The Expat Wife

Expat wives have a terrible reputation. Gin swilling, lazy, diamond dripping, drunk by lunch time, double kissing, designer handbag owning, do I need to go on?

Of course now that it's 2010 they're no longer called expat wives, they're "trailing spouses," yep, thanks for that, I feel so much better now. I love the visual of me trailing behind G, hunched over and waiting for direction. Maybe we'll forget about the title.

So, who and what is she?

In my experience she's like any group of women, she's a nurse, a doctor, a dentist, a hairdresser, a chef, a banker. The one thing she usually has in common with her expat friends, is that at some stage she sat down with her partner and had to make a practical choice on whether they were going to take "the job" overseas. In our case, I was 8 weeks pregnant when that conversation came. We did the math and it seemed impractical to turn the job down, the salary G was offered was the nearly the same as our two salaries in Australia, our worries of affordable child care and negotiating maternity leave arrangements would be non existent, it just seemed to make sense to go.

G was an expat child, he was incredibly excited about hitting the road again, there was a piece of family nostalgia there for him and he was happy with the idea of showing a child the expat life, me, not so much. The plan was 2 years in Indonesia, save some money, enjoy the experience and come home. I didn't resign from work, I took a leave of absence, 11 years later and I still haven't been able to formally resign from that role. What do you think Freud would say about that?

When we arrived in Jakarta and G went off to his first day at the office, I sat in our hotel room looking out over the grey city skyline, all logic and practicality disappeared from my mind.  I quickly forgot our agreement. I wondered what on earth had possessed me to give up my career, friends and family to take on the role where my whole existence appeared to be being Mrs G. In fact, that's what the staff at the hotel called me, Mrs G! As I wandered around the city I felt incredibly lonely. If I wasn't working then who was I?  I kept looking in the mirror at my 5 month pregnant body not really knowing who she was either.

After a couple of very quiet days the phone began to ring, British, American and Australian accents at the end of the line. "My husband mentioned there was a new Australian at the office and his wife was pregnant, do you have a doctor? I had a baby last year" a woman with a thick Scottish accent said. Someone invited me on a museum tour, someone else for a coffee "have you heard about ANZA?". None of these women were the same, they were all from different parts of the world, all different ages but they had all been the woman in the hotel room, they had a pretty good idea on what was going through my mind.

When I started to spend time with them I realized that it doesn't matter if you're a hippy, or a conservative, at any age, the story from the very well dressed dignified woman in the corner about how she had to poo in her handbag while stuck in traffic in Mumbai with a serious case of Delhi belly is hysterical to everyone. They laughed about their language disasters, rats in their dryer pipes, no electricity or phone for days, cold showers, doctors who diagnosed them with terrible non existent diseases and the tragic haircut where "just cut a little bit off" translated to "just leave a little bit there" (it took me two years to grow that haircut out).

An expat wife acquires the skill of looking across the room and thinking (as my friend Jen later told me) "I'll have her, she's mine" as they see something in someone that looks familiar. A lifelong friendship can be made in a moment, over the death of a family member or a terrifying health scare for a child. You'll find yourself sharing intimate stories with a friend you've only known for a few weeks, the terrible ex boyfriend, the miscarriage and the fight you had with your sister when you were 8, because you need to share, if you're going to be good friends she needs to know the details. That's why when you phone her the next day to say the car won't start and your husbands in China, she'll be there.

An expat wife will nervously walk in to a room full of strangers biting the side of her cheek, armed with a list of questions

• Is the milk okay to drink?
• Do you have a good doctor, mechanic, dentist or physio?
• Can you draw me a map to the school?
• Where do I buy a decent bra?
• What sort of cab should I get in to?
• Do they have Napisan here?
• Why is there a sign "this meat does not contain traces of mad cow disease" in the supermarket?
• Why can't I find tampons?
• Where can I find a math tutor?

It will be more than likely that she will leave the room with the answers, a list of phone numbers and an invitation for tomorrow. She may not have met one person she can see herself being friends with but that fear of never meeting anyone will be gone. She'll feel indestructible, it will be better than the best performance review she's ever had.

