Raising kids: Southern style:

I think we can all agree on the fact that parenting is a confusing process. Throw an intercultural marriage in to the mix, and a move to the bible belt of the USA, and you know you’re in for at least a few surprises.

Today, for instance, I learned that allowing fourth grade boys to discuss their dislike of armpit hair is deemed inappropriate by most southern, Christian mothers. I was chaperoning a group of 3^rd to 5^th graders at a summer camp on base, and while decorating wooden dolls, a few boys chose to add armpit hair, an idea I actually thought was really funny. Apparently the other chaperones did not share my amusement, and asked the boys to cease their discussion. Personally, I always thought that armpit hair was fairly innocuous, but apparently not all mothers share that opinion.

Moreover, I used to always think that “crap” was a universally acceptable alternative for the “sh**”word, but I am pretty sure I have seriously offended some women at the summer camp this week by using that term once or twice. I think the worst I heard them say was “Well, sheesh”, or “Goodness me!” , or the somewhat funny “All my stars” or the more daring “Dang”. I realize that the best solution to that would be to never cuss at all (here in the south, even using the word “swear” or “curse” is pretty much unacceptable), but goodness gracious (to stay within acceptable vocabulary boundaries), I don’t think I’m capable of remaining saintly at all times (if ever), especially when I’m at the end of my rope.

On the other hand, I know that I have picked up on a few things that would surprise my Dutch friends and family. I, for instance, don’t expect strange children to call me by my first name, unless I know them really well. I’ve quickly picked up on the southern habit of having children address strange adults with “Miss or Mr (first name)”. When I was a child, I used to call strange adults either “tante” (aunt) or “oom” (uncle), or in some cases, even just by their first name. Nowadays, though, when a strange child hollors out my first name across the street, I find myself doing a double-take, after all, most southern children are taught otherwise. So, yes, I have to admit that I kind of like adding the “Miss” or “Mr” to people’s first names. Call me old-fashioned, but it somehow inspires immediate respect.

The one thing that I know takes Dutch people aback is that I expect all children, but especially mine, to say “Yes ma’am” when I give them an order. This is something my husband grew up doing, and thus raised his children to do too, and I’ve quickly adapted. However, I never really realized how much I’ve gotten used to this until today when one of the children in my group acted out. I told him to stop doing that, and when he merely said “yeah” I found myself becoming even more upset with him, for not showing me proper respect. Yes, I know, I’m becoming a lot more southern than I realize. Well, at least I’m not yet expecting my children to like dirt-track racing (please God, no), chew tobacco (don’t think so), or to eat their collared greens (mainly because I don’t like them either).

Vote for me! For me! For me!

I’ve spent the last few days, as we continued to be embroiled in our search for the perfect hosue, lamenting the fact that I have nothing to compare this whole adventure to. This became even more painfully clear when I talked to my family the other day, and had no clue how to translate “closing costs”, or what the Dutch word for “deed” is. Analyzing the world you live in when you can’t remove yourself from that same world through comparison is just a tad difficult. Honestly, I was beginning to worry that this could be the beginning of the end of my ability to compare and contrast my two homes.

Fortunately, today I literally stumbled across something that once again confronted me with the differences between the Netherlands and the US. How do you literally stumble across an example? Well, if I say “local elections” does that help anyone? For those who are still left in the dark, please allow me to explain. In the US, local elections are apparently the perfect opportunity to plaster the sides of the road with small colorful signs. And when I say plaster, I mean, plaster. Right now, our town’s road sides are literally covered in these signs. For some reason, they’re all yellow with red, blue, or black letters, and are placed maybe a few feet apart. Some signs are even placed on top of each other, which makes you wonder if the man who wants to be county commissioner is OK with the local sheriff using the top of his sign to advertise for re-election. The signs are maybe a few square feet in size, and, in most cases, sit about half a foot off the ground on little metal legs. This is not only annoying when you’re looking for a house, and mistake the “vote for me!” sign for a “for sale” sign¸ but it’s apparently also somewhat dangerous if you’re an absent-minded runner who is lost in “the zone”, and thus not looking out for knee-high signs in the grass. But, hey, it does lead to a new topic for this blog, just when I thought I was completely immersed in Georgia society, so I guess I should not complain too much.

