MITSUKIA PLEASE

This week we have had one goal: find a vehicle. Our qualifications:

·         Must be available to take home within a week

·         Must be the best deal possible

·         Must be an SUV able to handle rough terrain

·         Must be an automatic since Rachael doesn’t trust herself driving in a panicked situation a manual transmission with her left hand

·         Must be white or silver due to the heat conditions (it’s winter and it’s 86 F / 30 C)

·         Must have great pickup and solid breaks

·         Must be new or a used vehicle in great condition produced in the last two years

When purchasing a vehicle in Papua New Guinea, there are two options for consumers. One is to find a vehicle from an importer and have the vehicle shipped in from Japan, which takes roughly six weeks for delivery. The alternative is to review the current inventory offered in one of the city’s actual dealerships.

Paul originally wanted to order a vehicle and have it shipped from Japan but when I came into town sooner than we both anticipated he decided to see what he could purchase on a more immediate time line.

Our experience the last six days is reminiscent of the time when Paul and I were dating and he just decided one night that he wanted a Jeep Wrangler. Back in the early 2000s, I had been promised dinner and hangout time. Within five hours on a single evening, Paul drove to every dealership in a 20-mile radius to check their inventory.

Our dinner route was based on car dealership locations, not the quickest or easiest way to our destination and, yes, the madness continued even after dinner. I should also mention that we did not once speak to a salesperson; we went after hours. Paul poked his head into windows, inspected every new or used Wrangler, checked prices and then got back into the car and drove to the next location. The next morning he decided he didn’t want a Wrangler anymore; he was interested in the new Liberty. He not only did not buy a Liberty, he did not buy a Wrangler or any other vehicle – ever. He drove his ’99 Cavalier from the day he bought it in high school until we moved to Singapore when he donated the car to his cousin, who, by the way, is still driving the ’99 Cavalier named Bullet.

Paul had already contacted dealers and had seen vehicles before I arrived but was not confident in a purchase decision. Monday, five days after I landed, we hit the road in search of a reliable SUV.

We went to two dealers and looked at a few vehicles. In the first dealership, I immediately spotted a hot, sturdy, jungle-tough looking SUV with a Nissan label proudly displayed on the front. To me, the vehicle was Nissan’s version of a Land Rover and I was sold…until we heard the price…and it was 300,000 kina (three times the budget). “Of course it is!” I exclaimed. “I always pick the ones with the highest price tag.”

Disappointed, I walked away from the Nissan and toward the Mitsubishi Pajero Paul had previously discussed with the dealer. We took the seven-passenger, 5-liter SUV out for a test drive and it went pretty well. We received a quote. Paul negotiated. They knocked off a little and then we prepared to leave.

When Paul inquired about used vehicles, he was directed to another dealership up the road. The used vehicle we were offered, however, was not only beat up, it had a manual transmission. We looked at one or two other beat up used vehicles and then headed inside. We saw two new Kias, a four-door crossover called the Sportage and a seven-passenger SUV called the Sorrento.

By the end of our visit, Paul and I both decided we favored the Sorrento, which came with Bluetooth technology and a backup camera, but he had one more place he wanted to try – the Ford dealer down the road. We pulled in, entering through the exit, and Paul immediately freaked out, made a crazy U turn and bolted like he couldn’t be seen in the vicinity. He explained that he had already been to the Ford dealer and had been presented an offer on a Hyundai Tucson (we discussed this option before my arrival but Paul was not certain he wanted to purchase the SUV). He did not want to pursue that option any longer and he didn't want to talk to anyone about it.

Happy with our frontrunner, we went home and I did a little research. I found details of the Sorrento online and was pleased to see such high safety ratings. I thought we had a winner.

But we didn’t.

Tuesday was a holiday and Wednesday I am not sure we left the house (is it sad I don’t remember?). Thursday morning started with a trip to the license bureau so that I could obtain my PNG driver’s license. Within an hour, I had in my hand another awful ID photo (this one I have nicknamed my prison photo) and a new name. Racheal.

Upon exiting I did what any woman would do – I first examined my photo to see just how bad it was and then I verified my information since I did not have a chance to do so inside. I stopped walking when I noticed two letters in my first name were transposed.

“What do I do?” I asked Paul. “Do I go back and tell them to fix it?” I asked not knowing if anyone inside would actually understand my request.

“Just leave it,” Paul advised.

“No, I think I want to at least go in and ask. What if something happens to me and someone tries to verify my information and they don’t match up? I don’t want to be detained somewhere.”

“Fine.” Paul, playing the role of the good husband supporting the crazy wife, followed me back into the building with the screeching door and waited behind me as I tried to explain to the men behind the glass that my name was not correct.

I handed over my passport and indicated my name was misspelled. At first they were confused so I repeated myself. Then I heard them read each letter aloud, “R-A-C-H-A-E-L.” Then again, “R-A-C-H-A-E-L.” “No!” A second man urged. He pointed his finger to my new license and stated, “R-A-C-H-E-A-L....A-E-L, E-A-L.”