That weekend you'll see her, leading the way with her trailing spouse behind her, she'll be showing him how the city works and what she's learnt during the week, because in reality we all know who the real trailing spouse is.

5 Beauty tips for a shamozal free day

I have somehow ended up on a mailing list for daily beauty tips. Each day for the past week I've received emails with titles such as "when is it too young for botox" (I'm guessing maybe six or seven, I mean the aging process between grades 1 and 2 is brutal) and "how to get dramatic eyes" (perhaps by not taking yesterday's make up off)?

Today I received 5 beauty tips which, if followed, may have taken up a good two to three hours of my day. Never going to happen. 


If I was looking for tips though, maybe these top 5 could have saved me (or my friend Tash) from a little embarrassment in the past:


Avoid picking your knickers out of your bum after just spreading nutella/vegemite on school lunches whilst wearing white linen trousers.

It is not physically possible to scream "brush your hair and put your shoes on" whilst vigorously brushing your teeth without a clothing catastrophe, you will discover at around 2.15 in the afternoon (after dropping the little travelers off at school and being in contact with around 40 other adults of various degrees of importance to you) that you have 2 big globs of toothpaste on each boob.

If you feel something flapping around your navel it is probably the left flap of your maternity bra, whilst clipping it DO NOT squeeze both boobs to remind yourself of which boob is "up next"....and yes that smell means you didn't remember to put your deodorant on after you ran back in to the house for the third time.

That thing you do when you dab 5 dobs of concealer under each eye in the morning....just remember to rub in it BEFORE you arrive at the office

If you sneeze whilst applying your mascara and start looking for a kleenex don't be surprised by any Alice Cooper or panda references for the rest of the day.

Follow these rules and I'm sure you'll be fabulous!

Anniversary Dinner

Yesterday marked our one year anniversary in Qatar. The little travelers made a request to go back to the hotel that became our home for our first 4 weeks in Doha. There was some convincing that needed to be done, the hotel is 5 star, we are a week away from pay day and I'm married to an Economist, but luckily G was feeling sentimental so off we went.

We put our best clothes on, had the car valet parked,  sat down at our "usual" table and caught up with the staff. We were on our best behaviour, G remarked on the flowers and how beautiful the hotel was looking. The maitre d' bought over gifts for the children and as we thanked him Little Traveler number 2 remembered something and said in an excited tone "Daddy, Daddy, Mummy told us what a Dick is today!"

As I locked eyes with the Maitre d' I let out a nervous giggle and he smiled and backed away from the table.

G has inherited his mothers hearing and said "told you what thick is?" and before I could jump in she said in a much clearer voice "NOOOOOOOOOO, SHE TOLD US WHAT A DICK IS". Good, now we had the attention of the table of Japanese businessmen as well!

It had been one of those conversations in the car on the way to school that had started so innocently. "What's a dick?" she'd asked. "Weeeeeeeell, I said, it's the short name for someone called Richard". "Oh", she said, so we should start calling everyone we know called Richard.....Dick?" Okay, so that wasn't going to work.

"It's also a word for your willy" I said. The car erupted in to cries of hysteria. In between fits of giggles the boys started saying "you've got a dick, that's your dick, where's your dick?" "Dick, Dick Dick" they sang. Little Traveler number 1 being the sophisticated 10 year old that she is, sat in the front seat slowly shaking her head, she looked at me wearily and said "Look what you've started".

Parents find themselves in all sorts of places having ridiculous conversations at all times of the day. Yesterday mine was a busy school car park, sitting in a car knowing I had minutes to get my children inside but answering burning questions like "well then, how do you be a dickface or a dickhead?"

After a couple of questions I'd identified what I was dealing with.  A new vocabulary courtesy of the boy in Grade 6 who lives on the compound and was upset about a trampoline incident eg. he couldn't get on it! He'd let fly with some serious dick outrage. All I could think was thank god he's not in year 8, this conversation could be soooooooo different.

Our dinner table conversation is changing, the questions are different now, and we have to get ready to answer them. In the meantime, I had a look back at my blogs from our days last year in the hotel, the very first ones. Here's my little travelers when we arrived.

Coffee?