What amazed me about these signs is that none of them include a picture. In a country where even doctors advertise their practices with a picture of themselves looking “doctor-ish” in a white coat and holding some cool instrument, and people spend thousands of dollars on their looks, I somehow expected this concern for outward appearance to also apply to local elections. Wouldn’t Georgians want a sheriff who looks the part? Someone who can instill fear in evildoers and inspire trust among the community? How do they know someone can do this if they don’t know what the candidates look like? Sure, they want a man for the job who knows what he’s doing, but I can tell you right now that very few men in Georgia will be proud of a sheriff who looks like an “uber-nerd”. After all, this is the country of pick-up trucks, guns, dirt races, chewing tobacco, and real men.
Now in all the other (albeit European) countries I have lived in, local elections entail posters with candidates’ faces in close-up taped on every streetlamp, electricity pole, and tree. You would honestly know what a candidate looked like before you knew which party he represented or what his platform was. Then again, and not to sound superficial, I’ve never quite understood why they felt they need to focus on what they looked like. The voting ballots never included pictures (now there’s an idea!), and, to be very honest, most candidates did not look very inspirational (for lack of a better word). So maybe Georgian candidates are being very wise by not putting their faces on their signs. Perhaps it is better to let the crowds judge you on your actions, and then picture a face with it themselves.

The second thing that I noticed about the local elections, besides the ubiquitous presence of the signs, is that seemingly everyone in local government has to run for election. Sheriffs, councilmen, county commissioners, and probably the local dog-catcher too, they are all chosen by the people. Coming from a nation where a lot of these positions are made up by appointees, this is definitely an odd experience, not in the least because in some cases I’m not even sure what all these people do, let alone knowing who would do the best job. Now I realize that I’m probably not totally up to speed on local Georgia government, but I have a hard time believing that many people keep up with all these jobs and their candidates. Today, for instance, I had to ask my husband what being a county commissioner entails. Apparently it has something to do with taxes and appropriation, but husband-dear wasn’t sure either. No, this is not because he does not care, but merely because military members not registered in the state in which they reside, are not allowed to vote in local elections. So the love of my life has merely been out the loop, and we both can’t vote in local elections (and that makes me feel a whole lot better)

Then I couldn’t help but wonder how on earth local residents make up their mind. Do they all seriously visit all the websites advertised on the different signs? Not to put down anyone, but I have a hard time believing that. My students won’t even read their four-page course syllabus, so would local residents with a job and a family really check out each candidate for every position? I don’t know. I know I probably wouldn’t. So I’m going to venture out and make a very daring proposal. If people are going to vote while partly, or not at all, informed, wouldn’t it be better to have someone, or a few someones who knows a great deal about county taxes, dog and criminal-catching to appoint the best candidate? When I read this as a Dutch citizen, I think, well, of course, why waste money on an election, when a mere appointing committee can do just as good a job. But when I read the proposal as a near-American, my hair almost stands on end, because this is democracy at its best. The people should decide whom they want in their government. It’s for the people, by the people, and of the people, and if those people chose to stay uninformed, that is their choice, and they should not have that choice influence their democratic rights.

Right, so now which world do I belong to? You know, I really don't know, and it's cool to be back in that position again!

Huizenjacht

Ik ben me er van bewust dat ik in dit blog er altijd een punt van maak om dingen uit Nederland en Georgia met elkaar te vergelijken. Toen ik bedacht dat ik eigenlijk wel iets wilde schrijven over onze, toch lichtelijk wilde, huizenjacht van de laatste paar dagen besefte ik me echter dat ik totaal geen vergelijkingsmateriaal heb. Ik ben, zoals je dat vast wel kan noemen, een eeuwige huurder. Het is niet dat ik niet wilde kopen, maar ik zat gewoon nooit ergens lang genoeg om die stap te willen ondernemen. En stiekem vond ik huren ook wel prima. Als gasten ooit iets zeiden over mijn woning, kon ik mij er makkelijk vanaf maken met “Ach ja, het is maar een huurhuis”. Als je koopt, of nou ja, als ik iets koop, dan heb ik toch het idée dat werkelijk overal achter moet staan. Tot de knopjes op de keukendeuren en de vorm van de plinten toe.

