Anatomy of a Color Fight

As I write this, in village and cities all across India, merrymakers are preparing to celebrate the festival of colors, known as Holi. At first glance, the average American might think it's kind of a goofy holiday where you throw colored powder on one another. I'd offer that it's no goofier than something like Halloween, where if you look at it through a foreigners eyes is comprised of dressing our children up in costumes and sending them out unattended (at least in my day) to beg for candy by ringing the doorbells of strangers.

As an experienced repat, there are certain triggers that make me miss my adopted home. For me, a primary trigger seems to be holidays. I regret never experiencing a true Holi, one out in an "unprotected" area where you're likely the primary target of who knows what being thrown on you. Probably not the safest of situations, but a regret nonetheless.

Regardless, to administer a little self-therapy, I was looking through last year's pictured from our "protected" Holi celebration at Manvar resort, halfway between Jodhpur and Jaisalmer. If you've ever been curious how people get "colored" during the celebration, this series of shots will help explain (though there wasn't water involved so the end result was nowhere what you might see in an "unprotected" celebration.

Happy Holi!

Doing the Laundry

One of the more common questions asked as I embarked on this repatriation journey was whether or not I was looking forward to doing my own laundry. My response mirrored that of Vince Vaughn’s “why would I WANT to do the dishes” response in “The Break Up.” Why would I look forward to doing my laundry? It’s a rather boring task that I’d love to not HAVE to do. In an unscientific poll (those sitting in my row on a plane), a vast majority of Americans agree.

In fact, I’d wager there aren’t many middle class Americans out there that, given the opportunity, wouldn’t pay someone what I paid someone to do the laundry while I was in India. How much was it? I can’t say exactly as it was clubbed (that’s the Indian way to say “combined”, it has nothing to do with baby seals) as an add-on service provided by our cook. Regardless, you start to do the math and begin to realize there’s no reason to do it yourself. Personal pride doesn’t even get in the way. As an added bonus, you’re gainfully employing someone at (or likely above the market rate). So you’re actually doing the right thing.
As a realistic person, I knew there was no way, upon moving back to the US, that it would be economically feasible to pay someone to do my laundry. It’s about expectations. I wasn’t expecting it, so it doesn’t really bother me. It doesn’t change the fact that I don’t want to do it; however, I recognize that I HAVE to do it, so it’s not really even worth arguing. Though if someone wants to come by and do my laundry for a couple bucks a week, the offer is on the table.

One of the creature comforts I missed while in India related to laundry was a dryer. Clothes dried the old-fashioned way, on drying racks. Now that we have a dryer, I inexplicably miss the crusted air-dried feel that my clothes had for two years in India. I never thought my clothes would feel “too soft” but here I am saying you know what, a dryer might not be all that necessary (that is, of course, when you have someone that takes the clothes from the washer, transfers to a rack, and ultimately dutifully folds as appropriate.
Another aspect of laundry that I thought I’d better appreciate upon returning was a washing machine that could fit more than two pair of jeans. Part of the move to Orlando involved procuring a new washer and dryer. We now have 4.7 cubic feet of washing bliss. The issue is, we’re so used to doing small loads that we never come anywhere near filling it unless there are towels involved. I tend to wash towels just to fill up loads. Probably not the most environmentally friendly approach.

As working professionals, we still enlist the services of a drycleaner. In India, we were constantly annoyed by the length of time it took to get clothes back, which routinely topped a week. Surprisingly, in Orlando, the wait isn’t that much lower. Three or four days is not uncommon. Also surprisingly, the sheer number of dry cleaners is vastly lower than expected. There’s seemingly a nail shop (or two) in every strip mall; however, I’ve found a grand total of two dry cleaners that are in any way convenient to our daily lives. I recognize, at least at my office, that the dress code is somewhat more informal here than it was in the Chicago area; however, do people not get clothes dry cleaned here? I’m not in the market for starting a business, but drycleaners seem to be in Orlando what good Mexican restaurants are in India, seemingly good entrepreneurial ventures.

At the end of the day, there’s not too much to complain about. My whites now stay white. My clothes smell like dryer sheets (we made the mistake of taking a huge box of dryer sheets to India which were rendered useless until I realized you could put them in your closet and drawers). My clothes can’t stand up on their own. I guess in the time it took to write this, the nostalgic longing for crusted clothes already subsided.

