29 September 2013

HERE WE GO AGAIN

Remember that time when Paul gave up sugar? It started the week before Christmas in 2011. While perusing the menu at Paul’s parent’s restaurant, I cracked a joke about having pie for dinner because I just didn’t seem to be in the mood for anything, but that apple pie in process pictured on the menu cover made me feel pretty happy.

It was then that the hilarious tiff began, with Paul making comments about how I should weigh 200 pounds and have diabetes. I retorted, “I get my sugar levels checked every year because both my parents are/were diabetic (were referring to my now-deceased father). I’m good!”

“WHAT?!” he piped. “You’re telling me that both of your parents have diabetes and you still eat that much sugar?! YOUR FOOT IS GOING TO FALL OFF!”

It was in that moment that he decided we both needed to just stop eating sugar…the week before Christmas. Could he have picked a worse time of year?!

Paul saw the challenge as, well, a challenge. I saw the challenge as imminent death. In my mind (maybe I am still a bit childish?), if you tell me not to do something, I sometimes want to do it more.

What started for me as a pretty easy ride to limiting and not eliminating processed sugars quickly spiraled out of control with a binge fest the first weekend that Paul went away on a business trip. I had deprived myself of cookies and cake and sweet treats (even fancy coffees) for a month and then, the minute the sugar police vacated the scene, it was an all-out sugar war that I oh so happily conquered.

After that crazy situation, I consulted with my doctor and she confirmed that limiting sugar was good, especially for my rising cholesterol ratio, but eliminating sugar altogether and later binging would cause more damage. So there, in front of my husband who can actually do what he sets his mind to do, I had doctoral confirmation that I could still have sugar…in small doses. Thank God.

I went through spells when I had more sugar than I should have (like a sweet treat every day for the seven days leading up to my 30th birthday – my cholesterol test the following week was so not great after that enjoyable monstrosity), but most of the time I was impressed with my ability to not have cookies or cakes in the house.

By limiting my sugar intake, I got creative when selecting sugars to ease my cravings. For instance, I learned that having a square of natural chocolate is a healthy alternative to the processed sugar and added sugars found in cookies, cakes and icings. One square of milk chocolate after a meal or a cupcake or a few cookies? I learned that sometimes all I needed was just a little taste of something sweet instead of an over-filled belly, so a chocolate square or two eased my cravings without the added calories, fat and processed sugar.

I also keep my sugar cravings in check by knowing that if I don’t have sweets in my house, I can’t eat them.

Last month I found myself facing another food elimination challenge: wheat. I got sick three times within a week and the only things that I could attribute to my symptoms were pasta and bread. So I e-mailed a friend with celiac disease asking for some gluten-free recipe recommendations.

I made it a few days thanks, surprisingly, to our local supermarket, which offered an astonishing amount of healthy and gluten-free products for a third-world country. Shocking.

Then I caved and had bread to test my theory. Bam. Sick. So I went a few more days without wheat- or flour-based products and tried again. Sick. I was starting to get the hint.

So I went another few days on a gluten-free diet, which slightly altered Paul’s eating options as well. I am the cook. He eats what he gets.

Then we went to Sydney and I decided to try one thing – a waffle for breakfast. Sick in the afternoon. The next day I faced the awful realization that I might not be allowed to have bread or pasta again. If I were born with such an allergy I wouldn’t feel this way. But the fact that I should have been born into an Italian family because I consume more bread and pasta in a year than all Americans combined means that suddenly not being able to have these foods again was going to be worse than giving up sugar.

When we returned from Sydney, I did my meal planning – gluten-free this time – and then I went shopping. I went an entire week on a gluten-free diet. During that week, I had another symptom that made me think that I might not have suddenly developed a wheat allergy after all. 

To test my theory, I went a little overboard. I had grilled chicken with spaghetti, an amazing slice of garlic bread and a fruit tart for dessert. No reaction! Turns out, I’m just fine. I guess I just had a bug or something that didn’t react well for a few weeks. I must say I was a little relieved – mostly because I didn’t have to put so much effort into meal planning.

It’s been two weeks since I have ended my gluten-free yo-yo diet and I must say that I learned quite a bit from my short experience limiting flour-based products. The key difference I felt was the ability to be satisfied without feeling overly full.

I also learned that limiting wheat-based foods left more room for proteins, fruits and vegetables throughout my day. I found myself eating oatmeal with fruit in the mornings, consuming more fruit and granola as snacks throughout the day and focusing more on proteins and vegetables for dinner. This is a great healthy plan.

I am glad that I had some experience with gluten-free meal planning because Paul has now joined the bandwagon. Last week I made grilled ham and cheese sandwiches for lunch. Though it’s not uber healthy, I did discover the Rachael Ray recipe the prior week and I had been looking forward to trying the oh-so-amazing-looking sandwich.

As I plopped the giant, tasty sandwiches onto two plates with a small side of potato wedges, Paul looked at his lunch and said, “Well, so much for giving up bread.”

“I’m sorry, what?

“I decided that I should stop eating so much bread. There’s this book called Wheat Belly...

“Well, it would have been nice to know before I started cooking.”

“No, I don’t have to tell you,” he jested. “You’re just supposed to read my mind and know these things.”