Maar goed, na maandenlang wikken en wegen samen met manlief, zijn we toch tot de conclusie gekomen dat we graag willen kopen. En uiteraard hebben we na uitgebreid beraad een precieze lijst met eisen, die eigenlijk heel makkelijk samen te vatten zijn: het moet eigenlijk gewoon zijn zoals ons huis nu, ook het liefst in dezelfde buurt, alleen met een extra slaapkamer, en iets meer grond. Lijkt simpel, niet waar? Dat vonden wij dus ook. Helaas kan schijn alleen goed bedriegen.

Afgelopen zaterdag hebben we vol goede moed een makelaar opgebeld. Nu weet ik niet precies hoe hard dat in Nederland allemaal gaat, maar hier laten die mensen er geen gras over groeien. Voor we het wisten zaten we bij de makelaar in de auto, en hebben we maar liefst acht huizen bekeken. Jawel, acht. Achteraf gezien was het verwonderlijk dat we er iets van hebben onthouden, want zaterdag was waarschijnlijk de heetste dag van het jaar tot nu toe, met temperaturen ver over de 100F. Tel daarbij op dat de airco van de auto van de makelaar nou niet echt fantastisch was, dat alle acht huizen leegstonden en dus de airco niet of amper aanhadden, en je kan je een goede voorstelling maken van hoe verwelkt wij ons na huis nummer twee voelden. Het was maar goed dat ik een notititeblokje bij me had, anders hadden we ze nooit uit elkaar kunnen houden. De aantekeningen werden wel steeds cryptischer. Van “very roomy dining area” en “situated on corner lot” ging het naar “curb ap”(appeal – het huis zag er leuk uit), “MBR ↓” (ouder slaapkamer deugt niet), en “NO!”. Op een gegeven moment hebben we zelfs het onthouden van adressen maar opgegeven, en zijn we gaan praten in termen van “The house with the yellow living room”, “the house with the weird room”, en “the house with the flat face”(een huis van twee verdiepingen met geen veranda).

En over vreemde kamers gesproken, iets dat ons allebei opviel, was de zo nu en dan totaal onlogische indeling van heel veel huizen. Huizen waarbij er helemaal geen ramen in de woonkamer zitten, huizen die een dining room hebben die twee keer zo groot is als de huiskamer, huizen met twee eet-gedeeltes, allebei aan een andere kant van de keuken, huizen met een keuken net zo groot als de woonkamer, en vooral veel huizen met hele grote grandioze entryways met veel gesculpt hout en marmer, en dan een superkleine ouder slaapkamer of woonkamer. Vooral de nieuwere huizen leden hieronder te lijden. Ik dacht eerst dat het aan mijn praktische Hollandse geest lag, maar gelukkig merkte manlief het ook op. We hebben zelfs naar aanleiding van onze zoektocht de term McMansion bedacht. Sinds zaterdag duidt in onze familie de term McMansion duidt op de pompeuze huizen die je veel in het zuiden ziet. Deze huizen zijn niet bijzonder groot, maar wel voorzien van allerlei (onnodige luxe), met een sjiek aangezicht in de vorm van een grote veranda en gewelfde hal met kristallen kroonluchters, maar vaak met kleine kamers, en worden vaak in een serie gebouwd. Zo’n huis willen we dus niet.

Naast warme huizen, vreemde huizen, en McMansions is er ook nog de kwestie van de schoolzones. Hier in de VS geldt de regel dat mensen die in bepaalde wijken wonen hun kinderen alleen maar naar bepaalde scholen mogen sturen, en alleen de bussen voor die scholen komen in die wijk. Als je je kinderen naar een andere school wilt sturen, moet je ze dus zelf brengen en halen. Omdat de kinderen hier al op school zitten, en we ze uiteraard op die school willen houden, moeten we er dus rekening mee houden dat we in dezelfde schoolzone blijven wonen. Als je bedenkt dat de schoolzone grenzen bij ons in de stad eruit zien alsof ze door een kleuter getekend zijn, kan je je voorstellen wat voor een zoekwerk dat is.

Maar ondanks dit alles hebben we toch al wel een aantal hele leuke stulpjes gezien. Vanmiddag gaan we naar een huis zelfs voor een tweede keer bekijken. Spannend? Zeker. Leuk? Allicht.

Ik hou jullie op de hoogte!

What's in a name?

Well, a whole lot apparently. I never knew I was this attached to my maiden name, until, well, today. Don’t get me wrong, I like being Mrs. Married name. I really do. But at home only. At work, I have been, and always will be Dr. Maiden name, or Dr. Maiden-married name if I have to. It’s what I have always been, and it’s who I am. I like it that way, my husband likes it that way, my students like it that way, everyone likes it that way. Except, since today, my work.