Yesterday morning I met a girlfriend for coffee. It was her suggestion, she sent me a text, “Do you have time for a coffee tomorrow?"  As we sat chatting, me with my latte and her with.........what was that? In front of her was a tall glass of some sort of warm chocolate drink, I raised an eyebrow, "I don't drink coffee" she said.  

Let's meet for coffee doesn't always mean coffee.

As a child I was told coffee was for grown ups. There was always a teapot on the dining room table and we drank tea for all three meals, but coffee back then was strictly a grown up dinner party occasion. My mother had one of those nifty 1970's peculators and at the end of a long evening she'd be whipping up coffee's (with liqueurs) in the posh coffee cups that only came out "for good".

Perhaps that’s why I thought I was so sophisticated as a 20 something meeting my girlfriends for coffee on a Saturday morning?  Over latte’s, we’d dissect the previous evening. Did you notice who he arrived with? Did they leave together? Wasn’t the music terrible? How did we get home? How funny was the cab driver? So, what happened to you? Where did you end up? Is that pash rash on your chin? I want all the details, don't miss a bit!

Newspapers were shuffled, headlines were shared, future careers were discussed, exams passed and failed. As the day went by second and third orders were made, breakfast turned in to lunch. We'd laugh so hard we couldn't speak, tears would roll down our faces as we imitated each others tragedy's from the night before. We'd finish each other's stories and clarify the hazy details. There were no mortgages, no children, no husbands. 

By my late 20’s a coffee became a safe date or a suggestion.  A coffee could be the beginning of a relationship or the disastrous end. “I think we should talk, shall we meet for coffee”? At the end of a long dinner party when I realized I wanted to be more than friends with G he asked “would you like to come in for coffee” I declined and then kept my fingers crossed for a week that he’d call. 

In my 30’s it was an on again/off again relationship with decaf, 4 children in 6 years meant I'd just get it back only to have to say goodbye again. There was the antichrist of coffee shops.........the dreaded play cafe, coffee with screaming toddlers, small slides, tiny cars and trains. Parents squished in to a room, looking like sleep deprived giants amongst the little people, relying on their coffee to keep their eyes open after an evening of teething and night feeds.

Joining the expat world meant coffee mornings, I dreaded the idea but quickly discovered it was a lifeline to new friendships and information. Where can I find Huggies? Does anyone know of a good hairdresser or doctor? Did you know the Williams family, they were in Jakarta in 2002? Or my favourite "do you know the Browns, they're Australian!"

Tomorrow I'll meet my friend Catherine for a "quick coffee" after school drop off, as we sit down we'll laugh about the two wooden chairs I've already broken and I'll look for a safe one. I'll order my latte and she'll pull a tea-bag out of her handbag and we'll giggle about the absurdity of the lack of tea bags and how we need rations.  We'll solve the problems of the world and then head off on our days because that's what "coffee" is, it's a ritual, an experience and sometimes it's got nothing to do with coffee.

This Saturday I'm grateful for............Growing Older

Back in to the Spirit of Maxabella's gratefulness...........

After a week of the most relaxing school holidays I've ever had, I'm very grateful that the little travelers are no longer babies or toddlers. Don't get me wrong, I loved the baby smells, their first steps and those cute mispronounced words, it's always fun to look back at the video footage and giggle at what looks like badly managed crowd control. As much as I loved it though, I haven't forgotten the days that were spent in a robotic sleep deprived fog. 

There are some beautiful things that come with age, for all of us.

This week we've slept in, yes, SLEPT IN! We went to the pool and no one did a poo in either the pool or their bathers? Score! After years of arriving loaded up like donkeys about to trek the Himalayas, we arrived with towels slung over our shoulders and a tube of sunscreen. I was tanned, skinny and wearing a black string bikini.......okay, so maybe the last bit wasn't true.

A simple trip to the movies this week was just that, a simple trip.  We ordered lunch and there wasn't a mashed banana or a babyccino in sight. I kept my boobs in my bra throughout the entire lunch, although the same can't be said for dinner, it may have been the wine.

We've gone from hoping no one steps on the baby while the photo gets taken

To the four of them lining themselves up and asking if I'll record them saying Hello. Here's the Little Travelers 1 through 4. Enjoy your weekend, no matter what your stage.