I’m semi-familiar with the Wheat Belly book. It’s the latest book in the gluten-free trend that is convincing some of my friends to alter their own diets for varying reasons. One friend has Type I diabetes; her doctor recommended she try a gluten-free diet so she started reading the book to understand more about wheat products and how they can benefit people who suffer from diabetes.

Others I think are just trying yet another diet fad. I explained to Paul that eliminating wheat-based foods from his diet can cause complications later when he reintroduces those foods back into his diet (see anything related to Adkins). He gave up sugar for a year but he won’t last that long without pizza, chicken parm sandwiches and, for that matter, chicken parm.

So we decided to go with a lighter approach – we will continue to plan – correction, I will continue to plan gluten-free meals but we will still have wheat-based products sporadically throughout the week so that we still have the ability to eat bread and pasta; we will just focus those products early in the day. Everything in moderation.

I will let you know how long this challenge lasts. 

25 September 2013

WHO’S GOT THE POWER?

Our power is out. This is only weird because the power has been out for nearly 10 minutes, which feels like an incredibly long time. In the 2+ months we have lived in PNG, the power has gone out nearly every day, sometimes up to six times in a single day, but the power typically returns within 30 seconds.

Today are embarking upon a new record, maybe more than one.

We have thought about suspended power outages and which devices would be most doomed – laptops (mine is currently at 28 percent power), cell phones (at 19 percent and draining), toothbrushes (charged yesterday, so I’m good there) and, my biggest fear – the refrigerator. I made a stocking trip Friday so we have a ton of food in the fridge and the freezer (a happy change from Singapore - large freezer and even larger fridge!).

Oooh, the power is back. And, as quickly as it returns, it again disappears. Cooking dinner may very well be out of the question.

Power resumes.

And out, and back on.

We recently invested in an external battery supply that allows our Internet to remain connected in the event of an outage. This, thank you, husband, is brilliant. Except that it beeps a high-pitched beep to advise us that the power is out - like we don't know. And, like an alarm that one just can’t get to, it doesn’t stop until either manually disarmed (foregoing Internet)…and we’re off again…every 3.5 seconds.

Maybe I should start plugging in my chargers in case the power comes back on…and it just did.

O.K., charging while I can.

When we lose power, everything stops (duh) – the lights disappear, the television zaps, the microwave falls black and we have nothing. When the power returns, only the lights come back on; everything else needs to be manually switched, including the air conditioners.

Here’s the funny thing about our air conditioners – they work as a set, not individually. Our units, like the ones in Singapore, are situated near the ceiling in each of our two rooms (that’s right, we live in a box); one in the living space and one in the bedroom.

And we’re out again.

The air con unit in the bedroom only works when the living room unit is on and set, and, bonus, the bedroom unit will only reflect the temperature of the living room unit. At night, on the frequent occasion when Paul goes to bed before I do, I layer up and ensure I have a good blanket to warm my cold appendages while Paul cuddles with the duvet.

Power. Super. Thank God neither of us suffers from epilepsy.

When outages interrupt naptime or an evening sleep (outages happen at any hour), we are awaken by the abrupt sound of the air con units halting and, of course, the ever-present annoyance beeping in the other room, first from the battery and then from our house phone, which has its own little jingle. When the power resumes, the battery beeping stops but the house phone jingles, announcing the arrival of electricity once again.

And we’re out.

I don’t know whether this is annoying or funny at this point.

I suppose I could do some yoga on my near-fully charged Nook (72 percent, woo hoo!).

We only have two windows in this apartment, one above the bed (on again….no, wait, we’re off), and one in the living room that is roughly the size of our door. Sadly, the living room window does not offer much light so we’re pretty much sitting in the dark.

And the lights are on.

Any guesses how many more times this is going to happen?


Three. The correct answer is three…so far…..

24 September 2013

IT’S NOT SO BAD HERE

Ugh, I am seriously amazed that something as tiny as a cold can bring a person down. Six days – six days­ – I have been dealing with coughing, sore throat (gone, thank God), sneezing, puffy sinuses, lack of energy and, worst of all, the loss of taste.

Food is a really big deal to me. My favorite holidays are my favorite holidays because of the food that is served and, of course, the atmosphere and the people around me, but I really like the food. Lacking the ability to properly taste foods makes me unable to properly season foods. When my sinuses are blocked, I seek uber salty foods. I don’t know why.

Without the desire to eat certain foods because I know I will not be able to enjoy them, I lose the desire to cook foods and, let’s face it, I didn’t have much energy anyway. Poor Paul. I cooked only three meals in the last five days. He has resorted to leftovers, snack-craving cupboard attacks and going out with other pilots, which I highly encouraged (less effort for me!).

This cold very rudely collided with what was the best week I had had in a lot of weeks – pretty much the best week since I moved here. I found out that a friend is moving to PNG, Paul and I were planning a major expedition, my friends were having better weeks than the previous two; it was a good week. And then, BAM! I woke up Thursday with a puffy face, feeling my breaths in my lungs and coughing. Don’t you worry, though. I was not about to let some stupid cold bring me down mentally (though physically, it kind of did).

