Business Travel in Germany

I have written four blogs about my business trip to Germany. It did not go as expected and it was far shorter than I had hoped. I learned a lot about myself, though, and had another first....being a patient in a hospital. Click here for installment #3.

Coming up next week, I head to Luxembourg for three days for a business trip and my husband and I stop through Belgium to take a walk down memory lane.

LIFEclectic Blog #2

It has been a roller coaster of a ride these past few weeks. Get an insight into by reading my latest blog for LIFEclectic, "Business Travel While Pregnant: Part I - 911 in Germany." Don't worry, Pinda and I are doing just fine.

One of those days

Thank you to all of you that read my last blog posting and went to (or tried to go to) the online magazine to read my posting about the nursing class. For reasons I do not understand, that post is no longer available. I just wanted to let everyone know that in case they try to visit that blog and can't get to it.

Moving on...yesterday was one of those days. It was a "Why do things have to be so damn difficult and disappointing" day. I am finishing Week 28 of my pregnancy and feeling, all things considered, really good. I am now also head over heels into nesting mode. For me that means cooking and baking. We bbq'd with friends last night and, for dessert, I planned to have fruit popsicles (made last weekend) and these brownies from Good Housekeeping Magazine.

The recipe looked really straight forward and expat friendly meaning I expected to easily be able to find all of the ingredients and not have to pay a small fortune to buy them at our little British/American expat grocery shop. Umm...and then we went grocery shopping. How is it that in a country neighboring Belgium and close to Switzerland, it is nearly impossible to find unsweetened chocolate? Even the corner grocery store of my childhood in a little town, population 1,800, in the Midwest sold Baker's chocolate. After searching (unsuccessfully) our nearby market (the largest in Europe nonetheless), a specialty cooking shop and our corner grocery store that has one fourth of one of its six aisles devoted to chocolate, I gave in and went to the expat grocery store prepared to pay a small fortune. Nope. Out of stock. In desperation, I finally, surprisingly found (one kind) baking chocolate in our big supermarket.

Half exhausted after walking way more than I had planned, I went home buoyed by my small victory. This recipe is so simple and yet, two hours later, I felt my knees buckle slightly as I tried to cut off the charred top while the bottom part collapsed into a steaming pudding mess. The Good Housekeeping seal of approval, yeah right! It was an unmitigated disaster. Probably seeing the tears brimming in the corners of my eyes, my husband quickly went out and bought a chocolate walnut cake (pictured) at a nearby restaurant/patisserie, Dudok. We didn't even end up trying the homemade popsicles. They were the furthest thing from my mind as I greedily devoured my slice of restaurant bought goodness.

And Now Presenting...

And now presenting...my latest foray into the writing world. I have become a blogger at an online magazine, Lifeclectic. Check me out.

In this blog post, I write about my experience this week at a breastfeeding class. Yes, the class was given in Dutch and, yes, I was one of the only expats. As if expectant mothers, don't have enough to sort out, I get to learn about parenting from two different cultural perspectives.

Turning the corner

A few weeks ago, I wrote about how I haven't been able to walk into a store yet and get excited about buying things for our little one on the way. Well, I have turned that corner at least with respect to clothes. My mom and sister have been a big help on that (Thanks guys!) They've hit the stores and garage sales back in the U.S. and sent me some of the most adorable clothes. It got me excited and, in all honesty, probably took away some of the intimidation.

I can't bring myself to spend more than EUR 5 or 6 yet on a piece of clothing - they seem too tiny to justify much more and I know myself well enough to know that it will bother me much less if the baby never fits into the clothes or throws up on an outfit if I know it cost less than $10. As a result, this price range has limited me to the discount of the discount stores here in The Netherlands. It's not so bad actually. Everything is 100% cotton for the most part and has very basic patterns which is how I like it anyway. And, honestly, sometimes I actually appreciate having fewer choices. It can all be so overwhelming otherwise. Here is sampling of what I've found so far....