Suffrage Denied!

Yesterday, Floridians across the state took to the polls and awarded Mitt Romney its Republican presidential primary. Well, all Floridians except for me. And felons. I didn't register to vote until I converted my driver's license from Illinois on January 19, which was exactly 17 days too late. The rule in Florida is that you have to register 29 days before an election in order to be eligible to vote in that election. Why 29 days? Why not. I'm sure it's to protect against people moving just before the election for the sole purpose of voting and swinging an election and some sort of lead time to get the voter rolls prepared. And let's be honest, based on Florida's recent history of contested elections, you can see where this might be a concern. Of course, my last two residences comprise of a place where dead people routinely vote and allegations of kidnaps on election day where blame is placed on the opposition (yeah, someone actually told me that happens in India though it's complete heresay).

In the past 45 days, I've purchased a home in Florida, placed money in escrow for property taxes, registered two vehicles, and acquired a driver's license. I would have even been willing to pay state income tax if they wanted to collect it. I still met Florida's requirement to get a driver's license within 30 days, why end my suffrage?

Disgruntled, I checked the waiting period in case I wanted to buy a gun (not because I was disgruntled enough to do something, just for comparison sake). Three days. I could see the same waiting period to get the rolls ready for those that can prove true residency, which I would hope some combination of what I listed above could prove.

Some might ask, "why do you really care?" Here's the thing, during my two years in India I blissfully ignored what was going on in this country. I ignored it so much that I couldn't tell you the idealogical differences between the candidates. To me, Mitt Romney was the presidential looking rich guy who had ran and lost in 2008. Newt Gingrich was, well, the Speaker of the House in the 90's and I would have assumed he was just some sort of analyst appearing on a show "Morning Joe."

And that brings us to why I care so much. Since moving back to the states, I've once again made "Morning Joe" a regular part of my morning routine. I've even matured to the point where I'll listen to that on Sirius on the way to work rather than Howard Stern (if there was ever a tell-tale sign that you're getting old, that might be it). I wouldn't consider myself a political junkie (though I do have a political science minor, I'm kind of a big deal), but I've spent the past six weeks trying to reacquaint myself with what's going on in this country and actually become informed. Regardless how you feel about the state of American politics (like a lot of people, I think it's pretty screwed up) or how you feel about the primary/caucus system and the electoral college (like a lot of people, I think they both should be blown up), it is the system we have. And when you're told you're not allowed to participate, it kind of sucks.

(On a quick aside, probably the funniest suffrage bit in TV history was Kimmel and Corolla on "The Man Show" petitioning to end women's suffrage simply because it was easy to use "end" something that sounds a lot like suffering. Basically, they used the fact that people didn't know what it meant to get them to sign something supporting ending their right to vote. And for the record, I'm all for women's suffrage. But the bit is funny. It's called comedy.)

The Launch

My participation in the home buying purchase was as active as possible from 8,000 miles away. My wife was in Orlando for less than a week to meet her new team and start the process. By keeping me out of it (I didn't even see pictures before we made our first offer), she did an excellent job. One of the unplanned benefits is that our backyard (i.e., our pool area) faces east. I thought the primary benefit of this was that it's shaded in the afternoons which, I'm going to have to guess, can only make the humid summers somewhat more bearable.

While we were at dinner last weekend with our new neighbors, they mentioned that it was unfortunate that the shuttle program had ended because there were perfect views of launches from the back of the houses on our side of the street. I'm sure we could hold a grand debate over the viability of the shuttle program, but just about everyone has to admit; seeing a launch from your house would have been pretty cool.

Earlier tonight that same neighbor texted Lindsay saying there was a planned rocket launch from Cape Canaveral at 7:38pm. Since Lindsay was sitting at another aeronautical landmark, O'Hare International Airport, I decided to look into the eastward sky from the back deck, knowing neither where the rocket may emerge from the horizon nor how large it would look.

Sure enough, shortly after 8:38pm a small fireball appeared directly east out from my patio, slowly climbing up through the night sky. Since we're approximately 40 miles east of the site, it was a relatively small in the context of the entire horizon but still large enough that you weren't going to miss it. I tried to take pictures but was on an AUTO setting and taking them at night while holding the camera. The results weren't pretty and not to be published. Perhaps I'll consult with my trusty photography coach, Colin Howe, and see what I might be able to do for future opportunities (though something tells me it's going to involve the purchase of a rather expensive lens that I'm just not prepared to make at this time).