“Oh,” the first guy said. “Is O.K….O.K.”

“It’s O.K.?” I questioned. “No need to change?”

“No, no. Is O.K.”

O.K. I moved on. At least I tried.

Paul took me to the first dealership so that we could take a look at a Mitsubishi Pajero with a smaller engine than the one we saw earlier in the week, reducing the asking price. He also expected me to drive….on my first day with a PNG license. I tried to explain that not only was I not sure about how I would drive on the right side of the car in the left-hand lane for my first time ever, but that I did not think it wise that my first time driving on the wrong side of the car on the wrong side of the road should be in a car that is not only not ours but one that currently belongs to a dealer. “This is a you-break-it-you-buy-it scenario,” I said but Paul insisted they would have insurance to cover any damage I may have caused.

Halfway through our test drive, after being guided by our dealer to a residential area with much less traffic (at my imperative request), Paul left the vehicle and insisted that I drive the SUV. So I did. Apparently I am better than Paul. I did quite fine. I just really like to use my windshield wipers when signaling.

Back at the dealership, we examined the vehicle inside and out, learned about the security features, were quickly shown how to place and remove the second- and third-row seats and realized that whoever sits in the back will be elevated and have no leg room whatsoever. We got a better price, stated we would make a decision within 24 hours and headed down the street to see the Kia people. The end of the tunnel was near.

Paul advised the sales team (I thought for negotiating power) that we were interested in the Sportage and that we had a solid offer on a Pajero from the other dealer. I was perplexed because I didn’t think we were interested in the Sportage. We both liked the Sorrento.

Unable to take a Sportage for a test drive because the floor model had been sold, we were advised to come back in the morning when a new one would be delivered. So we left.

Paul at some point realized that the Ford dealer was not the dealer with the Tucson (OMG there was another dealer?!) and stated that he did want to see their inventory, so we walked in and spoke with yet another dealer. We looked at two vehicles similar to an Explorer and my heart set on a used Range Rover hiding in the back. Though the price surprisingly beat every single offer we received, we decided not to pursue the Rover because we would not have a warranty more than three months; the Pajero had a two-year and the Kias each had a three-year warranty offered. Nuts. I have wanted a Rover for years and what better place than PNG for the blessed off-roading tank?

Friday morning we were back at the Kia dealer. I was done with car buying and ready to make an offer. Instead, Paul unbeknownst to me decided to announce that we would not actually be making a decision until Monday. Pretty sure I had a minimal reaction to that statement but I really wanted to look at him and say, “Whaaattt? I thought we were deciding today! I thought we were done!” I, playing the role of the supporting wife standing next to the frugal, never-too-much-research, must-try-them-all, stress-on-breadwinning husband, just stood there and played along.

We drove the Sportage around the neighborhood, down by the Yacht Club and made a turn back. Though Paul wanted me to test drive the car, I advised that I completely trusted him and that I was fine in the back like I had been most of the week. And that was true. I trust him to know which vehicle is more comfortable, which performs better and which will be the best option for us moving forward.

He fell in love with the Kia. But the Pajero is bigger, tougher and will, according to Paul’s assumptions and research, have a better resale value. But the Kia is more comfortable and performs better on the typical roads on which we will be driving. But the Pajero is bigger, tougher and will have a better resale value. But the Kia has a longer warranty and a lower purchase price.

It’s Sunday night. Tomorrow is supposedly D-day. The decision: we are buying the Mitsukia.

LOVE GROWS BEST IN LITTLE HOUSES

I have been here a week and already a national holiday. If I remember correctly, the same thing happened when we move to Singapore. Today marks PNG’s Remembrance Day, a time to remember those whose lives were lost in World War II. PNG was a U.S. ally and, like many islands in the South Pacific, was home to American and Australian soldiers among others throughout the war.

Though I missed the 7 a.m. memorial service (which I found out about at 7:45 a.m.), I was able to find an article about Remembrance Day that told the story of the fuzzy-haired men who became heroes to fallen men.

Many a mother in Australia when the busy day is done

Sends a prayer to the Almighty for the keeping of her son

Asking that an angel guide him and bring him safely back

Now we see those prayers are answered on the Owen Stanley Track.

For they haven't any halos, only holes slashed in their ears

And their faces worked by tattoos with scratch pins in their hair

Bringing back the badly wounded just as steady as a horse

Using leaves to keep the rain off and as gentle as a nurse

Slow and careful in the bad places on the awful mountain track

The look upon their faces would make you think Christ was black

Not a move to hurt the wounded as they treat him like a saint

It's a picture worth recording that an artist's yet to paint

Many a lad will see his mother and husbands see their wives

Just because the fuzzy wuzzy carried them to save their lives

From mortar bombs and machine gun fire or chance surprise attacks

To the safety and the care of doctors at the bottom of the track

May the mothers of Australia when they offer up a prayer

Mention those impromptu angels with their fuzzy wuzzy hair.       (Bert Beros)

Since today is a bank holiday, we weren’t sure if it would be a good idea to go out and run errands but Paul, his colleague, Greg, and I risked the crowds and made a decision to hit the grocery this afternoon. The traffic wasn’t as bad as it was toward the end of the workday yesterday but the grocery complex was more crowded than the first time I went last week. We were able to do what we needed and get out quite easily. Once we finished, we headed back to our little home.

