDCBWNGO: Yes, but the 4th of July is a holiday. You’ll have to stay longer and take an extra Monday.

DiploDad: Shit.

DiploDad said “shit” because that takes us over the 30 days of LWOP I’m allowed to take before permission has to be given by DC instead of post. And since we didn’t feel like finding out if that meant 30 calendar days or 30 business days, I just decided to go with the former and leave a week earlier than the DBs and DD. Which meant he had to take the DBs back by himself. (Hahahaha!)

  1. Some Relative or Friend Will Find a Passive-Aggressive Bullshit Way to “Punish” You for Living Abroad.

Towards the end of our Home Leave, we headed off to visit DiploMIL and her husband. They just bought a massive house, and we’ve been hearing about it for about 18 months. We confirmed with them no fewer than five times that yes, we were staying, and yes we were coming on X day. We arrived a day after DiploBIL and his family arrived, and hugged everyone. DiploMIL and DiploSFIL gave us the tour, starting with the upstairs. Their bedroom was beautiful, giant and posh. The DBs and DiploNephew were in a bunk bed with a trundle, perfect for 3 little/medium boys. DiploBIL and his wife were in a lovely room with a canopy bed, fluffy white bedding, and an en suite. DiploNiece had a room to herself with a double bed.


The lovely bedroom occupied by the Other Son and his wife.

DiploSFIL: We put you downstairs. Come on; let’s go see where you’ll sleep.

DiploDad: Cool, sounds great.

So, we’re thinking that we hit the jackpot; we’ll be downstairs in a guest suite away from everyone. Instead, we get downstairs, turn into the rec room and see this:



As DiploMIL and DiploSFIL head back upstairs, I’m standing shock still STARING at my “bed” for the next four nights. And then I shake it off and I’m PISSED.

I turn to DiploDad and he immediately falls onto his knees –

Me: What the FUCK??? Are you fucking kidding me?

DiploDad: Shhhh! Shhh! I beg you, please do not make a big deal about this.

Me: Are you kidding me? I’m –

DiploDad: You can have the pop-out bed, I’ll sleep on the floor –

Me: Are you kidding? We’ve been married 26 years. We have two kids. We’re pushing 50. A 1980s era broken-down single pop-out couch and a couple of couch cushions wrapped in a sheet on the fucking floor are FINE??? While a 12-year-old gets her own room? Do you realize we’re in the rec room like middle school kids? I got over that shit YEARS ago, DiploDad.

DiploDad: We’ll fix this, I promise, we’ll fix this –

Me: On what fucking planet is this acceptable? Tell me. Really, tell me. We don’t even have a door to close. I’m not even in the same bed. Hell, the two cushions YOU will be sleeping on are uneven – one’s over an inch higher than the other – how is the OK for YOU?

I texted DiploSIL, who informed me that they’d tried to bring this up with the ILs but they said it would be ‘OK’ so they didn’t push it. She did offer to swap rooms with us. Seriously, am I wrong to think it would be OK for the 12yo niece to take the rec room? I didn’t think so. But even her MOTHER didn’t see that should be the solution.

An hour, a Target run, a lot more swearing, and $200 later, we had an aerobed and a pair of sheets.


DiploDad: OK, bed, sheets – we need anything else?

Me: Wine.

DiploDad: (Reaches for tetrapak (hey, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it) on shelf.) Two?

Me: Four.

I should probably mention that DiploMIL and DiploSFIL do not drink. So after all that crap, there wasn’t going to be any booze in the house. That’s not how I roll. I have children, people. You’ve met my children. I drink.


I wanted to leave the empty bottles of our secret stash here for them to find.  DD nixed the idea. Spoilsport.

After the bed fiasco, we settled in, and things calmed down. We had a great few days exploring colonial Williamsburg, visiting, and hanging out.

The afternoon before we were going to leave, DiploNiece was showing me, DiploSIL and DiploMIL a dress she’d worn to a dance program at Colonial Williamsburg. I moved into her room entirely, and that’s when I saw it.

A three-foot high, spooky-ass, china doll on a bureau in the corner.

We left the room. I came back a few minutes later, picked up a pair of scissors I’d noticed on the nightstand, and placed them in the doll’s hands and went back downstairs.

Me: Hey – DB1, come here.

DB1: Yes, Mommy?