Have you wished someone an Eid Mubarak today?

We'd only been living in Jakarta for a few months when it was time for Eid al Adha. I kept hearing people talk about the "second Eid" but I was too embarrassed to admit I had no idea what that meant. Having grown up in a small country town in Australia that had a largely Anglo Saxon, Greek and Italian community, my religious exposure had been mainly to Churches, not Mosque's.

As Eid approached I noticed more and more cows and goats appearing on the streets. They were everywhere, lined up on the side of the road under makeshift shelters with hay scattered around. A bizarre rural setting in a smoggy city that was heaving with 9 million people.

Back then I was spending most of my days looking for a house, I was around 8 months pregnant and getting a little nervous that we still didn't have a "home" to bring our new baby "home" too.

Each day I'd head off with a stunning travel agent who was gorgeous to look at, incredibly sweet but totally clueless when it came to property management. She'd hand me a list of address' and we'd go through the process of getting to each one only to find it was either already rented or a complete construction site. We'd constantly get lost and have to stop again and again to ask where we were while she made a call to the office trying to find out where we should be.

While all of this was happening I'd sit in the back of the car staring out over my new home. Jakarta seemed to be covered in a layer of mist. The sky was usually overcast from either rain or smog. Traffic jams were constant and expected.  There were people everywhere and I stuck out in a "where's Wally" kind of way. I would look at the men squatting in groups, smoking and playing cards, while women carried children in slings (who knew everyone was going to be doing it in years to come). Nothing was hidden in the kampung, you could openly see in to people's houses getting a first hand view of how they lived, food being cooked, mopping and sweeping. Washing hung from electricity lines that were strung from house to house. Tail-less skinny cats and puddles of dirty water everywhere. There was always something to look at.

Each afternoon, after a day in traffic and sometimes not even setting foot in a house, I'd head back to the hotel completely defeated. As I'd enter the doors my friend Agus would ask me how it went. "Any luck Madam"?  Agus and I had become buddies. As I stood each day waiting for a cab or for G to come home from the office, we'd chatter away about our very different lives. While I jumped in and out of taxi's Agus would take 2 busses and a bajaj to get to and from work. I would leave him and take the elevator up to my lovely hotel room while he lived in a two bedroom home with his mother and three siblings.

Agus became my "go to" guy for all things Indonesian, I could rely on him to tell me the rules, what taxi to get in to, which areas of the city to avoid. His advice for Eid was "if you don't like blood, stay indoors on the morning of Eid al Adha". Suddenly it all became clear on why the animals were out on the street getting fatter every day.

When I asked what Eid Al Adha meant I was told it was the story of Ibrihim who sacrificed his son to Allah, luckily for everyone involved Allah stepped in with a ram for them to sacrifice instead (maybe not so lucky for the ram).  So now, on Eid Al Adha, goats and cows (in other parts of the world you can include sheep and camels) are sacrificed and celebrations are held. It's a time of sharing with your family, friends and most importantly with the poor.

Stupidly, I'd assumed Agus would fit in to the category of "the poor" but when he told me what his community was doing for others on Eid Al Adha, I realized in comparison he was doing very well. His eyes came alive as he explained how his family had pooled their money together to buy a cow and that after the cow was slaughtered they would distribute it in thirds, for family, friends and the poor.

There were strong similarities to my families Christmas celebration, his mother would cook all day, they would dress in their best and overeat.  He said the best thing about Eid was the children and watching them celebrate and enjoy.

Over the past 10 years I've been lucky enough to live in 4 muslim countries. Each has celebrated Eid al Adha in a completely different way. Here in Qatar there are no signs of animals on the streets although I hear this hasn't always been the case. G has been to the markets this morning and tells me the livestock market is crazy busy. At the supermarket people are buying in bulk, the queues are long. To me it feels like any western supermarket on the last shopping day before Christmas (and the prawns are on special). Although we're stressed about the cooking and entertaining there's a feeling of excitement in the air that comes before a celebration.