Growing up in Nashville, I was bound to get into country music at some point in my life. Since moving into our one-bedroom apartment, I am constantly reminded of a 90s song that said something like, “Love grows best in little houses, fewer walls to separate…if we had more room between us, think of all we’d miss. ‘Cause love grows best in houses just like this.”

To put it simply, the inside of place in the hotel compound reminds me of our first residence as a married couple, a 788-square-foot box in Raritan, New Jersey. Now, I cannot actually say that any of our residences have been large so I don’t know why this place appears so small but it does.

Upon entering the front door that never actually looks like it is closed, one enters into the bright white open space that serves as a combination living room-office area and then leads directly into the kitchen. The floors are an off-white tile; the walls off-white; the ceiling is white. The window brings in enough light to fill our entire place as the light reflects off of all of the white surfaces at once.

A small table with wooden legs and a glass top is to the right against the wall, currently housing our electronic chargers, cords and hotel books. Next to the table is a bright red leather loveseat that lacks pillows and comfort but serves as our only seating option. We get nice and cozy on this couch built for two and then fight over space because neither of us will ever truly be comfortable whether together or alone on this piece of furniture. The couch alone is enough to make us want to move.

The couch is centered to the opposite wall, facing a column that breaks office space from living space. A built-in desk with three shelves along the left side and a built-in cupboard above is set off to the left of the column. To the right is a built-in entertainment center with a television, cable box and small leaf plant. The television is centered on the entertainment center, not with the couch, so we improvise and angle the television.

The kitchen is broken into two areas: the first along the same wall as the entertainment center where a refrigerator lives next to the flat-top stove and oven. At the corner, the kitchen moves along the far wall at a 90-degree angle with shelving above and below. We have a double sink that, in apparent Aussie style, has one deep sink to the right and a smaller, elevated sink to the left.

A small vertical washer and dryer are enclosed in a closet to the right of the sink and we have been advised that the closet doors must be opened at all times while the wash is in progress. Paul tried to fight the subject with our housekeeper, Susie, but he quickly learned that this was a serious matter in which he was not to question. If our doors were closed while either the washer cycle or the dryer were active, she could get in trouble and nobody wants that.

Just opposite the closet doors is an island with more kitchen storage space. There is a small ledge that peeps over the side closest to the couch. We have two tall barstools that fit underneath the island ledge but leave no room for adult legs. An ugly brown countertop is the only color that, combined with the red couch, brighten up the place.

A sliding door in between the couch and the island sections off the bedroom, which is larger than I expected and much larger than our bedrooms in Singapore were. Because there is only a bed and two nightstands, the room looked mostly empty. I rearranged a bit, moving the full-sized bed and the two night stands to the smaller wall with the window, opening up the floor space leading into the hallway with the closets and the bathroom. The bed had to be moved again, just to leave a gap between the bed and the wall in order to keep the ants out of our bed. They happen to live in our window and don’t bother us at all really until they are crawling on us and then it’s not so fun.

We one large closet with sliding doors connected along a single wall. Each of us has an area for hanging clothes and shelving; the bathroom is opposite the closet and offers a stand-in shower, something that so far seems standard. The water in the shower beats out every second as opposed to offering a steady stream and generally cuts out every 45 seconds but it serves its purpose.

To the left of the bedroom door upon exiting is another built-in desk area. And that is our entire house. We have a tiny bed and a tiny couch so we have a lot of together time and a lot of touch time whether we want it at the time or not.

Our kitchen is stocked with enough plates and cookware for a single meal, maybe two if we have cereal for breakfast instead of something heated. I have one very large stew pot and two small pots for veggies, one large skillet and one deep baking pan. I have one sharp knife and one bread knife. These things limit me but I am grateful that I didn’t have to buy anything.

Our place definitely has its quirks. The power goes out every day so there is no sense in setting clocks. Our towels and bed linens aren’t without stains sometimes. Every channel on the television has a different volume setting (no joke) and we can hear planes any time they are powered. But this is home…for now.

Maybe it’s the distance that makes the hearts grow stronger or the little house as the song says but I do know that although I am confined to a small apartment in a gated compound with not a lot of places to go, I would rather be here in Papua New Guinea with my husband than anywhere else. (Cue Paul making vomit sounds)

Apartment Photos:

Our place is at the top of all these steps

Living room / kitchen with our awesome red couch

Bedroom with a full-size bed

Closet

View of the airport and the mountains from our bedroom. PNG is quite pretty from a distance.