Garbage In, Garbage Out

I title this blog in homage to my father. He is alive and very much kicking. Whenever I enter my house with more than two shopping bags or exit any car, I hear my dad's voice ringing in my ears, "Garbage In. Garbage Out." He used to say this to us as children on two different occasions. His philosophy was when a new item of clothing especially a pair of shoes entered our house that one item needed to be donated or thrown away in it's place. In a house of four females, this was essential, but didn't always work. He (and my mother) would also bellow this when we pulled in the driveway. As we were exiting the car, we were expected to take all personal items and trash with us into the house.

With that adage in mind, my husband and I took two trips to IKEA and bought a lot. I find myself getting physically uncomfortable when too many objects pile up in our living space. It could be a function of the size of our house (large by Dutch standards, but small by American), but it became markedly noticeable after I returned home from my round the world trip last year. For eight months, I managed with a back pack and was (reasonably) okay. I rotated my clothes often as was a privilege of traveling in SE Asia, the real birth place of GAP and Polo clothing, but I have very little attachment to objects. I would rather just donate an unused item and get it back into circulation for someone else's use and to unclog my living space.

My Dutch husband, on the other hand, fights a nationalistic and genetic disposition to keep anything of remote value. If I had a euro for every time he has said, "But look at this (insert name of object). There is nothing wrong with it. It is perfectly usable...." Or, "I can sell it online." The responses that I have learned to combat this are: "When was the last time you used this?" and "Who do you think would actually pay money this?" One perfect example is a CD rack. We have had a very nice, high quality metal (empty) CD rack mounted on our wall for as long as I can remember. I wasn't really expecting a fight from him as I took it off the wall and started to carry it towards the trash pile we'd started in our greenhouse. I think my husband actually stomped his foot in objection. I finally let his, "I will sell it online" line win although we both know that he has yet to sell anything online. My question this time was, "How many people do you know that still actually listen to CDs?" Turning his head to avoid eye contact he insisted, "Plenty!"

The CD rack aside, we amassed an impressive pile of unused stuff to throw away. My husband arranged a special garbage pick-up for Monday morning. This means we could put all of our trash on the curb outside of our house after 10pm on Sunday night. And so we entered into another Dutch ritual...the Trash Scavenge.

Three types of people emerge when a trash collection occurs. They don't bother with the weekly trash pick-up. That is left to the pigeons and sea gulls. The special, big item pick-up is what draws these personalities. The first to arrive are the Metalheads. They drive the streets at night with vans searching for mostly metal based trash that can be exchanged for cash. I have half a mind to think that the garbage collection agency tips these people off to pick-ups. Two vans arrived within minutes of us setting the first item outside of our house. The first van belonged to a couple of Eastern European background. The only words they knew of Dutch were the words for "steel, metal, and thank you." The woman walked right inside our house and started looking through the piles of stuff we had not yet had a chance to put outside. It freaked me out. I wanted to be cordial, but still. What is really keeping these people from trying to take whatever they want from our house? Who else do they have in the back of their windowless van?

The second Metalhead was nice enough to help my husband carry some of the heavier items out of our house. It was the strangest (yet nicest) thing. He opened the side door of his van while we were taking trips in and out of our house. We glanced inside and immediately knew what he was after. We exchanged only smiles with each other. He helped my husband and then I started bringing him items I thought he'd find interesting - an old CD burner and keyboard, for instance. All he said was, "Thank you, thank you" over and over again before driving off. Everyone was happy.

Passersby unabashedly started looking through the garbage bags and piles as we made trips to the curb. These are the Freebies. Whatever they can find of remotely any use will be either used in their own house or will find its way to yet another attic. It is an explicit rule that smaller articles of trash should be put in a garbage bag, but the implicit rule in The Netherlands is that the bags shouldn't be tied closed. The next morning, even the bags we had left untied had been torn to shreds by people - Metalheads and Freebies alike, I am sure -searching for any last fragment of hidden treasure.

A few years ago, we bought a new entertainment center for our living room. And like the adage goes, the old one had to go. My husband once again convinced me he'd sell it online. Sunday night I finally convinced him that putting it out on the curb would do more for us in 30 minutes than what two years of your "I'll sell it online" has done. The fifty pound solid wood entertainment center was gone in fifteen minutes and done so quietly I didn't even hear it go.