Me: Did you ever tell DiploNiece about Annabelle and the other haunted dolls you read about online?

DB1: Nope.

Me: Why don’t you?

  1. You Will Get Extra Special Treatment From TSA.

The flight was OK, but I got extraspecial treatment both at Dulles and at Heathrow. Sometimes, I think they just pull me to make sure their stats don’t reveal profiling. Still, when I’m being wiped down for powder AGAIN and getting a special pat down that seems to get more thorough every single year, I can’t help but blurt out: “Dude, I AM the target.” Still, TSA is there to keep us all safe, so I try not to fuss. Even if the rules about taking your shoes off are not the same everywhere. Even if the bag you need to put liquids in is different and you’re repacking three bags of toothpaste and Axe products, and even if I have to take all electronics out when it says “laptops” at one airport and not at the other. Which inevitably gets me pulled over for MORE frisking. Dammit.

Even if the song, “TSA Gangstas” keeps running through my head. It went viral a few years ago. If you missed it, here it is – oh, wait – don’t put this on with children present.

Oh, and I lied. You get a bonus sixth reason:

  1. You’ll Still Do the Same Damn Shit Next Year.

I’d hit 53.25 hours awake by the time I got back in. Everything melted away once DiploDog attacked me with the exuberance only a small mixed-breed dog can deliver. After much DiploDog snuggling, unpacking a bunch of cheese and lunchmeat from my suitcase (and removing the TSA “I searched your bag because that shit looked like plastique advisory flyer”) and packing it in the freezer to take out in October or so, I hit the sack for a few hours rest before starting off full throttle.

A week later, DiploDad and the DBs showed back up, and they just managed to shake off the jet lag today – I hope.

We were getting our morning coffee a few days later when DB2 walked up to us.

DB2: Do we know what we’re doing when we go back home next summer?

Me: Nope. But it won’t EVER involve me sleeping on the floor again.

DiploDad: Damn straight.








Top Ten Camping Tips from the DBs


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Another summer, another camping trip with the DBs, and instead of a summary of what we did, I thought I’d ask the DBs to give you their Top 10 Tips for Camping Awesomeness. Ready?

DB2: Canoe paddles make awesome double lightsabres. DB1: But don’t let Mommy see you.


DB1: Be very quiet if you see deer.


DB1: Leaves of three, let it be, especially if you have to pee. DB2: You don’t want to deal with that there.

DB2: Be a boy. It doesn’t matter if you have to pee while you are hiking or in the canoe. DB1: Don’t be so sexist, you twit.

DB1: Always look at the view from the top of the mountain. DB2: Take a snack break too. Bring granola bars. The good kind, with chocolate chips. DB1: Not the kind Mommy brings, the kind Daddy brings. DB2: Yeah.


DB1: You have to have s’mores, or it’s not camping.


DB2: You can only drink the water on the trail if your Dad says you can. Your mother will never say you can, so ask your Dad.


DB2: If someone stops on the hike, smack them on the butt. DB1: No! Why would you say that? DB2: Because if Mommy had smacked me on the butt, I would have moved and she wouldn’t have fallen and crushed me. DB1: Maybe it would be better to say look where you are going when you go on a hike. DB2: Definitely.

DB1: Always check a map.


DB1: You can fight with your brother anywhere. DB2: Totally, dude.


Packing Like a Boss – The Beach Weekend


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Over Memorial Day, DiploDad, DB2 and I went to the Maldives. It’s a beach place – kind of like going to Florida, and we stayed at a resort. Since it’s the summer, and so many folks are headed to the beach, I thought I’d give my tips for Packing Like a Boss for a weekend beach trip.

This packing list assumes that you’re going to spend most of your time in the water or on the beach, chilling. It also assumes that you’re going to restaurants for your meals, or that someone else is at least doing the cooking. I’d probably make a few changes if I needed to cook dinner – but maybe not. It also assumes two overnights and flight time.

Ok – let’s get packing!

The list:

  • Four shirts. One of them should be a cotton shirt that could arguably be ironed. One of them should be a tank top. The others can be whatever you want, but should be comfortable and go either super casual or dressy casual, depending on how you accessorize.


  • OK, so really five shirts. Something fun that reminds you of home, where you came from, or something you love. With a logo.