NEW ROADS, NEW RULES

I arrived Wednesday afternoon and, as we all know, that was a complete waste of a day. Thursday Paul and I ventured out into the town of Port Moresby in order to take care of a few necessities: I needed to obtain a PNG driver’s license, to be added to my husband’s bank account, request a local ATM card and to buy some needed items at what Paul refers to as “the good grocery.”

Before we could leave the house, I had to go through three wardrobe changes. My first choice, an effortless purely cotton sundress that was strapless and to the knees was vetoed. “Can you please wear something else? You should see the way the women here dress.” I walked over to the closet and chose another sun dress, this time with thick straps and a length to the ground so that I was more covered.

“You don’t seem to be getting my point,” Paul said.

“What?” I piped back. “I thought the point was to be more conservative.”

“Wear a t-shirt and jeans, just until you get a look for yourself. These people have no money, they wear pants and t-shirts because it’s all they have.”

Fine. I wore rolled up skinny jeans and a thin cotton t-shirt but I did make a comment about how much money I spent at Target buying out their entire stock of sundresses and how unfair it would be if I couldn’t wear the only thing I thought I would actually be wearing here.

Paul and his colleague decided to share a rental car while they await permanent vehicles so we met Greg to get the key. Before I arrived, Paul had only driven a quarter of a mile on the wrong side of the road. Thursday, he would be all in and I would be riding shot gun to witness every move.

As we approached the car, I asked Paul if he was ready. “Yeah, I should be fine,” he replied. “Great, because you are already headed for the wrong door.” We both laughed as Paul changed his direction from the now passenger side to the driver’s side of the car.

Other than drifting to the inside lane, Paul did really well. He accompanied me to the bank, located at the airport. We held hands as we walked from the parking lot, down a hill and across the vacant airport traffic lanes and to the bank branch doors. We were met by two local security guards; one very awkwardly used a security wand on each of us.

We opened one door in a compact hallway blocked by another door on the far end. We had to wait for the outside door to close before the guard would unlock the interior door, allowing us to enter into the branch. Once inside we were able to speak directly with the three people working behind a single desk. In America, bank branches vary in size but most have a vast foyer, cubicle spaces for bank workers plus at least one open teller station with no less than two tellers present; another teller station is typically located on the back side of the bank for drive-thru banking. This room housed one teller behind glass and three to four people behind a single desk with multiple computers. In an hour, we had signed all the paperwork, confirmed my name would be added to the account and then headed on our way.

Because the bank took so long and I was so hungry, we decided to forego the driver’s license and head straight to lunch. The only time we went head on with another vehicle, we were turning into the Yacht Club and, after Paul attempted to make the correct left-hand turn, I insisted that he should be in the far right lane, which we quickly realized was the incorrect choice. We avoided a head-on collision and Paul was only slightly embarrassed.

We walked from the back of the parking lot, up 20 steps and into the Yacht Club, a popular expat club, to see what it was all about. Paul had eaten there on occasion and said the food was pretty good, so we inquired about a membership and received permission to stay for lunch. Again, this was an atypical situation in my view because no one really gave us a lot of information. A woman behind the desk indicated that the security officer would give us a tour. He pretty much walked us around, pointed out the eateries and the gym and then walked off. Based on our experience, we see no reason right now to join but we did enjoy our lunch on the patio that overlooked the boats. It was quite peaceful.

The grocery store was inside a small shopping center and it did look quite large and quite nice. The store was separated into three separate stores: one for home goods, one for grocery items and a third for pharmacy and personal care items, completely behind glass walls and door with additional security officers. The aisles were massive compared to Singapore standards and even large compared to American standards.

We grabbed some fresh produce and local meats in addition to some typical boxed goods like cereal. Paul advised that the meats were mostly local and of good quality, so we loaded up and headed home.

I tried my hardest to take a nap when we returned but Paul insisted that I stay awake and make dinner like I had planned so, against my will, after receiving yelling remarks and more than ample poking, I got up and began prepping dinner. After dinner I crashed.

Being out during the day did not make me uncomfortable but I did have a heightened sense of personal awareness. Before we left the house, I made sure to only take what I was required to have (passport and U.S. driver’s license). I confirmed that Paul had money so that I did not need any. I wore my Oakley sunglasses with rubber sides (ear socks, according to the website) in lieu of a pretty pair I own, knowing that the rubber would be more difficult to be torn off my head. Paul’s word of advice: only take with you what you can live without.

He gave more advice while we drove through town:

• Don’t drive alone at night – even with tinted windows, people can see you through the windshield
• If you get into a car accident and the car is moveable, keep driving until you are home and safe
• If you get into a car accident and the car is immovable, lock the doors and call private security
• I have already programmed the private security number into your phone
• When driving, always give yourself enough room to get out of any situation
• When driving around a roundabout, always use the inside lane because carjackers will approach from the outside lane

I told him these are the things that I don’t want to hear but I understand that it’s for my own good. In my first few days, I have seen that the local people in our compound are quite nice and go out of their way to smile and say hello. The local people in town seemed to mind their own business and not approach us. I am quite aware that anything left in the car can be taken and anything I have in my possession can be taken so I suppose that will just be my way of thinking moving forward.