I am excited to report that my friend, Beth, is moving to PNG. When, I am not sure, but she has committed in writing so I am holding her to it. (P.S. Beth, if I just outed you, forgive me. I gave you a week.)

Beth and I are current day pen pals (e-mail pals) who met way back in March when my husband, Paul, and Beth’s husband, Joe, were interviewing for Air Niugini positions. Let’s just say that Joe’s experience with the company has paralleled Paul’s: told one thing, then told another, made plans, those plans didn’t happen, waited a while, got word to do something else, yadda, yadda, yadda.

The biggest surprise came last Tuesday when Joe landed in PNG after completing some company training in Australia. Joe and his wife had been excited about beginning a new life chapter in Cairns, which is an Aussie city overlooking the Great Barrier Reef. Their Texas house is packed and awaiting renters while Beth prepares for the move to…PNG. Wait, what? Oh yeah, that’s right, Joe isn’t based in Australia like they thought. Bad news for Beth; great news for me!

I suppose it’s my fault that Beth is absolutely terrified to move out here. I mean, my blogs the last two weeks have not been any help to Joe, who is trying to convince his wife that it’s not so bad out here. Truthfully, sucks sometimes but, all in all, life in Port Moresby is manageable, as I am trying to explain to Beth – one just has to lower the standards a bit.

For example: In America, when Person A asks Person B how she is doing and Person B responds, “Fine,” we all know that “fine” never actually means fine – “fine” either means “like crap but I don’t really want to talk about it,” or “just take this as my answer and move on.” In PNG, “fine” is normal; “fine” is great. Because “fine” is the new “good.”

Life in PNG is what I call average, my new normal. Port Moresby is certainly not the nicest place on earth but it’s certainly not the worst – granted, it is near the bottom of every list but it’s not in the basement.

Paul and I are fortunate enough to live in a third world that is filled with first-world bubbles so we have many conveniences that others cannot afford. Like Singapore was my bubble society (great education, ridiculously low crime rates and unemployment rates and fantastic health care), Port Moresby offers mini bubbles in the form of cars, hotels, fancy restaurants and the occasional retail outlet.

The scenery amazes me (mostly because it is surreal to think I actually live in PNG), the people are kind and welcoming and all of the local people really seem to love the expats. Paul and I spend a lot of time together and we get to do more travel together than we ever have before.


Next month we will be spending a week in Singapore, four days in Bangkok and a week in Israel before coming back to PNG to do some laundry and then head out again for some birthday fun in Brisbane. We may only be in PNG for a total of a week the whole month.

There is another trip on the books for November and by the end of that month we will be back in the States; I will be in Massachusetts in time for Thanksgiving and Paul has to be in the States for training the beginning of December, which means we should be able to stay through Christmas. So, for the next three months at least, it won’t seem like we actually live in PNG; we just may leave a few things behind so that it looks like we do.

17 September 2013

HOUSE ARREST

Great news! I today spoke with my housekeeper about the weekend's festivities and she informed me that I did not miss the Hiri Moale Festival. For some reason, this year's festival was moved from its usual time over Independence weekend to later in November. Haha! November it is.

Until then, I am still locked away in the confines of a compound where the power goes out several times a day (nearly killing me on the treadmill sometimes) and the Internet today is completely unreliable and pretty much nonexistent, adding to the awesome benefits associated with my house arrest.

When one is under house arrest, one must get creative with filling the day's hours. Though I am not legally on house arrest - because I would never think of willingly committing a crime in a third-world country that is not my own - I am on marital house arrest. To recap, Paul would rather be bored than dead and last week there was a bit of a massacre up north so that didn't help me build a case to get out more.

Therefore, I have decided to turn my thoughts from leaving the apartment and exploring the outside world to putting my brain to use reading other blogs, buying more e-books and discovering Etsy. All of my newfound activities are in one way or another draining our bank account, either today or in the future when I decorate the house that we do not yet have and organize the kids’ rooms that we cannot yet even discuss. Blame Dana Miller and housetweaking.com. That woman is a genius and an incredible example of a creative working mother of three.

I have filled the daytime hours with so much online shopping in the last two weeks that I have memorized the credit card number. Paul was not exactly pleased to find out that I could recite all 16 digits, the expiration date and the secret code without hesitation but I was pretty impressed with myself. That takes serious concentration and memorization!

The good news here (Paul) is that our niece is getting some awesome birthday presents, my best friend, Katie, is getting some awesome items for her to-be-delivered child, I have already purchased Paul's Christmas presents and I have found some really cute stuff for myself. Who's happy? Everyone. That’s who.

I am also happy to report that I have read a lot of books over the last two months, thanks to Barnes & Noble and my handy dandy Nook 3D. I. Am. In. Love! Since I bought the thing a few days before I left the U.S. in mid-July, I have read five and a quarter books (I decided to put Faulkner on hold because I am just not in the mood for him right now), two Marie Claire magazines and countless issues of TIME (countless more are still waiting for me to read; I seem to have fallen behind on my weekly magazine reading, which means I should schedule more pool time, me thinks!).