Chalk this up as one of the unexpected benefits of the move; at some point I'll need to get over to the cape.

Stale Bread

I like a fresh loaf of bread as much as the next guy; however, exactly how long should bread stay soft and fresh? In India, a loaf of bread, which cost Rs. 16 (or about $0.30, I kind of miss those prices) lasted approximately four or five days before becoming completely stale and uneatable. I've realized that here in the states bread seemingly stays fresh forever. I had purchased a new bag of wheat buns to use for dinner tonight. I was surprised that the buns I had purchased over two weeks ago were still eminently usable. I've had pretty much the same experience with the sliced bread I've purchased (and I keep getting suckered into "buy 1 get 1" deals that would be ridiculous if not for the fact that the bread lasts forever).

Maybe it's how it's stored. In India, we stored bread in a ziploc bag on a shelf in a kitchen that was neither heated nor air conditioned. In my new house, we store the bread in a dark pantry seemingly protected from the elements.

The more likely yet completely unproven (because I'm simply too lazy) culprit? They put a lot of preservative and/or additive crap in American food. Actually, I'm not even sure what an additive is but just know that was the line of work Clark Griswold was in. Whether it be bread, produce, or other items, food simply lasts longer here. We knew that coming home and have tried to start buying organic, which I always thought was a little unnecessary. However, if anything might make you a believer, it's knowing that a loaf of bread tastes fresher after a week in my pantry in Orlando than it did coming off the shelf from my neighborhood Need's market in Gurgaon.

Migration Complete?

Yesterday morning I walked out of my home office to grab a quick cup of coffee in the kitchen. When I returned, I was surprised to find two huge birds standing on my driveway staring through my window. Figuring the number of photographs I've taken roughly equals the number of blog posts I've written since moving to Florida, I decided to grab my camera.

After doing a little bit of research, I was stunned to learn that what I figured was some sort of stork or heron was actually a sand hill crane. My experience with the sand hill crane is limited but still likely more than most. I grew up lucky enough to drive to Colorado to go skiing each year. When you drive to the Rocky Mountains from Moline, IL you follow Interstate 80 across Iowa and most of Nebraska. When you drive I-80 during February or March, you're often lucky enough to see thousands of these grand birds migrating.

While the cranes that appeared in my yard aren't those same cranes (apparently, there are only like 5000 of the Floridian sub-species left and from what I can tell they stay in Florida), I decided that one of two things had happened: (1) they appeared as a symbol of my migration south having come to a close and that it was time to stop using lack of time as an excuse for not writing about my repatriation (I mean seriously, we closed on the new house nearly a month ago) or (2) they simply had no better place to be at that time on Monday morning.

So there you have it, I'm going to attempt to do what very few have seemed able to do which is maintain a repatriation themed blog. Maybe "repats" find that others just aren't as interested in the life they come back to than the life they seemingly escaped in the first place. Maybe it's not exotic. If you don't believe me, Google "repatriation blog" (even without the quotes, the pickings are slim; the only currently maintained blog I could find anywhere near the front page was "I Was an Expat Wife"). I could be wrong, but it seems like there's more to repatriating than just hearing that "it's harder to adjust back to your original culture than it was to your adopted culture."

On the bright side, I've got this whole new Florida adventure thing working for me. Well, that and I'm really just writing this to entertain myself and maybe half dozen other people and to, you know, try and improve as a writer.

The Insight Bowl

One of the most disruptive parts of expat life in India was having to wake up early or stay up late to catch a game on Slingbox. Coming home, I thought those days were behind me. Then I checked the start time of my beloved Iowa Hawkeyes' appearance in the Insight Bowl: 10:00pm EST. It's hard to believe that the 11:00am local start time in Bali for last year's Insight Bowl (where yes, those same beloved Hawkeyes played) was actually more convenient.

Regardless, I'm settling in for my first full football game in my upstairs basement (as you're probably aware they don't have basements here in Florida so I've converted the bonus room above my garage into a full scale replica of my basement from  Chicago).

Go Hawks!