The third group involved in this ritual is the Dumpers. When a person starts piling stuff on their curb on a non-garbage collection day, every one of his neighbors walks to their window to watch and then turns around and says, "Honey, do we have anything to throw away?" We mentioned the scheduled pick-up to our immediate next door neighbors and they happily joined in, but by the morning our trash pile was unrecognizable to us. Mattresses even found their way to the front of our house. I am sure our neighbors perused the piles for any trade-ins too. I should have set up a camera to document this phenomenon.

It is such an accepted thing in our area that the garbage collector doesn't even make us indicate how much will be collected at pick-up. It is just impossible for someone to say that. So much came and went in the night.

Feathering the Nest - Part I

We have a four day weekend in our house. Thursday was a national holiday in observance of Ascension Day. I haven't seen any religious festivities celebrating it, but it does seem to be enjoyed in a a combination of three ways: driving to Germany or France to camp, hitting a nearby beach, or doing home improvements. For us, this weekend is our first real step in getting the house ready for the baby - in other words, nesting. And where else to start this off, but IKEA.

My husband, for various reasons, doesn't like IKEA. He appreciates IKEA's business model and is increasingly impressed by the price/quality of their products relative to competitors that seem to cut more and more corners these days, but he hates the IKEA shopping experience. I myself hate the rat in a maze flow of our local store, but it is one of the only one stop shopping places near us. During my pregnancy, it is the only time I have felt truly, world spinning, mouth-watering-about-to-yak nauseous. From the moment we park the car, we are consenting to being funneled through narrow curving lanes in a prescribed order with a parade of strangers. It feels like the home decorating process has morphed into some exhibitionist museum display. In the end, this means I have approximately 45 minutes from the time we take the off ramp to the store until my husband has reached his shopping breaking point. We manage it by pre-shopping online through IKEA's website, but on busy days like public holidays, it can be a true relationship test.

We started out wanting to purchase a baby crib and mattress (pictured) and ended up also buying five decorative pillows, a couch with a two person fold-out bed (pictured), three rugs (see picture for the one for the nursery), four window blinds, a closet organizer for the baby's room, shelving, a throw blanket, and two sets of sheets. We also ended up having to make a second trip back on Friday midday which was pure torture. I kid you not, I almost threw up in the parking garage before we even entered the store I was that nauseous. As my husband says each time we enter the house after a trip there, "We survived!"

And then began and still continues the assembling and re-arranging process. Some of you might ask, "If you hate the store so much, why bother?" The answer invariably is that IKEA is the most sensible option for many of our purchases. The flat pack design actually is pretty essential for life in a Dutch city. We have a four door Prius and prior to that had a two door Ford Focus. We own a traditional Dutch canal style house meaning a very narrow floor plan with steep stairways connecting each floor. We would have to pay a mover to deliver a fully assembled cupboard or couch through the second or third floor window of our house. Instead, we choose to assemble a piece of furniture in the room in which it will be used. It then typically cannot ever leave that room.

Stay tuned for Part II when I go into more detail about our redecorating plans.

Reality Check

I just returned home from a two week work assignment in Switzerland. The setting was about as utopic as it gets - the countryside set along crystal clear lakes against a backdrop of snow capped mountains. I stayed in a small tourist village that looked right out of a The Sound of Music. The weather was unseasonably warm and, of course, everything was pristine and organized. My husband flew out for the weekend and we visited some close friends currently living near Zurich. I couldn't have hoped for a better time, but it is still great to be home.

I keep waiting for it to really sink in that I am pregnant. People have told me that it is impossible to fully comprehend and that it may even be a natural defense mechanism that your mind doesn't try to fully grasp what will be happening to you during labor. We saw our little girl moving around during the 20 week sonogram and I feel her kicking and punching throughout the day, but I just have a mental disconnect. It just feels like I am mysteriously gaining weight and that there is this hard ball in my stomach.