When I think of Eid al Adha, I think of Agus. I think of how small my problems were and how happy he was to celebrate Eid, how grateful he was for what he had and could give to others. What does Eid mean to you? How do you celebrate?  If you're a non Muslim who's been involved in a celebration tell me about it. How did you learn about Eid or are you like me and you're still learning?

Having celebrated Christmas in many Muslim countries I'm always touched by how many Muslim friends give me Christmas cards and wish me a Merry Christmas, perhaps you could do me a favour? If you're in the Western part of the world today and you have a Muslim friend or colleague don't forget to wish them a Happy Eid.

Happy Eid al Adha everyone, Eid Mubarak!

This Saturday I'm grateful for............

Have you visited any of those gorgeous blogs with beautiful photo's and cleverly crafted shots of all things yummy and pretty? They make me sigh out loud. I am green with envy when I look at those sites. One of my favourites is Maxabella loves.

Each Saturday there is yet another beautifully finished page with a "this Saturday I'm grateful for," today I woke up to see cousin Bianca being grateful for her hair straighteners....the transformation shot is incredible!

After spending an evening with 3 men in my bed (be careful what you wish for it may just come true one day), I awoke at 7 to hear our front door closing. Little traveler number 3 had escaped, it's a little trick he has, he likes to go and "visit" people from about 6.30am on the weekends.....it's only 7.05 and we already have an apology to make to a neighbour. Little travelers 1 and 2 are happily playing the playroom but number 4 has a "to do" list for me before I've even opened my eyes, his Barbie's hair just isn't quite right, his mask that he made at school is broken, he can't find his Scooby Doo t-shirt and he feels it's his civic duty to tell me at least five times that his brother left the house without asking. With one eye open I see G enter the room with this:

This Saturday, I'm grateful for G and the simplicity of a tray filled with vegemite on toast, cups of tea and oranges.

An Australian Malteser in Doha

The Little Travelers were all born in different countries.  I think a lot of people expect that if you were born in Malaysia or Malta you would automatically qualify for a passport. Unfortunately not, it's quite the opposite. Sitting in my hospital bed, shortly after delivering our daughter in Kuala Lumpur I was brought a form to sign. When I asked what it was I was, I was told it was a guarantee G and I would never return and claim citizenship for the 2nd little traveler. I joked at the time, "was it something I said"? When a similar form arrived in Malta for the 3rd little traveler, it was explained it was merely a form of crowd control (they were trying to get in to the EU at the time). Our 4th little traveler got lucky, the Canadians are such nice people, they'll take anyone.

If you had asked me yesterday, I would have told you the little travelers all think of themselves as solely Australian. Their parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles are Australian, and we have a house in Australia. We have always referred to Australia as "home". They know the national anthem and sing Australian songs. On Australia day wherever we have been in the world, we've celebrated proudly with vegemite sandwiches and lamingtons. The little travellers still brag about taking the Australian flag tea-towel to see the Wiggles in Calgary; the excitement of Murray giving them the Wiggles thumbs up and saying "G'day you Aussies" is now family folklore.

This week is International week at our school. It's a big deal. There are huge celebrations, concerts, buffet lunches and dress up days throughout the week. Yesterday I went along to the opening ceremony. There are 1,955 children at our school, add in the teachers, parents and guests and the school gymnasium was absolutely heaving. Only having primary/elementary aged children I stood in awe at the size of the high school children. I can't remember boys having beards at school?

There are 76 countries represented, when we talk of diversity these guys truly live it each day. It's not obvious on normal weeks when most of the kids wear the same "uniform" but during International week you see children bursting with pride with their hats, flags, and ceremonial outfits.

During the opening ceremony the youngest and eldest child from each nationality gets to carry the flag for the procession. My little travelers missed out as number 4 is still in preschool and therefore doesn't qualify, the others are neither the youngest or eldest Australian.

Our third traveler is a pretty competitive little guy. He quickly worked out he had no hope of ever being the youngest, and a long wait to be the eldest Australian. Not liking his odds he decided the simplest thing was to just find a new nationality. From now on, he was going to be Maltese. He didn't care that they wouldn't give him a passport, he just wanted to carry a flag. He quickly made his way down the alphabet, ascertained there were no Maltese children, and that he was to become the first one. It was quite funny watching him make this claim whilst wearing his Aussie t-shirt and flag with his Auskick cap. He's already asked if I think I could whip up a quick Maltese Knight costume by Thursday for the closing ceremony.