  • A solid color scarf/dupatta in a color that goes with the two dressy casual shirts. I like to pack a colored one, but cream or black may be more your style. You could also go the crazy route and pack a beachy print that clashes with everything, which would be awesome.
  • One pair of solid color shorts that go with pretty much everything. I like white, but khaki, navy, or black can be good options. Just keep in mind two things: dark colors suck in heat, and white will call attention to that Wonder Woman underwear if you wear it underneath. Consider yourself warned.


  • One pair of linen pants. Again, go with a neutral. Same warnings for colors apply.
  • One casual skirt. I recommend a black stretch skirt. It packs well, you can usually rinse it in the sink if you have a stain emergency, and it goes with pretty much everything. If it suits whatever else you’ve packed and you have another color, go for that instead. If you’ve mostly solid tops packed, you could even pack a matching print. I like something a little less on the sporty side and more towards classic so that I have more evening options, but if you wanted to, you could totally pack one of those Columbia or LL Bean skort things.
  • One sundress or maxi dress. If you are going out at night, and you’re in Beach Land, you could arguably get away with tromping through dining establishments in a beach cover-up and your swimsuit or a crappy pair of cutoffs and a tie-dye t-shirt with a risqué logo, but don’t. Go the classy route. Not only will you feel fabulous, it will prevent any embarrassment if you should inadvertently run into an old boyfriend or your 3rd grade teacher. Stranger things have happened, trust me.


Given these basics, you’re looking at something like this for your land-based outfit options:


On to the beach!


  • I personally find it better to go the bikini route. Because you can do this:

Not only that, if you are diving, it’s easier to get in and out of things, and makes the pit stop after a long swim that much quicker. Invest in a good suit – buy separates, and while Target may have some cheapie options, if you’ve any kind of bust, you will want to visit Water, Water, Everwhere or another swimsuit specialty shop to get supportive tops. As an added bonus, it will hold up even longer, so go ahead and lay out the cash. I like to pack one in black and then a cute suit I have with two separate top options in a color I know I look fabulous in. Color definitely matters if you’re showing that much skin, so choose carefully.

For those of you who are not comfortable with the two-piece option, throw in at least two one-pieces. You’ve got room, trust me.

  • A swimshirt. Let’s get real, people, there’s this thing called skin cancer, and you want to avoid it. Again, invest in a quality top. Cheap ones not only won’t hold up that long, they also won’t provide adequate sun protection.


  • A good, packable hat. As long as we’re on the topic of sun protection, don’t forget the hat. Wide brim, collapsible. Make sure you’ve a wide enough brim to cover your neck. Target has a great selection of these every summer, and they ring up at about $15. If you’re not near a Target, check out some of the local tailors, especially in Africa – they tend to make things like hats out of scraps or ends of fabric. My friend, C, has one that I am dying to swipe. No matter what your fancy, you have a lot of options with hats – pick a neutral, pick one that matches most of your wardrobe, or go crazy and pick a bold, fun color you wouldn’t otherwise wear. Nothing says summer like a bright orange, pink, or yellow hat.


  • Beach cover-ups. I like a shirt-style cover-up that you can use as a casual dress over your suit when you head to breakfast on your way to the beach. I also like to bring a pareo – a giant scarf – for when I’m actually on the beach and just want to run somewhere else for a minute. Wrap it around your waist as a skirt, or put it around your back like a towel, cross one corner over your chest, bring it around your neck, and then repeat with the other side, securing it around your neck – bingo – halter dress. I tend to use the shirt-style cover-up only for the trek to and trek from the beach. Not while I’m parked in a beach chair.


Next Step: Accessories!

  • Let’s talk jewelry. Yes, you want some. No, you don’t want to bring Aunt Tilly’s special cocktail ring. Bring a couple of things you regularly wear, and don’t bring anything you would not be able to replace or would absolutely die if you lost. A few pairs of earrings in colors you’ve packed, a classic necklace, a fun bracelet or two, maybe a ring, and you’re done. Just keep in mind that whatever you’re wearing should be something you can wear with more than one outfit. Pack them in one of those jewelry cases I mentioned in this post –

Jewelry Collage

  • Two pairs of shoes. You’re going to a beach resort, so I’d propose two pairs of flip-flops – one “fancy” and one rubber pair for ratting around in. You don’t want to deal with heels unless there’s a boardwalk or an area where you’re able to walk around in those cute little sandals. If you do have that available, toss in those heels as an “extra” if you have room. You’ll be wearing the “fancy” flip-flops on the plane anyway.