We spent the next two days in the condo. “My theory,” Paul stated,” is that if we stay inside, nothing bad can happen. If we go outside the gate, bad things can happen.” Read this as: I might go crazy.

DAY ONE

When I landed in Papua New Guinea after traveling more than a day on three airplanes, I had few emotions. One emotion was relief. All of my flights were uneventful as I experienced only mild turbulence. Screaming kids were nonexistent; loud passengers were nonexistent; continual service announcements were nonexistent. They were all pretty peaceful flights.

However, after 5.5 hours on one plane, a six-hour layover and roughly 14 hours on another plane, I seriously considered getting a hotel room in Brisbane and just waiting a couple days to get to PNG. Then I thought about the reason I was traveling more than a day to PNG and I decided that that husband of mine waiting on the other side was worth one more three-hour layover and three-hour flight. At least at the end of that flight I knew I would be done.

When we slowed down the runway and prepared to taxi, I looked out the window to the shaded green mountains, burning bush fires and undeveloped lands, I remembered when Paul told me he had a “What the hell am I doing here?” moment and chuckled to myself. I wondered if I would soon have that same reaction. I instead decided to embrace the moment, wondering just how many Americans would be envious of my position. Who in the 314 million person population thinks, “I would like to leave the land of the free and move across the world to an island nation in the Pacific Ocean known as Papua New Guinea, a land of just three cities and a whole lotta tribes?” No one I know but hey, I’m here.

So I embraced the moment knowing that this is another experience I will remember forever.

Some very nice men loaded my bags into the hotel van and took Paul and me to our residence. We were driven the back way so that we did not have to carry my roughly 150 pounds of bags up more than 40 stairs. Instead, we had to carry them down a small gravel path that winded down trail-type stairs and then ducked under branches and beyond bushes until we wound our way to the other side of the building, climbing only six stairs to the door.

I opened my suitcases with the intention of not unpacking, took a shower and then rearranged the bedroom because I’m like that. When I had a moment to relax, I joined Paul in the living room on our tiny red leather loveseat and advised that I might take a nap. Paul advised that he could nap so we both tucked ourselves in for the afternoon.

Seven hours later I awoke to find it very dark outside. Paul opened the door to the bedroom and advised it was 11 p.m. and that he was coming to bed. Not yet ready to move, I decided to push through it and go back to sleep.

And that was my first day in Papua New Guinea. 

AND I’M OFF!

While enjoying the peace that is associated with a long weekend in the woods of Central Massachusetts, I was presented with some interesting news. Curtis, Anna Marie and I were zipping down the Mass Turnpike, headed west to enjoy a picnic in the Berkshires while listening to a live, on-site radio broadcast when I got a call from my long-lost, third-world husband.

“So, here’s the deal,” he said. “They moved the maintenance to September so I won’t be coming home in mid-July like we planned.” Awesome. Paul left Ohio at the beginning of June to begin flying in Papua New Guinea. He was supposed to be back for a month commencing in mid-July so that he could spend more time with his family and so that we could go on a little New England vacation of our own. We planned my move to PNG would occur around the time that Paul would be called back.

Whenever people would ask me about Paul’s return, I would advise that he was supposed to be back in July while the airplane was down for maintenance but always explained that the maintenance did not have to be completed until December so there was always a chance the maintenance could be delayed. Looks like I was right.

“O.K.,” I responded. “What’s the plan?” We discussed a couple options. Either we could meet halfway – somewhere like Hawaii where there are Marriotts, not Bora Bora because that country doesn’t have Marriotts – or I could move.

Paul inquired about time off and was advised that he would remain on call five days weekly, alternating trips with his colleague. “Well, then I guess I need to suck it up and move.” By Monday I had decided that I was moving and that I would move in two weeks.

I weighed the options of staying in the U.S. longer, spending more time with family, participating in the end-of-July beach vacation Paul’s sister and I had been planning and attending my best friend’s baby shower in July against the thought of waiting yet another five weeks to see my husband.

I decided that he cannot guarantee that he will be back in September and that I could spend what time I had left with the people who to me mean the most. So, I continued my road trip with the intent on moving almost immediately upon my return to Ohio.

After a mostly glorious day driving to and along the North Shore, Anna Marie and I were taken by a nasty storm that produced tornadoes in Connecticut. After a brief shopping adventure at the local mall, we began our journey back to Central Mass. and then quickly decided to pull off the highway, find a clear area and wait for the storm to pass.

When we made it back into Worcester where we met Curtis, I handed over his sister, said good-bye and drove into Pennsylvania. I made a goal to drive five hours into an area near Wilkes Barre, PA, on the state’s eastern portion.