The procession started with Argentina, the crowd clapped and cheered. Australia was second. When the flag made its way into the room, I saw 3 of my travelers jump to their feet and cheer. I looked around the room and realized there were quite a few Australians there, we all grinned stupidly at each other, nodding and acknowledging our similarity.

As the names went by we made it to Canada, it was then that something clicked for me. I saw my three once again clap loudly and pat the other Canadians on the backs, I thought about them all on their very VERY first day of school. Pre kindergarten at the French Immersion Canadian school with the Rockies in the background. I could see them in their little blue uniforms with red apples on the front, learning their provinces and Prime Ministers, greeting with "bonjours" and giving me hugs "au revoir" as I dropped them to their classroom. I remember how clueless I was about the weather, how they needed special shoes for the snow and how they screamed sang "OH CANADA OUR HOME AND NATIVE LAND" at full strength in the back of the car.

As the flags continued through the alphabet along came Malaysia and my 2nd little traveler gave them an extra loud clap and cheer as she looked at her fellow Malaysians, I'm not sure what they were thinking but they all happily smiled back. When we were nearly to the end and they called the United States once again all three of them acknowledged their time in Texas and cheered. We were there only a year ago.  I remember a different school uniform and how we all watched Obama's inauguration and they kept their children's time magazines with Obama on the front. "This is a moment in history" they told me. My 3rd little traveler (the Maltese one) spoke with a strong American accent, pledged allegiance to the flag and told me how Lincoln was born in 1809,  slept on a bed of straw, was the 16th President, and freed the slaves (all without drawing breath).

The final country was called and the room went absolutely crazy, as the young Qatari man who was incredibly striking and perfectly poised in his traditional thobe made his way down the red carpet the room erupted. I watched my little travelers giggling and screaming, two of them had to have their hands over their ears as the noise was deafening. Tears streamed down my face as I watched my little travelers  cheer for their new home, Qatar.  I couldn't claim anymore that they were solely Australian. It appears  they have become as geographically schizophrenic as their parents. They want to be a bit of everything, passport or no passport. You're stuck with us!

The Press Room

I've always had a bit of a love affair with journalists. Throughout my 20's I surrounded myself with girlfriends who worked in media. I could try and tell you it was because I'd always had a love of news and sharing a yarn but I think it may have been more the fact that most Journo's shared my love of a drink and they never wanted to go home either.

If you were going to stereotype a journo in Australia you'd say they were always good for a drink and perhaps a sneaky ciggie (Dave Penberthy will tell you here how much he loves a gasper). They were my type of people. The blokes always look a bit worse for wear, the girls were good fun, they were smart and funny. They worked hard and played even harder.

When the blog started to pick up it's pace and had a higher readership than my Mum, Dad and whoever else was at the Renmark Footy Club on a Friday night (my Mum prints it out and gives hand outs to whoever she can palm it off to friends), it was suggested that I might like to blog on the Doha Tribeca Film Festival (DTFF), I jumped at the opportunity. I knew it would provide an opportunity for some good stories but I was also fascinated with the whole concept of a "press pass" and being in the "press room" it sounded so cool, so sexy. Yes all you journo's out there can stop that snickering now.

The press room of the DTFF was not sexy but it was very cool.  It had all of the usual stuff, desks with laptops and headphones to use, printers, IT people on hand and a table full of communications people who I don't think actually slept throughout the festival.

Seating was arranged in pods of 4 and on every occasion I entered the press room I sat at a different pod and met a new journalist, cameraman or photographer from a different country. I learnt very quickly there was one universal media language as I heard the word "fuck" said in a variety of different accents.  One of the Al Jazeera Cameramen made an entire song when he couldn't get the printer to print. In a gruff staccato fashion he sang "fuckety fuckety fuck fuck FUUUUUUUUCK". The Brits of course had more of a "Fook", the Australians and Kiwi's ran with a "Fark" and the Irish stuck with "Feck". I sat smirking away at my laptop screen, this was a little different from my previously politically correct corporate background.