Before I launch into an entire diatribe, please allow me to clarify. For many years, before I was married, I worked and published using my maiden name. Because you can’t just change your name when you’re an academic (people wouldn’t know whose publications to look for anymore, Mrs. Smith or Mrs. Jones), I wanted to hyphenate my last names when I got married. That way, I figured, I could use both, and then simply drop the married name when publishing. However, because of a snafu when acquiring my military ID, I was given my husband’s name. Subsequently, all my American documentation solely contains my husband’s name, while my Dutch passport contains both. This was never a problem at work. I would fill out all legal paperwork using my married name, and then hyphenate everywhere else. I would explain saying “I had a career before I had a husband”, and everyone would smile and say they understood.

Well, maybe the smiling was another example of southern politeness, because today some people seemed to not understand anymore. Today I got a phone call from one of our secretaries that I really couldn’t hyphenate my name anymore because, well, they weren't entirely sure why, but I couldn’t. Or so they thought. But may not. But it was all very complicated either way. At first HR was blamed, since their records of me are in my married name, and all records have to be synchronized. But a phone call to a very understanding head of HR revealed that they had no problem with my hyphenated last name. Then it was a SACS (southern association of colleges and schools) requirement that all records must use the same name, until I pointed out SACS had no access to my HR records, and that all other records were under my hyphenated last name. The last thing I heard was that it had to do with the way I signed all of my forms. Apparently I might be able to keep my hyphenated last name, but then I can’t sign my paperwork using my married name anymore. I would possibly have to come back in and re-sign all my paperwork with my hyphenated last name. If that was at all possible. But they weren’t sure. The last thing I heard was someone telling me; “I really don’t see what’s wrong with changing your name to Dr. Married name anyway”.

Now slap me upside the head and call me silly, but what on earth is going on here? Synchronized records? Re-signing paperwork? Since when does your signature have to reflect your entire name? I once signed my passport with just my first name and a smiley face on the “i”. Granted, I was 12, but still. And since when do strangers have access to all of your HR records? And even if they do, shouldn’t they be able to figure out that Dr. X in one record and Dr. X-Y in another (and trust me, my last names are odd enough that there is no one else at the university with that name, I checked), is the same person? And moreover, since when does anyone have the right to tell me there is nothing wrong with adopting a different name?

I know I usually don’t rant in my blog, but I really could not help myself this time. I honestly can’t ever see this happening in the Netherlands. I remember dozens of co-workers who were married and had no problem using their maiden name for everything. Granted, it helps that in the Netherlands you never lose your maiden name when you marry. But in spite of that rule, I can’t imagine having the same discussion at my old work. So it’s definitely possible that this is a cultural issue. But cultural issue or not, I will figure this one out. If nothing else, I will just really upset the applecart, and just let all my students call me by my first name…:)

Miss Manners

Imagine you have a plate in front of you with the following foods: steak, sweet potato and corn. You are seated at a regular table with your family. How do you eat your dinner?

Do you:

a) Put your fork into a small piece of the steak, and cut right behind your fork, then, while holding the knife, bring your fork to your mouth, or;
b) Put your fork in a medium-sized piece of the steak, cut in front of your fork, use your knife to hold the steak down while you pull your fork out, then put your fork in the piece you just cut, put the knife down, put your hand in your lap and then bring the fork to your mouth, or;
c) Saw the steak in quarters, put your fork down, put one of the pieces in your mouth and then bite off a smaller part while letting the bigger part drop on your plate from your mouth?

Do you

a) Use fork and knife to scoop up the corn on to your fork, bring the fork carefully to your mouth while holding the knife, or;
b) Put the knife down, it’s corn, not meat!, and use your fork to somehow miraculously scoop the little kernels onto the same fork, which you then bring to your mouth while your hand is in your lap, or;
c) Do you throw your utensils on the floor, and use your hands to scoop the corn somewhere near the vicinity of your mouth, and laugh when half falls on the floor?

Do you

a) Put your fork into your sweet potato, use your knife to cut the sweet potato into small pieces, and then use your fork to bring them to your mouth, while still holding the knife, or;
b) Put the knife down, turn your fork sideways, and use it to cut the soft sweet potato that way, or;
c) Do you use your fingers to scoop out the soft insides of the sweet potato?