  • Sunglasses. I travel with two pair because I tend to misplace things. I throw one in my bag and one in my purse.

And the basics:

  • A nightgown, five pairs of knickers, and a bra or two – if you need a strapless bra, toss it in, although you could probably get away with the double strap thing if you wanted to and didn’t care about your grandmother rolling over in her grave. Your call. Make sure that whichever bra you pack is a different color from the one you’re planning on wearing on the plane.
  • Go easy on the makeup – let your natural beauty shine through, and you’re going to have the holiday glow, so don’t cover it. Mascara and lip gloss are nice though. For other products, put in some travel sizes of your daily products. You can acquire quite a selection of these from hotel travel, the drug store, and samples from where you buy your regular cosmetics. Don’t forget to ask the salespeople when you buy that 15 oz. $40 moisturizer for a few sample sizes. And by a “few”, I mean about 10. While the goal is to make it through the airport without having to check a bag, you also want to avoid skin cancer, so go ahead and try to sneak in a full-size bottle of sunscreen. If it doesn’t make it through, you can buy it once you arrive. I have about a 75% success rate on sneaking it in – don’t tell TSA, OK?  Pack it in one of these:


Finally, what are you wearing on the plane?

  • Shoes. Comfy ones.
  • Neutral tank top. You might even wind up wearing it later on instead of other shirts, so keep that in mind when choosing.
  • Neutral sweater or jacket. It gets cold on the plane, so you’ll need it, even if it will be 40C when you arrive at your destination.
  • Neutral scarf. See tank top advice above when choosing the color.


Done! That’s it –


Pack it up, grab your tickets and let’s go – the beach awaits!


Styling courtesy of DB1.  

Where is the Love?*


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Friday night DiploDad and I herded Kind und Kegel into a large U.S. government van and headed to Chatrapati Shivaji International Airport. The mood was high; we were headed home for about a month of leave, and family visits, Space Camp, a 4th of July BBQ in Colonial Williamsburg, and Five Guys were on the list. The adrenaline carried us through two eight-hour flights, a five-hour layover, a 45-minute rental car nightmare that probably compromised our credit card information, and an hour-and-a-half drive to DiploSis’ house in rural West Virginia.

We settled into the familiar rhythm with DiploSis and DiploBroIL, laughing as we enjoyed a drink on the porch while the DBs and their cousins ran around on the large grassy lawn. The sun still hung high in the sky when DiploDad finally succumbed to jet lag and lay down on the porch furniture to snooze. Early bedtime seemed a good idea. DB2’s eyes were so bloodshot, and with his two front teeth out he looked like a miniature vampire. DB1 was so unintelligible it sounded like he was speaking in tongues, and I just wanted to die. So, off we went to dreamland.

Turns out, that while we were in dreamland, a few hundred people were living a nightmare a few hours south of us. Again, we woke up to an America we didn’t know existed.

I really, truly have a hard time understanding why someone would be so – hateful.

Why someone would think that because someone loved someone else and they didn’t agree with it, they needed to die. Why someone would think it a perfectly rational thing to take the lives of 50 innocent people who were out to have a fun evening with friends and family. Why someone felt their religion required them to hate someone so much that they had to put a bullet in their body and end their life.

I found myself thinking, why so much hatred? Where is the love? I kept asking that to myself over and over, as I mulled over the incident, society, gun control, and extremism.

The LGBTQI community has requested people not focus on issues such as gun control, immigration, and Muslim hatred, and while I’ve definitely got opinions on all of those (surprised? I didn’t think so.), and I feel that the events of Sunday were a confluence of these; I’ll set them aside.  After all – I already addressed gun control in another post.

My generation straddles a bizarre place. Or at least some of us do. I was raised Catholic in the Deep South. In a military community. Not exactly the most welcoming of places if one were LGBTQI. By all stereotypes, I should be anti-gay. But I’m not.

Let me revise that statement. I initially was, back when I had no clue, no guidance other than traditional adults who had a lot at stake in the system, guilt was served up with a side of piety on Sundays (by some, but not all priests), and conformity was so much the norm I felt like a freak for not wearing the right color neon blouse or earrings. I heard, and used, the words “gay”, “faggot”, and “queer” on the playground without understanding what they meant and their impact on the LGBTQI community. I think I was well into high school when I realized they meant something other than “weird” or “stupid”. When one of my friends asked his mom what “queer” meant, she said, and I quote, “Someone who farts in the bathtub and smells the bubbles”. I kid you not. Not only did we use words that conveyed hate, we had no freaking clue what they meant, and not many folks were giving us accurate information.