In high school my mom couldn’t help telling me all about how she regularly read 10+ books weekly because she was a brainiac who was obsessed with good books. At that time in my life I pretty much hated reading, so I learned early on that I would never keep up with my mother in that respect and that she was just going to have to deal.

Now that I am much older, wiser and more accomplished, I realize that my disinterest in reading had nothing to do with an actual hatred toward the art and everything to do with the curriculum. In class I was being told which books to read, how many days I had to read how many chapters, and it was imperative that I foresaw all of the foreshadowing, made sense of all of the hidden symbolism and logically interpreted multiple storylines – on all of which I was to be tested.

I think I would have done much better with more fluid, guided studies that allowed me to pick my own books and simply discuss my thoughts on the characters and storylines. No symbolism, no chapter-by-chapter deadlines, just read the book and tell me what you think.


When I am not reading, writing or freaking out over trying to create a new website (developers and creative web people out there – I am willing to pay!), I crave little jobs to prove my worth and keep me busy.

Today I cleaned my kitchen like I haven’t cleaned since we moved out of our Singaporean condo, and I enjoyed almost every minute of it. The few seconds when I opened a never-before-opened cupboard and found a dead bug on one of the shelves was not the greatest. I should specify that the bug was small and not cockroach-like so it didn’t freak me out, but that doesn’t mean I picked it up either. I just shut the door and proceeded cleaning other things. That cupboard door hadn’t been opened in months so why would I open it again?

I swept the floor, washed the dishes, cleaned the counters and the sink, cleaned the inside and outside of the microwave, cleaned the stove and Clorox wiped the inside and outside of the cupboard doors as well as the refrigerator. Paul later advised me that Emily Gilmore would not approve of me doing the work of the hired help. As much I sometimes dreamt, wished and possibly believed that I was a Gilmore, sadly, I am not a Gilmore, so who am I to care what Emily thinks? I wanted to clean, darn it, and the housekeeper didn’t get there soon enough.


I might have to break out tomorrow. 

16 September 2013

NATIONAL DAY

Today is PNG's National Day. It's like the Fourth of July in that people wear red and decorate everything with flags but instead of barbecuing and setting off fireworks, they dress in traditional islander clothes, dance, hold a beauty pageant and reenact trade customs using canoes in the sea.

I would love to provide you with more detail and fabulous pictures but apparently the Internet doesn't actually know everything and it's not a good idea to go outside.

We only found out about National Day a few days ago when we happened to see a sign posted to the grocery checkout. For some reason - maybe it's the communications professional in me - I thought that we would be provided some sort of information regarding the national holiday but, no, we didn't.

When the U.S. Embassy posted to the Facebook page a message offering congratulations to the PNG people in celebration of the upcoming holiday, I thought that maybe some sort of helpful information would follow but, no, it didn't.

I thought that maybe the local newspaper would have information on the day's activities but, no, not a single article.

I thought that the local news blog, typically filled with fascinating local info, might have some details on holiday festivities but, no, it didn't.

Last night I started Googleing like I was on a mission. Let's be honest, I was on a mission. I hate being places where there are significant celebrations or festivals happening and not participating or at least observing and documenting my experiences.

Here's what I was able to find:

  • PNG celebrates National Day on 16 September
  • The country, a unitary parliamentary democracy under constitutional monarchy, attained peaceful independence from Australia in 1975; Australia remains PNG's largest financial contributor
  • The Hiri Moale Festival is a really big deal in Port Moresby, with activities and celebrations spanning two to three days over the Independence Day holiday
  • Villages send women to compete for the title of Hiri Moale Queen; the queen is chosen on the festival's final day
  • The canoe reenactment and races pay homage to ancient villagers who set to the sea in order to trade with neighboring island villagers
Here's what I did not find:
  • When do this year's festivities begin?
  • What events will be held over which days?
  • Where will the events be held?
  • What time of day do the events occur?
  • Is it safe for expats to attend the events?
  • Are there any areas of the city that expats should avoid?
  • What is the story behind PNG's independence and how does it relate to the Hiri Moale Festival?
Nothing. 

At 1 a.m. I decided I should go to bed; I made a plan to visit the hotel concierge when I woke. I made my way to the desk before 8 a.m. and asked one of the two local women, donning dresses in PNG's flag print and feathers in their hair, "Can you provide any information on the National Day Festivities?"

She looked at me wide eyed for a second and then replied, "No."

I stood there for a second because, again, for some reason I just didn't expect that response even though I realize this is a typical PNG response. 

"Are there events being held in the city today?"

"Yes." 

See - this is just like the time Paul and some pilots went to dinner and, after ordering the surf and turf, were told that the club restaurant was out of said item. One of the pilots asked, "Do you have steak?" 

"Yes," the employee replied.

"Do you have lobster?" he continued.

"Yes."

"Well that's surf and turf."

"We're out of that."

So, really, I should not have been surprised. I continued with the hotel representative:

"What time do the events start?"

"Oh some people are gathering now," she said.

"O.K., well, if I want to go see some of the events today, when should I go?"

"You could go around 10, 10:30."

O.K., now we were getting somewhere. "Where should I go to see the events?" I used my research here - "Are they all down at Ela Beach?"

"Yes, Ela Beach," she replied. "And five mile." 