My shirts are really starting to get tight. I have become one of those women constantly pulling their tee shirt down to cover my mid-section. I went into a baby store today that also carries maternity clothes. Walking through the baby clothes section on my way back to the maternity section, I felt the strangest sensation...nothing. I just cannot bring myself to get interested in buying baby clothes. For starters, I don't have the foggiest idea how big the baby is going to be nor do I have any clue how fast she will grow. I am so bad with proportions. I can't look at a woman in the street and tell her age more less guess the size of a 3 month old.

I didn't find any tee shirts in the end at that store or four others. I will rant about the lack of maternity clothes in The Netherlands in another post, though. As I was leaving the store, I forced myself to pause and try to form an opinion about the baby toys in the store. Then it dawned on me. Who is going to tell me what to buy and when? How am I going to figure all this stuff out? Sure toys have tags on them suggesting the age appropriateness and there is more literature out there than I could read in a lifetime, but who is going to teach me how to be a parent? When I am going to feel like a parent?

Thebump.com has some great customizable tickers. Here is my favorite...

I couldn't help, but add one to my blog too.

Pitter Patter

I'm pregnant!

I'm pregnant!

Surprise!

Hopefully that explains why I have been missing in action on my blog for the past few months. It is not that I didn't have anything to write about, I just wasn't ready to put the news out there. I am nearing the end of my fourth month of pregnancy. My husband and I are both starting to get really excited especially now that I am starting to show and, as a result, it is all getting a little more real. We have had two sonograms so far and have seen Peanut (he/she's name for now) and heard P's heartbeat. Everyone is healthy and on-track, thankfully. I must admit, though, it is still hard to make the connection on a daily basis.

Last week, my husband and I toured three daycare centers (creches) in our neighborhood. Just when I think I am getting integrated into the culture, bam! The shock hits me all over again. What has always fascinates me about travelling to other countries is experiencing how people in other cultures live their lives. It could be the littlest, most mundane things. I love going to a local grocery store or market and just roaming the aisles or stalls, respectively, for instance. I will walk around a residential neighborhood. That is all well and good until I try to visualize handing over my infant to strangers.

Waves of anger, fear, annoyance, sadness, and tears suddenly rolled through me throughout the day and during our three visits. For starters, reality set in just a little more that we are about to become parents to a completely helpless human. Our decisions, for better or for worse, will shape this person's life. As a control freak and planner by nature, the fact that no amount of research can prepare me for a child nor should I realistically expect to have a predictable schedule for much of the next two years brings out the worst in me. My defense mechanism is to withdraw mentally, emotionally and sometimes physically to the most nearby familiar place or, in extreme cases, women's clothing store. But there we were, touring day care centers. I willed myself to stay present in the situation which was made all the more difficult by a language barrier.

Did I mention everyone only spoke Dutch? I just finished an advanced Dutch language course so if I give each spoken word my undivided attention, I can follow along in a conversation. And, if allowed many periods of uncomfortable silence and some panomiming, I can respond in Dutch. Strangely, this has also inversely affected my ability to speak English, my mother tongue. During the tours, I would ask questions in English and the person would answer in Dutch. It worked well except that I could barely cobble together a question in understandable English so oftentimes the person didn't answer the question I was asking. They were incorrectly guessing what I was trying to ask and answering that question. To top it off, tears would rush to my eyes and surprise me mid-sentence. By the final visit, I would just start with the main word of my question, "Discipline", for instance, and follow it with, "How do you do that?" I also stopped telling people I was American in hopes that they would cut me a little more slack and guess that English in addition to Dutch was not my native language. I am sure they still came away with the impression, "The Dutch father seems really nice and put together, but that mother. Whoa! Nutjob!"

We live in a city center that, while a relatively small city, is still quite densely populated. The Netherlands, after all, is one of the most densely populated countries on Earth. As a result, the daycare centers occupy huge buildings by local standards, but are small compared to those in the U.S. Fortunately, they have each managed to carve out large landscaped play areas while being sandwiched in between apartment buildings. They are not the playgrounds and backyards of my youth, but at least they are not all completely paved. Our child will play under a tree and eat sand and dirt, but they will have to reach into a planter or pot to do so. He/she will have far more exposure to different cultures than either my husband or I have had and will speak Dutch better than me by his/her second birthday.