It didn’t affect me too much. I mean, I’m straight. My parents, as many during that era, were just fine with not letting the cat out of the bag and letting me live in a bubble because Lord knows, I wouldn’t ever have to deal with that.

And I didn’t, until I went to college.

In college, I met DiploDad. He raved about this one professor. He was brilliant; he challenged you; he taught you so much. So, second semester my sophomore year, I registered for History of Bourbon France. Professor O’Brien was a talented teacher. He commanded a classroom. And he was, I’m certain, gay. He never said it outright. You really couldn’t in those days at WVU. Somehow, the topic came up in class, and some guy made a comment about gays, and the Professor said the one thing that cut through every justification I’d ever heard or clung to with respect to being gay being wrong or not normal:

“Did you just suddenly decide one day as you were walking across Mountainlair Plaza that you were heterosexual?”

No, I didn’t. Suddenly, to me, it all made sense. Of course, there was the default assumption I was raised under – “you’re straight, you will find a nice boy, and you will get married and have kids”. Which worked out fine for me, because I was. If I hadn’t been, it would have been difficult, I’m sure. At the same time, DiploDad and I had started to get serious, and were sharing all the family secrets. One of his was that he had not one, but two uncles who were gay. Four brothers, oldest two straight, youngest two gay.

It might seem like this would be a lot for sheltered little me to process, but it wasn’t really. Gay just became another trait in a long list of traits I began to notice and acknowledge in people I met. More significant than, say, brown eyes or left-handedness, but normal, and biological just the same.

Later on that year, the Gay and Lesbian Mountaineers appeared on campus**, and there was much criticism, homophobia, and curiosity. I don’t remember too much about it, to be truthful. It was a blip on the radar of my social life for most of my college career – I was involved in Greek Life on campus, and while there were some notable gay members (such as the Sigma Chi president who was out), LGBTQI and loudly out and publicly out still wasn’t the norm at WVU; most folks were still closeted.*** People were still largely uncomfortable with it. I don’t think I realized how uncomfortable until our senior year, when DiploDad and I were invited to a reception for all of the presidents of the student organizations and we realized that the GLM president was standing alone in a corner, rather awkwardly, by himself. We went over to talk to him, because we thought that was just wrong he was alone. It wasn’t a memorable conversation – for both of us, I’d bet. I can’t even remember if anyone else followed suit, but I do remember most people avoided him.

DiploDad proposed to me in December of our senior year, and “gay” was the elephant in the room as everyone was planning the wedding. DD’s grandmother had accepted her sons, and his grandfather grudgingly did too after many years, although I would never say he was comfortable with it. I was concerned at how my parents and the “gay contingent” of the family would interact. I shouldn’t have worried. My family has good manners, at a minimum, and everyone was, as I now know after years of experience, “normal”. I know I shouldn’t have worried, but it’s hard to escape your childhood sometimes.

There was a little drama, mostly centered on the announcement that Gay Uncle #1 and his partner were expecting a child with a lesbian couple. Someone said they were trying to steal the wedding couple’s thunder. I honestly could have cared less, and when I met the baby later on in the spring, I saw only a cute baby, not a scandal. Years later, that baby is a college graduate with a great job, a sister, and four parents who are involved in his life and love him. If that’s not a win and an example of stellar parenting, I don’t know what is.

Looking at DiploDad’s family and seeing how things played out with half of the sons in the family being gay sons of a traditional Air Force Colonel, I knew two things for sure. One, that genetically, homosexuality was a distinct possibility for any kids I might have, and two, that I wanted them to grow up understanding that I could care less whom they brought home to love as long as the relationship was healthy, they were loved the way they needed to be, and they understood that they were spending every other Christmas at my house.