Five mile is a neighborhood a few minutes down the road; we live at seven mile. Five mile is nowhere near Ela Beach and the beach park itself is not small so exactly where on the beach the festivities would be held, I could only guess. 

"Which place would you recommend that I go?"

"Oh, you can go to both."

As I was just about to give up and thank her, she piped in with, "Just be careful with your phone," which was at that time positioned on the desk, "and your money. Make sure everything is tied to you very well." 

Awesome. I knew Paul would love to hear that part. 

I thanked her and turned to walk back up the hill to our apartment. I told Paul what she said and stated that I really wanted to get out there and see what there was to see but that she did warn of getting robbed. 

But I still wanted to go so I made Paul e-mail his boss, a local PNG man who is well known and well connected, especially in the security world. Paul's boss advised us not to go. In fact, he said he and his family are staying in today and avoiding all of the crowds that will give us attention and will put us in harm's way. This place is so much fun!

Paul tried to make me feel better by offering me a deal: "Instead of going outside and getting robbed, we can stay inside, order pizza from the Airways and watch Gilmore Girls!" How can I say no to that? 



11 September 2013

WHY I WILL NEVER BE ALLOWED TO EXPLORE PNG

We got some astounding news tonight - the real kind of news - broadcast live from Australia. The news anchor led the show with a story that involved PNG so Paul and I, who happened to be hugging in the neighboring kitchen at the time, broke the embrace and walked into the next room when "Papua New Guinea" pierced our ears. I was excited and just assumed the report had something to do with the refugee issue we are currently facing.

For those who do not know, Australia is currently flooding PNG with foreign refugees - mostly from Afghanistan, Iran and Sri Lanka - who are being denied visas. Imagine leaving the Middle East, arriving Indonesia where your asylum-seeking family hops a boat like the people from Cuba and then floats along, ready to begin a new life in Australia, only to be stopped by the Aussie military and granted a free ticket to Papua New Guinea, one of the world's least liveable countries.

Don't worry, though, Australia is paying PNG to accept these so-called boat people (named thusly because all persons entering Australian borders via boat; those who enter the country by plane allegedly have a better entry percentage).

To my surprise, the story was not about the refugees. The report focused on a group of Australian tourists.

Quoted from The Australian NEWS:
Eight Australians, one New Zealander and a group of [local trek guides] were attacked by six bandits as they camped on the Black Cat track in Morobe province on Tuesday.
Two [guides] were hacked to death, while others received wounds to their heads and arms and legs, including an Australian whose arm was slashed and another who was speared in the leg.

PNG Police spokesman Dominic Kakas said the group were attacked early on Tuesday afternoon by six men armed with guns, a spear and bush knives.
Reports state that the trekkers were robbed of all of their belongings, including their passports.

One man was speared in the left leg. Another has a head laceration, cuts on left elbow and bruises and cut on his back." Mr Kakas said.
I was discombobulated, wondering first why these people were attacked and, second, why they were in the middle of nowhere without a security team. We have been advised to take security with us any time we leave the city. Heck, our compound security guard told us we would need a security escort to a location offering air for our vehicle tires.

The trekkers, by definition, were off in the middle of nowhere. They were fighting one of the country's toughest trails in a land only home to remote villagers, approximately 220 km from our city.
Paul was not surprised. He just looked at me and said, "This is why you're not allowed to go anywhere. Next time you tell me you want to go exploring, remember this."

09 September 2013

SUNDAYS IN SYDNEY...OR BRISBANE...OR MELBOURNE

The day we landed in Sydney was the hottest on record for the season (it was still technically winter in the southern hemisphere) as the upcoming spring officially made an entrance. The weather was New England perfect - 60s and 70s F (late teens to mid 20s C) and the sun was shining every day. Perfect.



We originally planned on waking early Sunday in order to attend a 9 a.m. church service and then hit the day running in case Paul was called to fly earlier than originally anticipated, but he didn't sleep well. We instead wound up spending most of the morning in bed, which is always a good choice. Because Paul needed a little extra time that morning, we opted to attend the 11:30 service instead.

After a late breakfast, a solo walk to Starbucks and an extended trip into an awful tourist shop where I spent a lot of money on shameless souvenirs, we got ready and hopped into the back of a cab where, surprisingly (why, I don't know) the man neither knew where we were headed nor spoke familiar English. My gut said to get out of the cab and try another but, before I knew it, Paul had the map displayed on his phone and we were on our way.

The 15-minute ride to a Hillsong Church branch location turned into a 30-minute ride with Paul providing turn-by-turn instruction. We arrived in time to catch the last two songs in the worship period, which ended up being long enough for me to cry out all the tears I had been holding in since the last time I had cried, whenever that was....probably the day in early June when Paul left the U.S.

When Paul and I first stood in front of our seats, I took a breath and, for the first time in a long time, experienced complete satisfaction. I looked at Paul as if to say, "Thank you," and "This is it; this is where we belong," and then I focused my attention on the praise team.

Within a minute, my eyes started to water as I breathed in the music, the voices, the atmosphere. This is what I had missed most - a welcoming church with an amazing praise team, friendly pastors and a message focused on Jesus and His amazing grace.