In the morning, I awoke early, got out of my hotel an hour ahead of schedule, grabbed my Starbucks coffee and headed out on the road. I drove for a couple hours before finding Highway 78, what I determined to be my route of choice for the day. I found it odd that the signs indicated only 78, not 78 East or West. I was also confused when the ramp turned me to the left when I thought I was supposed to be heading right. I brushed off my thoughts, figuring that the road would take me in the right direction.

Just over an hour later, I happened to check my progress via my little blue dot and was stunned to see myself heading east. “What?! Why I am going that way?.....Allentown? AAAAAAAAHHHH!” Yes, I had chosen the wrong highway and wound up driving more than an hour in the wrong direction. So much for enjoying a glorious morning drive, taking pleasure in my ability to be ahead of schedule.

Once turned around, I was back on the road and on my way to see Paul’s sister, Alexis. We spent the next few days hitting parties in celebration of July 4, the birth date of the United States of America. We saw friends, had some drinks, enjoyed a great dinner at the restaurant where Paul and I held our wedding reception and saw some of the best fireworks in the country.

On the afternoon of July 4, I headed home to spend one last evening with my brother before he left for his final weeks in the U.S. Marine Corps.

The next week I went into crazy, “I’m moving to a third-world country” mode, convinced that I needed to stock up on whatever I possibly could before leaving. I bought a couple nice outfits, since most of that is in boxes in a Singapore warehouse. I bought Target out of sundresses because I convinced myself that was all I was really going to wear. I stocked up on hair and makeup supplies, antiperspirant, toothpaste for Paul, a crazy, backwoods first-aid kit, deet bug spray and anything else I swore I needed. Paul, I am truly sorry for this month’s credit card bill. Truly. Really sorry.

People have asked my feelings about moving to PNG and all I can say at this point is that I have no feelings either way. I think that because I have now flown internationally more times in the last two years than I have flown within the U.S. in the last five years, today is just another day.

I am currently in D.C. waiting to board my flight for L.A. From there, I will fly to Brisbane, Australia, and then on to my new home in Port Moresby. I am sitting here as if this is just another flight. My friends and family know that this is not just another mundane flight but, for now, it is to me.

Life is about to get interesting. 

MASSACHUSETTS, MY NEW ENGLAND HOME

After 18 hours in Canada, I found myself again at the U.S.-Canada border. My encounter with the American agent was much easier because I only had to answer three questions – direct responses worked this time – and I was out in about 30 seconds.

On my way out of Niagara Falls, New York, I was held hostage by an outlet mall with a crazy sale and consequently delayed myself about an hour and a half. Oops!

My seven-hour drive was a mix of clouds, sunshine and spitting rain. I had recently learned that because Jesus calmed the storm back in His day, we can call out to the storms in His name today and they will cease, so I put this premise to the test.

Any time the rain would start, I would point my finger out my windshield and either say out loud or think aggressively, “No rain, in Jesus’ name.” The rain stopped. After a while, the rain would start up again. “In Jesus name, no rain! I need to be able to see.” The rain stopped.

Throughout the day this happened several times. I got to the point when the rain would spit and I would just point my finger and say, “Eh!” and it would fizzle out. I began to laugh at this new road trip game.

My journey took me from Buffalo, New York, into Albany, New York, on what seemed like the longest drive in history. I am quite familiar with the sucky long drive across Pennsylvania, which is a big reason why I wanted another route. I did not know, however, that once I was in New York, I was sucked into the Twilight Zone on a never-ending highway that would never reach the state’s end.

Anna Marie called to check on my progress. “I can’t get out!!” I yelled. “I’ve been in New York all day. This state just doesn’t end.”

Amazingly, six hours after my outlet mall release, I broke into Massachusetts. An hour later, I was with Anna Marie in downtown Oakham taking part in a town festival involving a local rock band, some sold-out hot dogs and burgers and the remnants of the popcorn Anna Marie had been selling.

Oakham is a town of about five people. There are no street lights but there are a couple stop signs. There is a library on one corner, a church on another and a small park with a gazebo across the street. That night Anna Marie estimated 100 people came into the town for the concert, a huge success for such a small town.

I spent five days at what would be my last summer at the Smith Chalet, a house on a hill in the woods in the middle of Massachusetts shared by Anna Marie and her older brother, Curtis. The house is truly unique and one that’s inside takes one by surprise.

The house’s frame is boxy with a pointed roof and a structure that reminds me of Lincoln log houses, except this house has siding. The edifice is divided into two homes but it’s easy to forget there are neighbors just on the other side of the walls. Trees surround the lot so the house is private and the yard space provides ample room for bonfire space and gardens. The deck out back is an ideal location for sipping tea or drinking beer on a summer day, watching the garden grow. On one occasion, Anna Marie spotted a moose in her back yard.