As the days went on the pace changed, as did the familiarities. On day one the room was subdued and polite but as the days passed and stories "had" to be done a feeling of camaraderie developed. When I sat with my head in my hands after accidently deleting 3 pages of beautiful quotes and notes from Brigitte and Marian Lacombe I was consoled by listening to the woes of a Kiwi journalist who had waited patiently to speak to a Director for 4 hours, only to be told he had to go home as he was "too hot".

At a film festival the "type" of journalist is always going to be different, there are no flak jackets or helmets. When I spotted the guy in the bright red suit with the bow tie and the wig I took a stab that he may be a film critic. When he and his mate, who I guess were both in their 60's were shown where the VIP room was with the "special" sandwiches I gathered they were well established. These guys were old school. They sat casually doing crosswords and reading papers, looking cool and calm. They didn't seem to need to rush to secure interviews, the interviews appeared to come to them. I overheard one of them say "They've asked me to interview the new actress, you know the one with the big bazooka's that's in the new film". His sidekick (who walked with a cane) perked up and got off his chair "Okay, sounds like I better come with you!"

On my last day I sat with a women who is a Professor of Film and writes for the Huffington post, another who is an expert in Middle Eastern Film and another who has spent 10 years working for Richard Gere. All of them based out of New York. I sat and listened in awe of their conversations and went home at night and googled their stories and careers. I felt like I'd accidently sat at the cool table at school.

The next day when I ran in to them again "I looked at your Brigitte Lacombe story, I liked the way you painted the description of her being like one of her portraits" one of them tells me. I'm so flattered that I can barely contain myself. "We should grab a beer sometime, she says".

I've always liked Journalist's.

Revisiting the Suite Life

The end of this month will mark our one year anniversary in Doha. When I think back to packing up our house at this time last year, I have very mixed feelings. For 10 years we avoided going to the US with G's company, eventually we couldn't hide anymore and G was asked to work on a particular project that HAD to be run out of the States. When we arrived with our heels dragging (me having left a job I really enjoyed) we quickly discovered that America had received a really bad rap. Instead of loathing it, we were shocked, we loved it.


We lived in one of those pretty American suburbs you see in the movies with swings hanging from big leafy trees and basketball rings in the driveway. Our house was light and bright with sunshine coming in  from all angles and a sparkling pool in the backyard. The beagle walked me daily on the biking/running track alongside a bayou that ran behind our house. It all came at half the price we would have paid in Australia, but yes, it wasn't Australia.


It was an incredibly easy lifestyle. It took me 5 minutes to drive the little travelers to school, 2 minutes to get to the supermarket and gym but most importantly it was walking distance to an el cheapo Mexican restaurant serving the most spectacular margaritas I've ever had.


Throw in the fact that we had old friends that we love living 30 minutes away and new friends to bbq and do dinners with, it was all pretty perfect, there was just one problem.


G HATED his job.


He was done. After 12 years of traveling and living for a company that we will just call "the big blue" he was beginning to become jaded and cynical. At the end of each day he'd walk through the door with a larger grey cloud over his head. It was no surprise that when the head hunters came knocking his interest was sparked. When they came back again and then again each time with a sweeter deal, we couldn't resist. Our life was about to change. Again.


I had a look back today at one of the first blogs I wrote. It has more of a "group email" feel than a blog. I think it was a day after our arrival. To arrive from the States in to the Arab world was visually striking. The little travelers had so many questions about what they were seeing. It was so exciting to be here but at the same time there was that flutter in your stomach that comes with the unknown.  We were in those early stages of learning how to make things happen and get things done. Here we are nearly a year ago:

Living the "Suite" life.

After an evening of jet-lagged musical beds we awoke to our first morning in Doha. 

Our hotel suite would normally be enormous but with 4 children and 20 suitcases

(the beagle is at the kennel) it has the feel of luxury camping. The hotel has very

kindly upgraded us to a suite so we have a dining table that seats 8, a lounge 

area that has been converted to a dorm room for the children, a tiny kitchen, and

in the adjoining room G and I have a king size room with a bed the size of

Texas.....I KNOW!!! It's lovely and they will be dragging me out of here next month.