The satellite church was smaller than I expected but the pastors could point out people in the audience by name and knew which children belonged to which adults - I liked the small church feel. We attended a service on Australia's Father's Day so the pastors had a bit involving kids choosing gifts for their dads and telling stories about funny things their dads on occasion do that we all might find amusing.

One kid, whose parents happened to miss the service, confessed to the pastors with the microphones - because this story would only be shared with the pastors in a "just between us" style - that his father secretly helped his son hoard away chocolates in the boy's bedroom. The father would partake of the chocolates with his boy even though the mom apparently outlawed such sweets.

The pastor showed pictures from his childhood and talked about how we as Christians have the opportunity to have an Abba Father - the Daddy God - a familiar and familial relationship with the Creator.


I told Paul that this should be our home church and that I was sure local church families would host us on a weekly basis but we do not yet have our airline travel benefits. Maybe next month...

After church and a quick change at the hotel, we headed down to The Rocks for the Sunday market - something that Nic and I were dying to explore but, sadly, missed the last time around.




We wandered up and down the streets in search of a restaurant while I took pictures of the tents and the crowds. One of the first things we spotted - and smelled - was roasted corn on a stick that had been slathered in butter. Oh. My. Goodness. Buttered corn in the air is a magnificent smell and we vowed to get some after lunch, along with the fresh lemonade (actual lemonade, by the way, not English lemonade which is really Sprite).


Old man makin' the good stuff

We sat inside a great French brasserie at a table for two that was positioned next to some shelves filled with merchandise. Paul advised that he chose the table so that he would have stuff to play with and so we spent our down time examining the cocoa packages and various tea flavors.

On our way back to the hotel we stopped for the luscious corn on a stick and lemonade; I also decided to purchase a popcorn sleeve sold at the lemonade stand because we had an Ohio State football game to watch and what is a sporting event without popcorn?

That's right, we had two full days in Sydney and we spent Sunday afternoon on the king-sized bed eating popcorn, peanut butter M&Ms and watching the inaugural Buckeye game. This is how we do.

A week later we are wishing we were back in Sydney. We tried another church yesterday, one that was recommended by a Singaporean business colleague. If you remember, this church was the one to which we went and sat in the parking lot for a while before deciding to head back. The church was situated in a run-down area near a street market and we didn't see any sort of ethnic diversity.

Yesterday, after having experienced another local church for a couple services, we were more confident with the surroundings and decided to give it a go. When we arrived everyone stared and they didn't stop staring.

Inferring that the earlier service had not yet concluded, we waited outside the church against the security gate because, well, that's what everyone else was doing. Just as Paul was giving up on the heat and heading back to the car a local woman came right up to us with the biggest smile and introduced herself. She asked if it was our first time in the service and we confirmed that it was.

She pointed out her daughter who was selling goodies under a tent in order to raise money for the church youth group, introduced us to a couple other people standing nearby and took time to tell us all about the church and answer any questions we had.

When the doors opened and we were able to go inside, she had us follow her all the way to the front of the church and introduced us to one of two American families. Everyone in our vicinity wanted to shake our hands - and they did. One of the deacons introduced himself and asked us to write our information on a piece of paper that was then handed to three different pastors and we knew what that meant.

Sure enough, when it was time to welcome any special visitors, one of the pastors read our names, where we were from and that someone had told them that we would likely be attending the services. Paul, who hates all attention, was not happy that we were being singled out or that we had a nearby camera putting our faces on the big screen.

This church was probably four or five times the size of the Baptist church and was more modern with a big stage, a better praise team, very loud speakers which were directly in front of us and A/V equipment. We learned that the service was being broadcast on two local radio stations though I am not sure how well the stream was because the power went out no less than a dozen times throughout the two-hour, 15-minute service.

By the time the service was over, we decided that this church was another good attempt but not a keeper. Our ears were ringing because of the loud volume and the pastor screaming his message into the microphone. Our hands were tired from shaking a hundred other hands, though I will admit, the people were very, very kind and welcoming so that was not a drawback.

The main reason we were not impressed with the service was directed to the most important part of the service - the message. We were told how bad sin is and that sin is like leprosy, consuming our whole bodies once it begins. We were told that, as Christians, sin can eat away at us like leprosy eats away at the body.

Instead of teaching about Jesus and that because we are one with Christ, we are forgiven of each and every sin that we have ever committed and that we ever will commit, the preacher yelled into the microphone about how bad sin is and how we should stop sinning.

O.K. who is going to stop sinning? Really. Only one man who ever walked the earth has not sinned and He is the one who paid the ultimate sacrifice. We are going to sin. We're human. The point of the service could have been that we should all realize that we are going to sin, probably every day, but that we do not have to worry about sin or focus on the sin because our eyes, our heart and our mind should be focused on Jesus and His saving grace, not the sin itself.

We as Christians are the Righteousness of God in Christ. Because He is in us, the sin just falls off. Paul and I don't care about sin because we don't think about sin - we, instead, thank God that he has taken care of it once and for all. Joseph Prince, our pastor in Singapore, preached that a person will fall out of love with sin once he or she realizes how much God has forgiven each one of us. The bigger the debt he forgives, the more someone realizes the sacrifice. That could have been the message but it wasn't.