I did not see any moose this trip but that did not prevent me from yelling, “moooooose” each time we drove past a moose-crossing sign.

They spent six years in that house and this month marks the end of an era as Curtis is the process of moving to Tallahassee and Anna Marie took a job on Massachusetts’ North Shore. I will miss my summers in the woods but winters on the North Shore will be just as enjoyable.

OH, CANADA

When I crossed the border into Canada, I got a bit excited, even though I did not obtain another passport stamp. I felt like I was on a new adventure, even if it was for roughly 18 hours. When I made the decision to go on an old-school road trip, I dedicated myself to finding my way old-school style – by map – and I was quite proud to do so.

A road trip, for me, involves sun, wind, windows down and/or a sunroof open, blaring music, singing loudly and just going where the road leads. Nowhere in that statement does it say, “woman nagging me to merge left, bear right, drive 942 miles and turn right now,” so I decided to forego the now-standard GPS navigation, making life much more peaceful.

Now, I need to preface that I did not eliminate the GPS tracker and I did on occasion use Google Maps to plan my route to specific addresses to which I had never been. When driving in a foreign land, Google Maps and my little blue dot come in handy. I simply did not turn on any navigation or ask for turn-by-turn instructions at any point on my nine-day excursion. And it was amazing.

When I got into Canada, just after my initial excitement, I had a brief moment of anxiety when I realized that I needed to switch my brain, my eyes and my speed from miles to kilometers per hour. Two-second heart attack over, I realized that I was surprisingly good at monitoring my kilometers per hour, only having an issue determined later in the evening when I realized the Canadian version of a speed limit sign stated “Maximum Speed,” not “Minimum Speed,” like I initially suspected.

In my 18 hours in Canada, I mastered the southern part of the QEW (Queen Elizabeth Way – the highway to Toronto), and I am positive that I was able to do so because I was actually paying attention to roads, exits and landmarks instead of just following a line on a screen, relying on a voice to tell me where to go.

I drove into the Niagara Falls area and pulled into my hotel. I thought I could hear the Falls from the parking lot but I wasn’t sure. I considered walking down the street to see if I had a view of the Falls but I decided to just unload my car and take up to my room the items I needed for the night.

Having selected a Falls-view room, I was nervous that my first Falls experience would be through my hotel window instead of observing the majesty that is Horseshoe Falls in person but I placed my items in the elevator, selected my floor and began to walk down a long, angled corridor that led to a set of doors behind which only my room and one other room were located. I plopped my key into the electronic lock, turned the handle and walked in.

As soon as I entered the room, my eyes met the amazing room that I was provided and the Horseshoe Falls right out my window. I literally dropped everything including my jaw at the door, stepped over my bags and walked over to the window. After a minute, I glanced around the room, ran to grab my camera and then later explored the rest of my digs.

This was the view from my bedroom area:

This was the view from my bathroom:

After gawking, I realized that I had about 30 minutes before I needed to leave my hotel to meet a friend for dinner. Yes, because of my connections in Singapore, I now have friends in many, many countries. So, I showered, got changed and headed out to explore the road.

One of the best parts of a road trip is the scenery. Nicola Brown specifically requested photos from my window so, here are a few:

The Niagara Region boasted highways lined with vineyards. In one of those vineyards, I ran into this girl:

Shalyn was one of the first people I met in Singapore; she is also the host of those amazing food adventures at the hawker centers. Since my trip was so last minute, I gave Shalyn even less notice that I was coming. “Hi, do you have any plans tomorrow night? I am taking a spontaneous trip to Niagara Falls and I will be staying in Canada. Want to grab dinner?” Seriously.

Thankfully, I caught Shalyn on a decent day and she was able to take me to this beautiful place, Vineland Estates Winery in Vineland, Ontario.

The food was great; the company was fantastic. After dinner I went on my way to see the Falls at night. I thought the view would be spectacular but I wasn’t really impressed. I was Falls side for about five minutes and then I went back to my hotel room for a Jacuzzi bath, a dessert of my choice (fudge brownie with hot fudge, a scoop of ice cream, some whipped cream and chocolate shavings) and some of the bottle of champagne I bought myself at the winery.

In the morning, I awoke somewhere in the 5 o’clock hour to this amazing display:

The sun had risen above the Falls and the mist was the highest I had encountered. The water was bluer than the sky and the waves just crashed over the side of the Falls with such power. It. Was. Beautiful. And then I went back to sleep.

At a more reasonable hour like 7:30, I got myself ready to see the Falls and planned to eat breakfast outside near the Falls. The mist is so present near Queen Victoria Park that I twice thought it was raining and cars driving along the adjacent Niagara Parkway required the use of windshield wipers to see.

I had walked to the Horseshoe Falls the night before so I decided to head left toward the American Falls and Bridal Veil Falls, continuing through the park passed the entrance to the Maid of the Mist.

