A Word of Thanks

This is one of the best times of the year in our family because we all celebrate fall birthdays. Between Labor Day and Halloween – it is non-stop birthday cake, handcrafted cards, and presents in our home. I truly believe that no matter what your age, birthdays are always a special time as you relish in the fun of being the center of attention and the object of much spoiling on your one special day. My favorite birthday memory is the annual hunt for my mom’s amazing homemade chocolate layer cake, which she would hide in the oddest places (can you imagine looking in the clothes dryer?!). It was a tradition in our family to engage in an after-school expedition in search of the hidden confection. While this may sound odd and even a bit boring, it was something that I looked forward to all year. Mind you, this was long before we had gaming systems, computers, and smart phones, and at a time when I naively believed that nothing was broadcast on television until after suppertime.

The after-glow of my birthday would last until the final morsel of cake had been consumed, the cash received from my grandparents had been spent, and the thank you notes would appear on the kitchen table. Every year, it was a trade-off as each additional gift meant that I would be burdened with an additional thank you note to craft. I had to think long and hard about the idea of throwing a big birthday bash because it would imply not just hours but perhaps days of writing notes of appreciation. Some things never change because if you asked my kids today, they would tell you the same thing…“the WORST part of having a birthday is writing all those thank you notes!”

Jimmy Fallon delights in writing  thank you notes every Friday night on his late night show. 

Today, I stand at a unique vantage point, being a mom who absolutely loves receiving cards and letters of any kind as well as one who understands the expectation gift givers have that they will be thanked. How many times have you wondered if your gift ever reached its destination and furthermore, if the recipient had liked what you sent? I think it is essential to preserve our American tradition of writing thank you notes not only because it causes the writers to take stock of their blessings and express their gratitude, but also since that simple act of putting pen to paper communicates, in such a genuine and intimate way, the emotional bond that giver and receiver share. I understand that technology has made it easier and more efficient for people to communicate by text, eCard, Facebook, Twitter, or SnapChat, but I don’t find myself cherishing those sentiments like I do a box full of Hallmark cards received over the years. On a screen, it’s too easy to hit “delete” and move on to the next new post. It just doesn’t feel heartfelt.

During my years in Venezuela, I found that I did not use as much stationery as I had back home in the United States. Cards and letters are not usually exchanged there. I suppose the defunct postal system in Venezuela was the main reason for this, as you could never count on your mail being delivered. Motorizados (motorcycle couriers) were contracted to deliver business letters, bills, and other official correspondence, but never a love letter or “thinking of you” card. If you wanted to express your gratitude to someone for a gift or a kind gesture, a telephone call would be the most appropriate response. Appreciation for a dinner or party invitation would often be expressed through reciprocation, as in “next time it’s my treat.” Any comida delivered to the home of a Venezuelan would be repaid by returning the empty dish filled with a meal that you had prepared.

After all these years, it’s still an interesting dilemma for our family post-birthday to determine how to express our gratitude to our Venezuelan family and friends. After all, they don’t expect a thank you note at all. And it is for this reason primarily that I like sending one. I find that people still delight in a hand-written card coming straight from the heart even if it is not their custom. Is it any wonder that one of the first phrases you learn in a foreign language class is “thank you”? Whether you say gracias, kiitos or danke, it’s so important to always show your appreciation whether you’re at home or abroad. As we look ahead a few weeks to our next birthday celebration, you can be certain that I’ll have those thank you notes at the ready.

Vive la Différence!

As we start the long holiday weekend, I like many people wonder where did the summer go? I have the same feeling when I look up at my soon-to-be-teenage son who now towers over me. To quote a song from one of my favorite musicals, Fiddler on the Roof, “when did he grow to be so tall?” You see, I went into labor with that same child, my first-born, on Labor Day in 2000. Only it was a regular working day and no one seemed to get my amusing little pun. In Venezuela where both of my children were born, Labor Day is celebrated on May 1st. In fact, more than 80 countries observe this International Workers’ Day or May Day, as it has been called.

This got me thinking….why is it that we in the United States tend to do things so differently than in other parts of the world? Case in point, the aforementioned May Day would be written 5/1 in Kansas City but 1/5 in Caracas and in most other cities around the globe. This unique way of documenting the date can be very confusing but incredibly important, particularly when writing checks or planning meetings. I always advise my international colleagues to play it safe by being more explicit and writing out the month whenever possible.