We did like that there was a communion service - the first yet - and that there was a time when 11 people walked up to the front and committed their life to Christ, but we need a place where we will be fed and not a place where the message makes us wish we were somewhere else.

Today we researched the Marriott in Brisbane and found out that a Hillsong church is only a 14-minute car ride away.


05 September 2013

SYDNEY'S SEPTEMBER SPRING

Paul and I were blessed last weekend as we for the first time since moving to PNG visited the first world. Our experience in the city was nothing short of amazing as we enjoyed a stay on Circular Quay with a hotel room overlooking the Opera House and the Sydney Harbour.

Paul and I have each spent time in Sydney - I with British bestie Nicola Brown and Paul on business just before moving to PNG - but this was our first trip to the Land Down Under together. Nic and I spent a lot of time wandering around Circular Quay so I was quite familiar with the area.

After Paul picked me up at the train station and, gentleman that he can be, walked me to the hotel a few blocks away, he was excited to show me the view upstairs. I won't lie, it felt incredible to look out the window and see tall buildings, lights, great architecture, boats in the water, people walking around and lights illuminating the darkness.


Following my last Sydney visit, I had no pull or desire to live in the city, though I did find it a nice place to visit. It didn't take me long time, however, to long to live in a city just like Sydney with buildings and bars and entertainment. I had only been in the city a few hours and I was already captivated by the commotion below.

Since Friday and Monday were travel days, we really only had two full days to do what we needed to do. Paul's primary objective: buy as many items as possible. As a woman, I supported this shopping goal. We had a running list of needed items that included Starbucks lattes for me, shoes, swim trunks for Paul, makeup for me, an external hard drive, a house phone, a potential cell phone and a new laptop since mine was going to die of exhaustion any day.

Saturday morning we hit the shops just before 10 and really worked to find everything listed. We walked to the shops around Market Street, comparison shopped and, one-by-one, checked items off the list. By noon the courtyard had filled with entertainers and onlookers and sounds of guitars and male voices filled the air. Some artists played for tips and other left buckets out for CD purchases.



Sydney is also full of street artists like this one who set up shop on the courtyard:



In the middle of all of the mid-day Saturday, beginning of spring shopping, crowds gathering and pedestrians walking, a few lone people sat on blankets in among all the commotion. The individuals were scattered, some at the apex of a street corner and others acting as sudden road blocks, halting pedestrian traffic, in the middle of ongoing shoppers who did not expect to see them. They were not like the others who rushed around them, not dressed like them, not motivated like them, not on a mission. They were disheveled and quiet, there to observe not there to purchase, some were just there to be. Some seemed to want attention, holding signs, while all of them drew attention if only by location.

This man, offering shoe shine services, positioned himself at a mall entrance, directly in front of escalators

This man sat on a corner, just reading the paper. There are more than 100,000 homeless individuals throughout Australia.

Since Paul had previously mentioned how small the Opera House had looked from our hotel room, I took him on a walk to see the epic Sydney landmark. He admitted that it was definitely a lot bigger up close.

For dinner, at Paul's suggestion, we walked to a neighboring old-world Italian restaurant that just happened to be across the alleyway. After such an exhausting walk 20 steps from the hotel door, we were thrilled to sit at one of the 20 or so tables in the exposed brick dining room.




Photos and wine bottles hung on the wall and a man played everyone's favorite songs on the piano. Occasionally the piano man wandered from table to table, greeting guests and asking which songs they might like to hear.




There were people seated at five tables when we arrived near 7 but the place quickly filled throughout our dinner.

A man we suspected to be the owner came to our table, ever so kindly advised us on the evening's specials and, throughout the night provided a bit of history about the building. Paul wondered about the building's previous business genre, given the exposed brick walls and wooden carriage doors along the exterior wall. We noticed exposed stairs leading below the dining room and an incline above that indicated stairs leading to a level above.

We learned that the building is said to be Australia's oldest commercial building still in use. Bulletin Place is an old-world building hidden on a tucked-away side street that was constructed in 1816 and was originally used to house wool. More recently the space, still boasting its original Scottish bricks and English-made doors, was a popular wine house before settling as a respectable Italian eatery with a piano man and, on occasion, opera singers in the streets.


04 September 2013

FACING OUR FEARS

Last Thursday was a pretty good day in the McKee household. We started the day early, doing what we needed to do: I was searching for and applying for jobs and Paul was doing something on his computer. At some point while I was working, Paul decided it was time for a workout. When he came back from the gym, all hell broke loose.

"Who thinks this is a good idea?" he yelled, thrashing around the P90X weightlifting sheet he had in his hand. "Exercising is a terrible idea. AND, you have to do it forever; there's no stopping." He seriously joked about committing suicide because it would be easier to just end his life than it would be to commit to a lifetime of torturing himself by running and weightlifting. This was the point when I began texting his sister.

"Your brother is semi-worrying me," I texted. "I've never seen him like this."

He went on and on about all of the negative aspects of exercise and how much he hated it. Then came the line I never thought I would hear:

"I WOULD RATHER GO TO A WEDDING THAN WORK OUT EVER AGAIN!"