One cultural norm that my husband and I are still struggling with is how many days to put our child in daycare. The standard in the U.S. seems to be all or nothing - five days per week or not at all - for babies. The Dutch standard seems to be a maximum of three days per week. There are exceptions to every rule, but the onous tends to fall mainly on the mother to work a maximum of three days per week. It is just not economically feasible nor my wish to be a full-time stay-at-home-mom. Don't misunderstand me, please. I think it would probably be the hardest and most fulfilling job I would ever have, but it would also put a huge amount of stress on our current and potentially future finances and that would also impact our marriage and our child. There really is no perfect decision.

At the same time, even as I stood in each daycare center talking to friendly and I am sure completely competent caregivers about what still feels like a fictitious baby to me, it deeply pained me to imagine bringing Peanut there five days per week. What could my husband and I be doing in our careers that is SO important to warrant someone else raising our child 40 hours per week? What could be more important to me than experiencing our child reach his/her first milestones? Do I need to be physically present at every minute milestone (i.e. dirty diaper) ? Probably not. It would probably give me more appreciation of the ones I do get to experience. Once again, I just can't wrap my mind around it all.

The other option we are considering is hiring a nanny. Now, before you write me off as a poor little rich girl, hear me out. I am not referring to the live-in caregiver/au pair from "Nanny Diaries". Frankly, we don't have the appropriate number of bedrooms or bathrooms for that and the idea creeps me out. This would be a woman (not that I oppose men, but I have yet to meet a manny here in The Netherlands) that comes to our house eight to nine hours a day five days per week and also cleans our house and possibly does some errands. Dutch daycare is so expensive that hiring a nanny usually costs less - sometimes upto 40% less - than daycare. I have also heard of some situations in which the price of the nanny also includes two weekend nights per week of babysitting. Babysitters run EUR 10 per hour here! And did you catch the cleaning part? Cleaning! Errands! Date night! Can you hear the angels singing?!

(Cue the sound of a needle scratching across a vinyl record.) Yes, there are huge risks to consider when hiring a total stranger to care for your child in your house on a daily basis. In The Netherlands, there is also the high likelihood that the woman will speak limited Dutch or English. Dutch woman are usually far too expensive and English speaking woman are typically twenty-somethings only interested in being a live-in au pair. Additionally, nannies are usually found by word of mouth and we just don't have than many channels in which to search. Postings can be found at the local grocery store on their announcements board, but do I really want to risk it? Nevertheless, we are open to the possibility. We have also added our names to the waiting lists at the three daycare centers.

There are other things to consider like our work schedules. I travel for work 30% of the time and can be out of town for a week at a time. My husband drives at least an hour each way to work each day so cannot feasibly drop off our child and pick it up within the ridiculously strict opening hours at the daycare centers. While my parents would happily watch our baby from time to time to fill in where need be, they live across an ocean. Oh, what were we thinking getting pregnant? I remind myself that people do this everyday and, eventhough I can't see it now, we will be fine...more than just fine.

Oprah in Cambodia

Before I even knew I loved to travel, I loved to read. I also love music. Books and music intertwine themselves with memories throughout my life. Songs draw me back into rooms or cars and onto couches, benches, seats and even treadmills of a decade gone by. As I began traveling internationally in my late teens, music and books were always along for the ride. I mostly chose haphazardly based on bestsellers or what jumped off the shelf at me. It has created some strangely charged memories. Dave Matthews' solo album, for instance, will always remind me in equal parts of my early morning jogs along the river in Warsaw, Poland and breaking-up with my college sweetheart.