After a stop at an extremely chaotic local breakfast joint boasting an all-you-can-eat buffet for $6.99, I went back to the hotel to shower and pack up. I had an enjoyable anniversary alone and look forward to another trip when I have more time to explore Niagara on the Lake and maybe take that ride on the Maid of the Mist. 

I JUST WOKE UP AND SAID, “I THINK I’LL GO TO CANADA”

Two weeks ago, Paul’s sister, Chelsy, was married in a small ceremony in an Ohio State Park. Family and friends rented cabins and spent the weekend in the wilderness (sort of), being eaten and attacked by mosquitoes.

When wedding weekend was over, we all parted. I, however, was not yet ready to head back into town. I felt the need for a low-key adventure. Being closer to Cleveland than any other day of the week, I decided to drive up to Lake Erie. Knowing I needed to go north and east, I headed in the general directions and made my way to the top of Ohio.

It wasn’t long before I remembered that Lake Erie just isn’t that pretty, but the drive did make me crave some alone time. I craved a road trip. I craved sunshine and peace and unexplored lands. I craved peace and reflective moments.

Luckily, I had been planning a trip to Massachusetts to see some friends. I went to bed that Sunday evening thinking about where I could go and what I could do that would fit in with my Massachusetts plans. After considering the time and effort it would take to fly, I quickly determined that driving would be the better option so that I could manage my own schedule without relying on my friends or the airline to determine when and where I was to go.

I originally thought that I would spend a night in a Connecticut bed and breakfast in a small, Gilmore Girls-like town that I could explore the next morning while sipping some great coffee but driving from Ohio to Connecticut in one day, an eight hour drive not including stops, might not have been the best option, so I considered something a little closer.

The next morning I awoke with an idea: I should go to Niagara Falls. I checked Google Maps and found that Niagara was sort of on the way, just a little jog outside of Buffalo. I continued to think about the possibilities. I could see the Falls after visiting my friends in Mass; maybe they wanted to go with me. Turns out Curtis could not take a day to go and Anna Marie did not want to drive that far either way, so I decided I was on my own.

If I was going to be that close to Canada, I figured I may as well go into Canada. After all, everyone says one must see the Falls from the Canada side, not the American side. So I booked a hotel on Hotels.com, using some monetary credit that Paul had and paid a little extra for a Fallsview hotel room overlooking Horseshoe Falls.

The next day, one day before my upcoming road trip and one day after booking my Niagara vacation, I realized that I would be in Niagara Falls on my fourth wedding anniversary. How perfect, I thought.

So, on Wednesday, June 26, I set off on my own little anniversary adventure. I drove four hours northeast on I-90, across a small portion of Pennsylvania and then into New York. 

When I crossed into the border, a man speaking French asked me for my country of citizenship. I replied and handed over my passport. He then proceeded to ask me no less than 50 questions about my life, my travels and my plans while I was to be in Canada.

“How long do you plan to be in Canada?” the man asked.

”One night,” I replied, answering every question as directly as possible. “Why are you in Canada?” he probed.

”To see the Falls.”

“And why the Falls?”

“Today is my anniversary,” I replied, “and I have never seen them so I decided to take a little trip.”

“And where is your….” He neglected to finish his question so I looked at him slyly and said, “My husband? He’s in Papua New Guinea.”

The guy gave me a look because, clearly, he was not expecting that response. He then brushed off my comment and proceeded.

”Where will you be going tomorrow?”

“Massachusetts.”

”What is in Massachusetts?”

”My friends.”

“What are you going to be doing in Massachusetts?”

”Um…eating a lot of food, drinking lots of coffee, going into Boston.”

”And where will you go after Massachusetts?”

”Columbus,” I said.

“Why are you going to Columbus.”

”For the Fourth.”

“What are you going to do in Columbus?”

”Uh...” I was getting a little amused at his line of questioning but I went with it, not expanding upon any of my answers. “I’m going to see the fireworks.”

He rolled his eyes. “Who will you stay with?”

“My sister-in-law.” Normally I just refer to Alexis as my sister but I didn’t feel like explaining why my person record does not indicate that I don’t actually have a sister.

“Whose car is this?” He asked, moving onto another subject.

“Hertz,” I replied.

“Why did you choose to rent a car?”

”Because I have been using my aunt’s car and she wouldn’t let me take it out of state.” I probably should not have used those exact words, but I did.

“Have you had any issues like that before?”

”No, but I have never used her car before. Her rules.”

At that point, he started flipping through my passport.

“Wow,” he said casually but curiously. “You have been to a lot of places.”

“Yeah.”

”Oh,” he said and perked up a bit. “Papua New Guinea…”

”Yeah!” I said. Way to believe me the first time, genius.

We then had a conversation around my husband’s job flying in PNG and how we were previously in Singapore. After yet another round of questions regarding what I was not bringing into the country, he decided to repeat everything that I had just told him in under two minutes.

I verified everything was correct, he handed me my passport – sans maple leaf stamp – and shooed me on my way.