If you don't know my husband, attending weddings is on the absolute bottom of the "things you will have to seriously bribe me to do and then I might actually thing about doing said thing and, even if I do agree to do said thing I will complain the entire time" list. When we got married, I promised Paul that our wedding was the only wedding I would make him attend for the entire year. Since then I have only forced him into attending one other wedding, my mother's.

Paul, admittedly, would rather attend a funeral than a wedding. He would rather sit next to a man at a movie theater than attend a wedding. He would rather be guided through the Gobi Desert by a blind man than go to a wedding. He would rather drive on Port Moresby's back roads at midnight by himself than go to a wedding. So to say that he would rather attend a wedding than ever hit a gym again is a big deal. Epic, in fact.

I tried to console him by stating that not all exercise is bad and that maybe his second day back in the gym should not start with anything containing the identifier "P90X." I told him we could do something fun and then somehow the subject got changed to swimming.

I think it was my fault because I had stated that I wanted to hit the pool whenever the sun came out. Paul perked up.

"Want to learn how to swim today?"

Now, before I begin to explain why, at 30, I have not yet learned to swim, let me just say that I will side with every woman who has ever attended therapy: I blame my mother.

Growing up we did not have a pool but we almost always had neighbors with pools. My mother, on the incredibly rare occasion that she actually stepped into the water, had one rule: do not splash water anywhere near her. Apparently nearly drowning as a child was enough to make my mom be quite fine on land for the rest of her life. She could not handle water splashed on her face, on her shoulders or on her chest, let alone sticking her head under water, so as a family we didn't spend a lot of time in or near the water.

Family vacations were spent in Orlando or Northeast Ohio visiting family, camping in the woods or driving through the Smokey Mountains. We were never beach people so I just never learned.

My brother, on the other hand, is secretly a fish. He just jumped into the deep end of a public pool, diaper and all, from the time he could run so I think swimming was just an instinct for him. He never had lessons, he just jumped in head first and figured it out from there.

Since Paul was already in a feisty mood, I decided to fight back. I told him that even thinking about getting into the deep end of the pool (I am terrified of going anywhere my feet can't touch) was leading me to an anxiety attack.

"Getting into the pool, for me, is like having kids, for you," I stated, trying to get him to understand my fear factor.

Somehow, he convinced me to give it a go. I gave in, gave up or somehow just psyched myself into the thought of actually facing my fear. I changed into my swimsuit and, for the first time ever in PNG, I wore my bikini to the pool - and I didn't think twice about it.

In the sunshine and heat of the noon sun, Paul led me into the pool and I was thankful that no one was around to watch. We started with the most basic aspects associated with being friends with the water. The first thing I did was put my head under water - holding my nose, of course, - and, for the first time ever, I opened my eyes.

I was surprised that everything under the water appeared so cloudy but it was good to know that I accomplished my first goal right away. Eyes opened - check. Paul later explained that real swimmers don't actually open their eyes while swimming; they wear goggles. Duh.

After I mastered the eye-opening challenge, it was time to deal with my nose situation. I had never in my life successfully been under water without plugging my nose with my fingers.

Paul was so patient with me as my anxiety took over, I counted and then chickened out, made him demonstrate and answer many questions so that my brain could make sense of what I was supposed to be doing.

Too afraid to submerge my entire head, I squatted in the water so that the water covered just to the bridge of my nose, leaving my eyes above the water line. Thanks to Paul, I successfully put my nose under water, sans breathing, and did not drown.

I later learned, after several tries, how to put my nose into the water and breath out. Paul taught me how to swim under water and, though it took many tries, I eventually learned how to swim under water, without plugging my nose, for an entire pool length, albeit the short end.

Every time I accomplished one goal just once, Paul would come up with another game. "No, not yet," I would say. "Baby steps." And then, "Again." And I would practice whatever I had been learning at the time.

We worked in stages, practicing breathing, treading water and certain strokes. I watched Paul goof around and told him that this was definitely fun exercise.

At one point he thought it would be fun to throw his wedding ring into the deep end of the pool and then, magically, I would dive in and rescue his ring. "That's a horrible idea!" I yelled as I watched him chuck his wedding ring a few feet in front of us. "Baby steps!" I begged.

We had a great time working together and at the end Paul told me that he was really proud of me. He admitted that he didn't actually think I would accomplish anything, let alone open my eyes, not plug my nose and learn to swim a pool length all within an hour. We played around a little more and then Paul headed up to the apartment while I sat another 20 minutes or so to dry off and do a little outdoor reading.

After lunch and a good nap, we woke to find Paul quite red and sore. Again, there was a rant.

"The next time that I want to go outside for that long without sun screen, I want you to grab me, and yell, 'Sunscreen, dumbass! Remember what happened the last time.'" I laughed hysterically, confirmed my quote and proceeded to call him "dumbass" all weekend.

Later that day he approached me. "What's the line?" he quipped. "Sunscreen, dumbass!" I replied laughing. "Good. Just practicing."

After a hilarious day of facing our fears, battling each other with sarcasm and laughter and truly making some memories, we received an unexpected phone call.

The next morning, Paul would be flying to Sydney and I would be tagging along.