One book and place keep haunting me lately, though. This time last year, I was finishing a trip in Vietnam and heading to Cambodia where I would volunteer as a teacher in Phnom Penh. Prior to volunteering, I spent a week in Siem Reap and then took a six hour trip by bus to Phnom Penh. Other than the ridiculously simplistic Cambodian soap opera blaring from the bus's tv and speakers, the trip was thankfully uneventful. We had air conditioning, the bus was a relatively modern coach, and the road was pretty smooth. A few years ago, I started listening to books on my Ipod. It was far cheaper than buying books printed in English in The Netherlands and they could easily accompany me on public transport and walks. Oprah's unauthorized biography accompanied me throughout most of my time in Cambodia. Yes, it was a bizarre choice and, as a side note, I just couldn't finish it because I found it too negative.

Nevertheless, Oprah will always remind me of Cambodia. I must have been listening to a chapter about her childhood and adolescence when we stopped three hours into our cross country bus ride in Cambodia for a lunch break. I for some reason associate that bus stop with what the deep south must have been like in the 1940s. I am probably so ridiculously far off on this analogy that it only goes to show you how alien Cambodia seemed to me. I remember taking a wide step off the bus's last step over a open sewage streaming along the high concrete curb and over the orangish brown dirt road. Dust rolled off the wide dirt boulevard as motor bikes and the occasional decades old car drove by the row of six coach buses identical except for a small hand printed sign in English stating the destination.

The dust thickened the already hot air heavy with humidity. Sweat rolled down my back and I could feel drops forming on my shins. The stink and the heat squashed any hunger pangs. I followed the other travellers, some die hard backpackers, but mostly well to do Cambodians along what must have been the local version of Main Street. A two story restaurant occupied the corner. Voices rolled out the open windows and doors and people were packed inside slurping down steaming bowls of soup and hot lunches. I, on the other hand, would have paid $10 (okay, $5) for a cold Diet Pepsi.

Wearing ear buds and listening to an Ipod in the many situations similiar to this that I would come across on my travels throughout Asia, gave me an instant albeit false sense of security. Oftentimes I would wear the earbuds while playing nothing at all. I just didn't want to seem approachable, but I also didn't want to be vulnerable to people approaching me from behind or, more likely, the tuk tuk that comes driving out of nowhere as I cross the street. I suppose just the appearance of an Ipod gave me an appearance of status in such an impoverished country, but that was far from my consciousness. I already stood out so much and was so obviously western what did it matter?

The audiobooks too helped me filtered what I was experiencing. Songs often makee me feel more and that is sometimes just too much to handle. Books have always transported me to somewhere else while music in many ways brings me home and further inside myself. I am such a sensitive and sometimes painfully empathetic person by nature that I found myself in SE Asia having to withdraw from situations just to keep myself from crying. I could only imagine a bystander thinking, "Look at the crazy white girl crying! What's she got to cry about?"

Looking as intentional as I could fake, I turned the corner in front of the busy restaurant and walked along one side of it and towards what looked to be the beginnings of a residential area. I don't remember much because I didn't get too far down the street before second guessing my decision and turning back for the bus. Eyes were following me constantly. Drivers slowed to watch me walk down the sidewalk. Thank God for sunglasses because they couldn't see my eyes struggling not to show fear or anger. There were rules, norms, expectations, ethnicities, and history here that I could not begin to understand or to even have a chance of fitting in with. It is one of those moments where I realized that it wasn't the time or my place to wonder about what was right or wrong about this culture. I wasn't even a minority. I was an outsider.

Not for one moment was I probably in any real danger, but the uncertainty of being is such a foreign place and the instant realization of being alone shot waves of fear through me just the same. Dignity seems simultaneously the most ridiculous goal and the only hope. Instinctually, I forced myself to not speed my step or swivel my head at gwacking passersby. I also made a point to walk as casual and as confident as possible in 104 degree heat. I met the gaze of men I passed and then immediately averted my glance without the faintest secret of a grin. I knew enough by then to know female smiles mean something differently and entirely more to Asian men.

I know I am from a different era and there are things like hatred and racism that I will never fully understand or come to bear. Walking those dusty, hot streets in Cambodia that day, though, I couldn't help but feel I understood the tiniest bit better what it felt like to live all those decades ago in the deep south walking to school with a fear and rage you couldn't understand shaking you to your core, but an equally natural impulse to demand dignity as sweat rolled down your back and into the waist band of your finely pressed skirt, your polished shoes collecting dust with each step.