If you have answered mostly A: Congratulations! You’ve had the same strict European upbringing as I have. You always use your knife, and always hold your fork in your left hand. When confronted with a situation where you’re not offered a knife you feel confused at first, and then almost naked as you try to navigate through your courses with one empty hand. You know that when eating soup, the spoon should move away from you, and you simply do not understand how people can actually get stuff on their fork without using a knife. Admittedly, you have tried, and merely find yourself chasing your food across your plate and back. When you were younger, your parents told you to keep your hands on the table, and scolded if you accidentally put an elbow on the table (“wil je er nog een turf bij?” (would you like another piece of peat) was common fare at my house). You probably correct yourself when you find yourself slouching at the table, and you experience a small case of hives when people put the knife on the wrong side of the plate when setting the table.

If you have answered mostly B: Congratulations! You’re probably an American, or someone who has been subject to American table manners for years. You may even be my darling husband. You don’t understand the burning need to hold a utensil when you’re not using it, and think putting an unused hand on the table is wrong; empty hands should go in your lap, everyone knows this. You believe in an efficient use of utensils; why use a knife and a fork to cut something when it can easily be cut using just your fork. You also don’t quite understand why Europeans are so hung up on the correct use and placement of utensils. As long as you’re not smacking your lips, eating with your mouth wide open, shoveling you food into your mouth, or chewing while you talk, there really should be no reason to complain. You could also explain to people in category A how you eat corn with just a fork.

If you've answered mostly C: Congratulations to all toddlers! You’re only two but you managed to get online and read this questionnaire, good job! Now go and play outside!

More coming home

I like coming home as much as I like to go on vacation. I love the feeling of being at home, knowing that you don’t have to live out of a suitcase anymore, sleeping in your very own bed, and observing how much things have stayed the same, and at the same time, noticing how different they are from wherever you went on vacation.

The first thing that struck me when I arrived in Atlanta was the air. When you exit an airplane, there’s always that thin strip of sky between the jetway and the airplane, and on Sunday that meant that I was hit by a blast of true Georgia air; thick, muggy, and hot. It was a world of difference from the crispy, chilly breeze in the Netherlands, and I loved it. I know several of my overseas visitors have complained about the mugginess of Georgia, but it’s really grown on me. Anything beats weeks of overcast skies and perpetual drizzling. However, I have to admit that it took me a little while to adjust to the fact that it’s already close to 100F during the day here; the first day back I must have drank gallons of water, and surprised everyone in my family by complaining the air wasn’t on low enough. But it wasn’t long (read: half a day) before my body adjusted and I happily realized that I no longer had to debate what to wear (shorts? Long pants? T-shirts? Long sleeves?), did not have to bring a jacket anywhere, and could rely on perfect swimming weather every day. Hang on, I’m afraid I’m going to have to take the part back about the jacket. With the rise in temperature, restaurants seem to start competing in who can best imitate a freezer again, so bringing a jacket along is a necessity for survival. That I also re-learned really quickly.

I also really enjoy seeing my house again for the very first time. Somehow I always worry if everything is going the be OK during my absence. Well, somehow is not really right here. I am a worrywart at heart, and in my mind the worst possible things will happen to my home during my absence. I’ve already mentioned how I do this when I go to work, imagine what it’s like when I’m away for extended periods of time! A few years back I would from time to time call my own number to see if my answering machine picked up, reasoning that that meant the house was still there. Are you blushing? No? Well, I am. Fortunately, I no longer feel the need to do that, but some worries still linger. You can imagine my fear when a friend told me tornadoes had touched down near our home the first day of my trip to Holland. Fortunately, they never made it to our town, but I can’t bear to think what could have happened. So I was very very happy to come home, hear Gertie squeal at me, and see everything just as we left it. For a long time, I was on the move so much, nowhere really felt like a home, and it’s nice to realize that this house really does feel like home.

One thing that I did not think I would have missed this much is the convenience of living in Georgia. There are baggers at the grocery store! And a cashier who greets you and smiles when you have a hard time finding your ID. There is no driving around tiny parking lots trying to find a ridiculously small parking space, nope, there is parking everywhere, and it’s free! There are no scary teens on bicycles (instead they’re in cars, but that’s a whole different story), and the roads are nice and wide. People ask you how you are, and offer free refills. Yep, the little things make this whole homecoming-thing even more perfect.

