Must Be in the Front Row

We've been in the new house for over three months, and if you were to visit and see our home, you would probably say to yourself, "these guys are pretty settled for having just moved halfway around the world." That would be because we wouldn't have let you look into any drawers, closets, or cabinets. It's true, we look very settled on the outside, but part of moving from India and Chicago to Orlando on a very compressed schedule meant we didn't get a chance to "clean house" before we got to Florida. As a result, it's clean on the outside but not on the inside.

Today, in the few spare hours I had on Easter Sunday before plopping myself on the couch (or outside next to the pool) to watch The Masters, I finally started to clean out the home office. One item I found was a completion certificate for "System Basics" that I received on October 14, 1998 and will most definitely be making a reappearance at work tomorrow (yes, I'm one of approximately 67 Americans that graduated in college in 1998 and still work for the same employer). The other item of note was a ticket stub to a Cubs game that my buddy Matt had scored tickets to through a member at the golf club where he was an assistant pro. As a result, he, his dad, myself, and my roommate Jimmy had some good seats for a random Monday in September:

A couple things stick about the ticket. First, if you don't remember, Kerry Wood was scary good back in those days before he blew our his elbow or whatever it was. Second, for those unfamiliar with Wrigley Field, Aisle 22 is directly behind home plate. Seat 102 is one of the four seats really directly behind home plate, and Row 1 is pretty self explanatory. Easily the best seat I've ever had for any sporting event. The good Reverend Jesse Jackson was in our section behind us. Jerry Krause and Tim Floyd were in our section behind us (a bigger deal in Chicago in 1999 than it is in Orlando in 2012). What else sticks out? In 1999 you could sit directly behind home plate at Wrigley Field for $25. Granted, these were someone's season tickets, but even for 1999 this seems ridiculously cheap.

Highlights from the game included:

• My dad watching on television while counting the number of beers I consumed
• Jon Lieber taking a no-hitter through 6 2/3 innings
• Mark McGwire breaking up that no-hitter with a solo home run
• Jon Lieber proceeding to give up five more earned runs before mercifully getting pulled (still with two outs in the seventh inning
• My buddy Jimmy playing a more prominent role than anyone I've ever known on Sportscenter by being the first to stand just after Sammy "Screech" Sosa made contact on what at first appeared to be home run but turned into a routine fly ball (yep, he was that guy) during a highlight

With any move comes a time for reflection; however, as I looked at this stub nearly thirteen years later, all I fully place the blame on Mark McGwire's steroid abuse for stealing the opportunity to see a major league no-hitter from from the front row behind home plate. Bastard.

Meet the Neighbors

We've decided to officially declare ourselves "settled" and determined the best way to meet the neighbors in bulk would be to host an open house. Tonight, right around sunset, we took a little stroll around the neighborhood to put invitations in peoples' mailboxes. One would think something so innocuous would be less than noteworthy. Fortunately, when Lindsay is involved, material is never an issue.

While making the rounds we were able to meet a couple neighbors that we hadn't previously. Both sets were a father out playing some sort of sport with a kid. The first was a father and son hitting a baseball into a net in the driveway. We stopped for a brief chat, introduced ourselves, and learned about their favorite BBQ joint and that they had recommendations for doctors and dentists. Important, pertinent things about moving to a new city.

As we approached the end of the second culdesac we noticed a father playing some sort of paddle ball game with his daughter. We deposited the invitations in the mailboxes and stopped to introduce ourselves. We had a pleasant conversation and then Lindsay made some comment about the daughter, who was fourteen, looking like Katniss from The Hunger Games. I found this odd for a number of reasons not the least of which was Lindsay comparing a new neighbor's daughter to a cold-blooded killer. Thankfully, the daughter was a Hunger Games fanatic and wasn't the least bit concerned. In fact, she had read the books, seen the movie, and considered herself a bit of a mix of Rue, Katniss, and Prim. First crisis averted.

But here's where it got interesting. Any time Lindsay has asked anyone if they've read The Hunger Games trilogy, her follow-up question is always (and I mean ALWAYS) asking whether they've read the other hot trilogy of the past couple years, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. No different this time; she was on autopilot. So yes, she asked a fourteen year old whether she had read Steig Larsson's masterpiece (coincidentally also about a female killer but aimed at a slightly different demographic than the young adult crowd in The Hunger Games).

All I could muster was, "yeah, you can probably tell we don't have kids."

It feels nice to make a good first impression.

"I wanna go baaaaack"

In April 2005 after a six month stint, I left India for the first time. I didn’t set foot back into the country until November 2010 when I landed to search for a new apartment. In the 4.5 years that passed between those dates, there were no fewer than three situations where I thought I’d get a chance to go back for anywhere ranging from a couple weeks to multiple months. However, as the announcer in FIFA ‘99 would often tell my buddy Jimmy in our N64 glory days, “chance gone begging there” when he missed a shot on goal back, the chance for my return trip to India went begging as well; it never materialized.

As I transitioned to my new job in the US (still heavily involved with working with India), I was delighted to learn that three trips had been budgeted for my return to my adopted homeland in 2012. Not just three trips, but three two-week trips. While I had no intention of spending six weeks in India this year unless absolutely necessary, I took the fact that six weeks of travel had been planned as a relatively safe assumption that I’d wait less than 4.5 years for my return. In fact, the first trip was planned to commence 4.5 months from my return.

I had visions of a productive week of work and a weekend in Delhi filled with my favorite restaurants, a brunch (oh yes, there would have been a brunch), a stop at Maharaja Arts for a rug (the old rug from Home Depot beneath our dining room table is a very nice rug; however, when placed in proximity to our rug from India, it starts to look like, well, a rug from Home Depot), and maybe even a trip back to Grover’s (my tailor) at Khan Market. Of course, as part of this vision, my trusty driver Kailash (whom I obviously would have requested and received, because you know, he was my driver for two years) would have greeted me at the airport with a fresh batch of photos from his recent wedding. Everything was going to be perfect.

Then last Friday I received an email from my boss with a rather ominous subject line: “India is ‘off.’”

That didn’t sound like good news. Hoping that maybe she had mistyped, I still opened the email. Unfortunately, bad news confirmed. The trip was off. I could have saved a few keystrokes and just trusted the subject heading.

The repatriation process is tough. It’s tougher, in my opinion, when you return domestically to an unfamiliar place. I have to admit, after four months back in the states, a busy month of December getting moved, and two months of constant work travel and visitors, I was really looking forward to getting back to a familiar, comfortable place.

In some ways, it helps that I saw some Indian colleagues in Chicago a couple weeks ago, including my boss while I was and the gentleman that replaced me. In fact, we hosted him for dinner at the new house in Orlando when he visited for a couple days the following week. It’s fun to have visitors and show off Lindsay’s “finds” and tell the stories of how those finds were found. It’s more fun when you show a home full of Indian objects to someone from there that truly appreciates it (I mean, people humor us and tell us the stuff we brought back is cool; but what do they really care?). I used to describe our home decorating style as “Pottery Barn and Asia involved in some sort of conflict that has yet to be decided.” As we showed Jagmohan around the new digs, it was pretty obvious Asia came out on top of that conflict.

As good as it is to talk to and see people from India, and I’m not at the “Jack in ‘Lost’” state yet, sitting drunk at the end of a runway wailing “I wanna go baaaaack.” But the reality is, I do want to go back. At some point here I’m sure I will, and 4.5 months may have been a little unrealistic.

Let’s just hope it’s not 4.5 years.

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.