I remember seeing my first 24-hour digital clock in Finland and assuming that there was something wrong with it. After all, what time is 21:38?!! Train timetables throughout Europe listed the hour in this way and I learned pretty quickly – and often the hard way – to do the math required to catch my train and not get left behind on a lonely platform.

As a grade-school kid, I remember our teacher foregoing the lessons on the conventional system of measurements in favor of the metric system since any day the entire country would change over and there wasn’t much point in learning a soon-to-be-obsolete system. Some 40 years later, I’m still waiting for grams, liters and millimeters to become a part of my daily life because I honestly have no clue how big 5/8 of an inch is and I was never very good at adding fractions. It seems odd to me that all the countries of the world except the United States, Myanmar (formerly known as Burma) and Liberia have adopted the metric system for its official system of measurement.

“First down and 9.144 meters” doesn’t have the same ring to it!?!

Only in the US is football not played exclusively with your feet. Soccer is hands down (both figuratively and literally) the most popular game worldwide, but in the United States football is king despite decades of organized youth soccer leagues played at local YMCAs, schools, and municipal recreation centers. I wonder if there is any connection between our fascination with “American Football,” as it is known south of the border, and our attachment to yards, feet, and inches. After all, how many meters are there in a yard and furthermore, how many make a 1st down? And how would you feel about a seat on the 45.72 meter line??

Perhaps I should just accept these differences and appreciate the unique vantage point I have standing “entre cultural” where April Fool’s pranks can be repeated on December 28th, the “Dia de los Inocentes.” Maybe this year my prank will be trying to convince someone that we’re finally going metric!

Walking the Line “Entre Culturas”

When I started this blog some three years ago, I wanted to choose a site name that would be truly unique and convey the challenging yet fascinating path that I have been so privileged to walk in my intercultural journey. “Entre Culturas” (Between Cultures) seemed to be a great choice because it often feels as if I have one foot in one culture and the other foot in a second culture. That image alone illustrates how difficult it can be to walk a line between two distinct cultures while still getting things done and not offending anyone in the process. It’s hard enough to work with other people when everyone is from the same cultural group. Throw in a foreign language, diverse values, and a different modus operandi and you’ve got a whole new challenge.

I often feel as if I have one foot in one culture and the other foot in a totally distinct culture.

In my intercultural training programs, I feel that it is important to remind people that “Foreigners are NOT defective Americans.” We tend to assume that communication and collaboration would be a whole lot easier if we were all alike. However, I know intellectually that cultural differences exist. I can cite the research and theories of the various cultural anthropologists who were pioneers of the intercultural field. I know so many of the “do’s and don’ts” of intercultural interactions. I’ve even made very painful cultural faux pas, which have further deepened my understanding. Sadly, in the moment of an intercultural clash, all the knowledge and awareness in your head dissipates as the gut-level reaction kicks in and takes control.

This week I had a very real “entre culturas” experience that caught me by surprise. You see, I live in this very orderly world called rural North Carolina where schedules are respected and tardiness is frowned upon. It takes (I kid you not!) no more than 20 minutes to get from any one point in my community to another. People do not feel the need to rush – this is the South, after all – but they take great care to plan their routines so that they can arrive to appointments on time, well groomed and most likely, giddy on sweet tea. People are polite and considerate. I really love this part of the world because it is so quiet, peaceful and restorative. After living in large, noisy, smelly city for so many years, I certainly savor the paradise I call home.

Contrast that sweet image of pastoral tranquility with the chaos and unpredictability of Latin America. Don’t get me wrong, there is a certain charm to the explosive, expressive, and ever-changing environment of a city like Caracas. Like any world capital, you find a beautiful mix of shiny skyscrapers full of hard working people, traffic that doesn’t seem to budge and becomes the perfect excuse for any tardiness, and a vibrancy that seems to have a life of its own. I used to love the city and found that walking it gave me the best vantage point. I would weave in and out of the pedestrians with certain finesse, avoiding the inevitable motorizado (motorcycle courier) speeding his way through an intersection to make an urgent delivery.