Do I miss Holland? Of course. I had not been back this long in several years, so saying goodbye was a little harder than before. I already miss the cheese section at the grocery store, and the bicycle trails. But coming home has been an overall "mighty fine" experience

Home sweet home

Home at last. The suitcases have been unpacked, most of the laundry is done, our pantry is once again full of food, the mail has been taken care of, the guinneapig has been hugged, our neighbor has been thanked for her wonderful care of our house, and I’m going to guess that some of the dropjes have already disappeared. It used to be that the first day after coming home, when you’re trying to take care of all the things listed above and more, while fighting a jetlag was the worst part of the trip. However, recently I have come to the conclusion that the worst part of the trip actually starts when you arrive at the airport. To be honest, who really enjoys traveling nowadays? Don’t get me wrong, I love the feeling of being on the road, but the harrowing hassle that accompanies today’s travels is less than amusing.

From the first time I set foot aboard an airplane (I think I was about four years old) I loved to travel. I loved the little trays of food you got during the flight, I thought the flight attendants had the coolest job in the world (and got to dress like one of my Barbie dolls to boot!) and I loved the glamour that surrounded traveling by airplane. I mean, I even loved the smell of jet fuel. Obviously, as time went by, my opinion about traveling was de-romanticized just a little bit. Delays were little fun, as was lost luggage. I realized that being a flight attendant meant working really hard while suffering from a jetlag, and learned to bring a good book to read as very long flights did eventually get boring. But up until a few years ago, I still really liked to fly. Whenever I got near an airport, I could just feel excitement rushing through my body. But all that has changed now. Last Sunday, while we were standing in line for security, I turned to my husband and surprised myself by saying, from the bottom of my heart, “I don’t think I like traveling anymore. At all.”

So what happened? It’s not just one thing, it’s a culmination of little nuisances. It really starts while packing. I don’t know about everybody else, but I used to pack my toiletry bag in my carry-on, just in case my luggage was delayed. But nowadays I have to read look at the individual and accumulated sizes of the different tubes and bottles I want to bring, separate them in a “carry on” and a “checked “ pile, and then hunt for the right size zip-lock bags.

But compared to the contemporary airport experience, this is peanuts. I remember those glorious days when you could arrive at the airport 90 minutes before departure. You could sail into the departures hall, leave your luggage with an airline agent, and walk right up to the gate, sometimes even with your family or friends. Unfortunately, those days are no more. Nowadays it’s gotten to the point where we try to avoid early flights because they entail getting up at the crack of dawn to stand in line with hundreds of other fellow-sufferers three hours before boarding time.

Now let’s say that in a moment of temporary insanity (or frugality, take your pick) you do choose to take an early flight. Now let’s be bold and assume that you have made it to the airport on time, with all your luggage. At this point it’s not as though once you’ve recovered from getting up at four in the morning and standing in line for an hour, that you get left alone to wake up slowly. No. Instead you get to answer question after question about your luggage and yourself. And while it used to be that the agent who checks your bags would ask a few questions pertaining to your luggage while tying labels to your bags, looking at his computer screen, and talking to a co-worker, in Amsterdam they have added an additional in-depth interview. When you arrive at the gate, you have to answer an additional set of questions before you are allowed to enter the boarding area, and this time, the interviewer is very serious. These questions don’t just pertain to your luggage, but to a whole host of other issues, such as who paid for the ticket, what kinds of electronic equipment you have in your luggage, and more questions like that which, seeing the hour at which most intercontinental flights depart, should be forbidden, or at least include a free cup of espresso to awaken your brain.

The modern traveler is probably also familiar with the concept of security. While in the past all you had to do was walk through a metal detector, nowadays traveling involved taking off shoes, belts, removing laptops from their cases, explaining at least twice that yes, your bra has an underwire, and, in my husband’s case, taking off his wedding band. Although I understand the necessity of this process, it drives me crazy that in airports like Atlanta, they make you go through them twice, if not three times, depending on the terminal at which you arrive. This means standing in line, taking off your shoes, and holding up your pants several times in a row, which, when you’ve just spent ten hours on a plane, is probably one of the last things in your mind.

All in all, flying, to me, has become such a hassle that instead of feeling like my vacation has not ended until I arrive at my own home, I now feel that vacation-sensation seeping away the moment I smell the jet fuel. Where did the love go?