Empty boxes

I passed a man this morning on the sidewalk. It was a windy and rainy yet unseasonably warm morning, but the first week of January malaise meant that the sidewalk and the rest of the street were empty for as far as the eye could see. Living in a city center of one of the most densely populated countries on Earth, this happens so infrequently that I caught myself watching the only other soul in sight making his way slowly towards me. When I quickly realized his back was hunched and his head was down, I was instinctively emboldened to opening stare at him. He was incredibly well dressed in a black three piece suit and dark dress shoes. The black skin on his face was drawn. The hand that glasped shut the front of his jacket looked so fragile. Other than the curve from his hunched back, the suit hung off his emaciated body as it would hanging in a closet. Looking closer, I realized the oversized suit coat was probably the man's only winter jacket and wondered how many more lifetimes and years it had seen than me.

He shuffled along the sidewalk holding a clear plastic container that at one time probably held a corsage. He held it so tenderly in his right hand, away from his body as so to not upset it's contents with his body movement and seemed so fully focused on it, that I doubted at first that it was empty. What special event was this man going to or coming from or, rather, did he think he was going to or coming from? Why was he treating this seemingly discarded yet pristine clear plastic packaging like a treasured possession?

I tried to imagine what treasure he was planning to put on display in it. I have seen my fair share of objects that seemed so worthless to me proudly displayed by another for it's supposed symbol of wealth or for it's sentimental value. We are all guilty of this at one time or another. Think of the first time a Starbucks opened up in your neighborhood. Do you remember how everyone proudly showed off their paper or plastic cups with the signature green logo? In a conservative Muslim area of Indonesia, I watched a middle aged man carry around the same bottle of Heineken all night swaying dramatically and laughing loudly as if drunk. Being able to afford the $2 Heineken was a major sign wealth and perhaps seeming to buck the conservative Muslim rules by appearing drunk in public was also a sign of his status. But I think even that Indonesian man wouldn't find much value in a plain plastic box.

Perhaps my fellow pedestrian is senile. Perhaps, in his mind, he was sixteen again going to pick up the beautiful girl that would years later be his wife and would, in reality, have passed away a few years ago. I was so intrigued, I nearly stopped to ask him. I am sure my inquiry would have been returned with the same pitying wide eyed quizzical look that I had on my own face. It got me thinking, though. What empty plastic box do each of us carry around? What illusions do we hold most dear? What belief or value or even possession do we hold so tightly that, if we voiced it aloud or showed it to a stranger, would they doubt our grasp on sanity? And, most signficantly, which of those things are propelling us forward and which are holding us back? How are we getting in our own way?

I have spent the past few months job hunting and, thankfully, I have found a job I am really excited about. I just finished my first week there and feel like I am right where I am supposed to be. It is a great company and I feel right at home with my colleagues. I remember, in my many interviews, I was often asked to describe a weakness that I need to work on. I am sure it is a question we have all faced. I honestly admitted that much of the feedback I had received from previous managers is that I lacked the confidence and abililty to convince people and 'win' them with my point of view.

I have known this about myself for years and had figured at some level it was just something I was going to have to accept about myself. I had also secretly believed that it was a trait everyone possessed and most of their personalities revolved around managing their waning self-confidence. Strangely, though, several of the people I interviewed with challenged my answer. Two went so far as to insist I was just making up a fault I did not actually possess which is sometimes what candidates are coached to do. At first I was indignant in my insistence that I was being honest...not exactly what one should do in an interview. Imagine saying, "No, really, I have alot of work to do in building my convincing skills!"

But the more I tried to explain myself and, later, the more I thought back on this past year of travelling, I realized, something has shifted in me. Maybe it is time to set that belief aside and see what happens. So, I guess, when inevitably someone asks me why I took a year off to travel, I can add to my list of reasons, "It helped me to get out of my own way."