I know that we’re succeeding on that front. We’ve had the luxury of the DBs growing up in a Small Town that is incredibly accepting, supportive, and inclusive with respect to gender identity diversity. No, it’s definitely not perfect, but it’s nothing like I grew up with. We’ve made a lot of great friends and some of them just happened to be LGBTQI. To my kids, it’s normal that men can marry men and women can marry women. They’ve seen it happen. They were so excited when one couple we know married and I was making their wedding cake, they wanted to be involved, critiqued my work and also made some accompanying cupcakes. When the Supreme Court decided Obergefell v. Hodges and marriage equality was guaranteed, DB1 was shocked that it had ever not been permitted.

Why was it not? He demanded an answer. Well, I told him, some people didn’t agree with it and passed laws so they couldn’t get married.

“That’s just stupid.”

Yes, it is. With those three words, I know I’ve scored a small victory. If the DBs aren’t LGBTQI, they will at least be allies, and the world will be a tiny bit more accepting. The hatred sprayed in the Pulse nightclub on June 12 in the form of bullets won’t come from my boys.   I don’t always get it right, and for things like this when I have definite baggage and limits on my understanding, I screw it up from time to time, and I probably always will. DB1 is old enough to understand what happened. I’ve talked to him, and he is upset with the motivation of the shooter, serving up a few choice words to describe him and the entire situation. Yes, I told him, it’s awful. It’s complicated, and some people have so much hate in their hearts, but we can’t give into it, as much as we want to. Because then we lose and they win. We have to be the good ones. We have to treat all people equally, accept them as who they are, and if we see someone being mean, or spreading hate, we have to say something; otherwise, we are culpable too.

“Don’t worry, Mom. I will. It’s just love. And love is a good thing.”

And suddenly, I had the answer to the question that plagued me Sunday afternoon.


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*Where is the Love, by the Black-Eyed Peas. Listen to it. You really should. On repeat.

**GLM was not the first LGBTQI organization at WVU. The first one was The Homophile Awareness League, and was founded in the early 1970s. Today, what I knew as GLM is called “Spectrum”. Read more about Spectrum here –

** An example of how deep that closet was: When I was a junior, the student government president was a man named Brad Hoylman. He is now the only openly gay member of the New York state legislature. To my knowledge, he was closeted the entire time he was at WVU. In any event, it was not widely public knowledge.





Disco Inferno

Ever since I saw them parked outside the Taj one evening, I’d been dying to take a ride around Colaba in a “Disco Cart”. Disco Cart isn’t the official name, actually – they’re horse drawn carts used for weddings, and festivals, and they’re called “Victorias”. When they’re not in use pulling a bridal party about, they park just in front of the Taj near the Gateway of India, and wait for tourists.

During the day, there’re really not much to look at. They’re a shiny silver, yes, and they have garlands and bling on them, but nighttime is when they really shine.

As the sun dips low behind the Gateway, the coaches light up in a cacophony of neon, shining stars, hearts, and waves illuminating the cart and rainbows of color bouncing off the shiny silver coach and making the artificial flowers seem even more bizarrely-colored. It’s cheesy, and 70’s, and tacky as Hell. It’s freaking awesome.

It’s also very “disco”, so because I have a strange kind of aphasia and forget words for things when they don’t make sense to my brain wiring, I call them “Disco Carts”.

I had many conversations with DiploDad about taking a ride in them. They always, always went like this:

Me: “Hey – after we go to the National Day Reception for Other Country on Wedensday

night, let’s go ride one of the disco carts!”

DD: “Maybe.”

Me: “Dammit.”

This conversation might not seem like a complete denial, but it really is. I’ve learned over the years that “we’ll see” means “yes” and “maybe” means “no” in Hidden DiploDad Speak.   If you’re married, think about it – I bet there’s something like this in your daily interactions. If you’re not, you’ve been warned this might be in your future.

Every time things went this way, I got a little more panicked. You see, the Biharmumbai Municipal Corporation, in response to protests by animal rights activists, banned the carts from the Gateway area beginning in June 2016.

And since I’m writing about this, you know I have an opinion on that.

I’ve ridden in a horse-drawn sleigh over the snowy countryside of Garmish-Partenkirchen, Germany. I’ve been pulled through New York’s Central Park in the fall with the leaves crunching under the horse’s feet. I’ve circled around the city center in Vienna, Austria. I’ve taken a camel cart ride near the Rann of Kutch in Gujarat, and I’ve been for a covered wagon ride in Texas.

So I don’t think that banning the horses is a fantastic idea.