The children have quickly become experts at living the "Suite Life" and are living

in a dream world of buffet's, butlers and bidets. I mention the bidet as it has

become a place of fascination for the 4th little traveler. "What does it do?

""How does it work?" "Can we use it?"

My head was in the bottom of a suitcase when I heard number 3 yell out

"Mummy come quick, he's doing a wee in the butt washer". Squeals of 

delight from the girls who then raced to get prime positions to watch.

After the bidet action we were collected by Mr Talib, who works with G's 

company. We knew we were going to get "something" done towards our 

residents permits but we were a little hazy on the details. Mr Talib was 

dressed in the traditional dishdasha and was more than happy to answer

any questions the children had. He explained the different ways the head

wear (Keffiyeh) is worn, that Qatari men wear theirs differently to both the 

Omani and Saudi men. Mr Talib could not have done more for the children and

made a point of telling me several times that the difference between Qatar 

and other surrounding countries is Qatar is a family country and "we love families". 

Gauging from the overwhelming attention we're getting at the hotel I believe him.

We arrived at a photography store and are ushered to the back of the building 

for passport photos. After lining up one by one with our cheesy grins Mr Talib 
insisted the children have a group photo taken. Suddenly the backdrop changed 
and the children were in front of a mystical Arabian scene, I'm not 
sure why but the other option was an English palace? While we waited for
the shots to be developed the children and I went for a walk down the 
dusty Doha street. It was about 5 in the afternoon and the sun was just 
beginning to set, the sky was a beautiful mix of orange and blue and the
call to prayer from the mosque began, it was beautiful. The street was busy 
and you could feel the excitement of Eid al Adah on it's way. As people of all
colours, shapes, sizes and religions walked by us there was one common 
reaction. A smile at the children.

Next stop was blood samples. As you can imagine the children were really 
impressed with a surprise blood sample thrown in to the afternoon.Little 
traveler 2 had quite a bit to say about the process but she's moved on now. 
I don't think the people at the blood clinic will forget her in a hurry.

As I put the children to bed I asked how everyone is feeling about the move. 
The first little traveler said "people here are super friendly", the second "I like the 

buffet and the pool but I don't like blood tests", the third "it's cool, I'm gunna 

buy a cherry red Ferrari" number 4 "Can I try the bidet".

"There's poo on my tie"

Yesterday was G's birthday. Here's the shot taken just after he blew out the candles. G's birthday falls on Halloween so his birthday dinner is always a little chaotic, set amongst a stream of trick or treaters while the beagle barks incessantly at the doorbell.

The picture was taken on my iphone. It's not like we don't own one of those HUGE ridiculous camera's with the big paparazzi style lens, we do. It's upstairs in the cupboard.

Why didn't I just run up and get it?

When I carried out the cake and the candles needed to be lit, people were chanting in a caveman style "we want cake, we want cake" and someone was standing on a chair doing a one legged yoga pose..... It just seemed easier to grab the iphone.

As I took the shot I had a good look at G. I reckon he looks pretty good.  I mean, let's put it all in to perspective.

He started like this, this is when he could do the "all nighter" of the newlywed variety:

Then his "all nighters" changed in to those of the feeding and changing variety. This is the man who rang me from the office after a sleepless night with our brand new baby and said in a weary voice "I just walked out of a meeting, looked down and realized I have poo on my tie":

Throw in a little more sleep deprivation, a change in job, a couple of bomb scares at the office, a shed load of international travel, another baby, another international move and you get this. Still pulling the "all nighters" of the feeding and changing variety, but he's added teething and sheet changing to his repertoire. See how he's working that clown bath stool he's sitting on. HOT!

He tried a few "new" looks:

It was after the 3rd child and the 4th international move he started dressing up as a cowboy:

then an Indian


And then somehow all those little people started to sleep, and no one wet their bed anymore and a few people started brushing their own teeth. Once, someone even brushed their own hair AND their teeth on the same day!

Then he came back to me. Look at him here!

After we'd sang Happy Birthday and cut the cake, I asked if he'd made a wish.  I received the very cheeky reply of "you bet" as he gave me "that" look.  He still thinks he can pull an all nighter.