The folks who own and operate the horse carts and horses aren’t wealthy, and they probably won’t make bank on the number of weddings they book every year. A tourist might pay R1500 for a half-hour ride, and that’s pretty generous. Others might not be as good a negotiator and pay R2500. It doesn’t take a genius (and I never claimed to be one) to figure out that the income of the Disco Cart guys is going to drop if these are banned, and will drop significantly. I’m not sure how many of them are in regular rotation at the Taj, but let’s just say that there are 50. That’s 50 families, maybe 200 people, whose living is affected – significantly. There’s been a “phase out period”, but not much else, and let’s be frank – there’s no way to reinvest when you’ve got a lot tied up in a horse and cart, and how do you find something to supplement that loss of income when you aren’t adequately educated? You don’t. Unless you’re really, really special.

The activists point to mistreatment of the horses, and say it’s cruel. I admit – I’ve seen a horse or two down there that looked like Ally McBeal in the 1990s. I’ve also seen a few pudgeballs. But most of the horses there look relatively well-nourished, and it’s not an unusual sight to see them drinking from buckets or munching on a carrot of a bucket of horse chow. I can’t imagine widespread horse battering either – there are front-page stories here about vets doing surgery on turtles to save them, and the story of Shaktiman, the police horse that was injured at a political rally moved the city and nation.

It just wouldn’t be tolerated if some idiot started waling on his animal. Let’s also be honest – horses are domesticated working animals. They’ve been used to plow fields, pull goods, and transport people throughout history. And horses are expensive. If they aren’t earning, they’re a liability, and I seriously doubt they’ll be cared for the way they need to be if they are just a very, very large belly to fill in a family with less money coming in.

There’s a really – interesting – photo of an activist draped with signs and chains and pulling a disco cart. The activist in the photo looks like ME. So, ahem. Draw your own conclusions on that. I certainly did.

I’m not saying let this go unregulated, or don’t check on the horses – nope, I’m not. I’m saying maybe it would be better to find a way to license folks, do health checks, and regulate it. No, I’m not blind to the difficulties and to the possibility of things not going well or someone turning a blind eye after the exchange of a few rupees. But I think an outright ban is going to cause some problems that could be avoided with a little bit of thoughtfulness.

So the clock is running, and soon the Disco Carts are going to be gone forever, and I wasn’t any closer to getting a ride than I was when I first saw them. Then, one night, I asked DD if he’d like to go to dinner.

Me: “Hey – how does dinner at Ellipsis on Friday sound? We could go ride in a Disco

Cart afterwards?”

DD: “Sounds great”.

Me: “!!!”

So after dinner, we went down to the Gateway and our driver parked nearby. As we walked over, I was cursing that we’d waited so long. Because it was HOT. And by hot, I mean not “Africa Hot”, I mean “India Hot”. By May in Mumbai it’s hovering around the high 30Cs, and any outdoor activity with your spouse is a “hot date”, but not exactly in the way you might intend.

Still, I was going to get a ride on a Disco Cart even if I melted, and DD knew it, so he held his hand out and helped me from the air-conditioned car.


We walked over and checked out all the carts, eventually deciding on one with hearts and stars on it. And a very nice, well-fed horse named Shah Rukh, who was nuzzling his owner.


We haggled for the 30-minute tour, and while I know we paid WAY more than we should have, I felt I was getting a pretty good deal. We set out at a good clip, and wound our way through Colaba. It was too hot to hold hands (wah!) and definitely too hot for DD to put his arm around me (double wah!), but we were moving fast enough for a light breeze that made it very pleasant.


Our tour guide spoke limited English, but he’d memorized his route and had some pertinent information for all the sites we passed. We learned a few things.

We passed some kids driving around in these cute little bobby cars that were all lit up. One of them raced us, laughing and waving all the way to the corner.

We went up by the Taj, passing all the idle Disco Carts. We saw skinny horses, fat horses, horses with their noses in buckets. We saw old men and young men, middle aged men, all hanging out waiting for the next tourist.


When we wound back around, we were finished, Shah Rukh cruised to a stop, and we hopped out shortly thereafter. His owner then gave him a carrot, and I walked over to say hello with a few strokes on his nose. He repaid me with a nudge and a snort.

We walked back to our car, and even though it was cooler, it definitely didn’t have the magic of neon or the sound of hoofbeats, clicking with every second the countdown to the loss of the Disco Carts.