During my years in Venezuela, I learned to be very adept at building in a comfortable colchon (cushion) of time when planning and traveling to my work meetings. Thirty minutes was a good starting point and I would adjust the time upward or downward depending upon the distance to the destination, the route we would be taking, the mode of transportation (by car, by metro, on foot), the hour of day, the day of the week, and the importance of the person (or the organization where) I would be meeting. This type of strategic planning is essential to business success in Latin America. If I, by chance, miscalculated and ended up arriving too early, there was always a bakery nearby where I could grab a quick cafecito. A late arrival was nothing out of the ordinary and with the advent of the cell phone, I was always armed to report my ETA…no apologies required.

Although these coping mechanisms became second nature to me there, I have had little use for them here in the US and as a result, I have sort of let them go. I hadn’t realized that fact until a few days ago when I found myself waiting for more than two hours for my first appointment of the day to show up. (Did I mention that it was a Venezuelan who was coming to see me??!!) In hindsight, I should have known better. Why didn’t I build in a bit more colchon? If I had to do it over again, I would have done a better job of managing expectations…both theirs and mine. As the minutes ticked away, I felt a bit like I had been had. Not even the apologetic phone call indicating, “Ya estamos en camino,” (We’re on our way now) could ease my frustration, especially since it was another hour before they eventually arrived. Why can’t Venezuelans just be punctual??!! I come to expect tardiness in Valencia or La Guaira or Tucacas, but not in Clemmons, NC!

The worst of it was that much like an airline with a complex timetable of connecting flights, my agenda of back-to-back meetings was suddenly in jeopardy of being delayed. How embarrassing! Certainly, it wasn’t the end of the world and in a former life in a less time-conscious culture, I wouldn’t have given it much thought. But here I was not quite sure how I could explain this “entre culturas” moment I was having to people who were a tad inconvenienced by my tardiness. I’m a trainer by profession and committed to bridging cultural divides, but I wasn’t much feeling like using my frustrating situation as a teachable moment when I arrived late to the following three meetings of the day. However, after some days of reflection, I am happy to offer a few consejos (words of advice) to anyone walking “entre culturas”:

1. Be prepared for anything. It’s when we make assumptions about the way things are supposed to turn out that we get disappointed when reality doesn’t match our expectations. Being open to new possibilities allows you to roll with the punches.
2. Establish a Plan B and be ready to execute it. Recognize the signs when your original plan is not working for you and don’t be afraid to switch to a new strategy. Timing is key as is the ability to abort one plan and recommit to a totally different one.
3. Don’t take yourself so seriously. Sometimes we value our plans and ourselves too highly. Life throws you a lot of curveballs and you have to know when to throw up your hands and say, “Just let it go.” Rarely is it a matter of life and death.
4. View every frustration as a character-builder. You often don’t learn until you make a mistake. Frustration has a way of showing us that our way is not the only way…or even the best way. Embrace it.
5. Remember that “different” is not wrong. It’s just different and there is no need to curse it or fight it. When you can accept differences and still be true to yourself, you have learned to walk the line “entre culturas.”

And, as my amigo Johnny Walker would advise, “Keep Walking.”

The Art of Conversation

I’ve always been a shy person. In fact, I can still remember the day I got kicked out of Kindergarten for being too bashful. Apparently, if you can’t let go of your mother’s leg or tell the teacher your name, they don’t let you in! I guess it’s no surprise that I was not particularly skilled in the art of conversation. In time, I learned to be more sociable and gained the courage to interact with my grade school peers. Fast forward to high school where I forced myself to participate in speech competitions and theatrical productions to once and for all, get over my fear of exposing myself socially. Pursuing a career in corporate training did not seem like the best professional fit for me, but it provided additional opportunities for me to put myself out there in front of an audience.

My first international experience was in Finland where it was easy to be shy. In general, the Finns tend to keep to themselves and don’t interact much unless they have been drinking, at which time they become very chatty. Everyone told me that I looked Finnish with my pale complexion, blue eyes, and sandy hair. I soon found that when I took the bus into town for some shopping, it was easy blend in. No one even spoke to me nor did they expect me to engage in any meaningful conversation beyond “hei” (hello) and “kiitos” (thank you). It was such a safe environment for a teenaged girl who was still painfully shy…and not at all conversant in Finnish!

During my years in Europe, I was a German speaker living in countries where High German was not spoken on a daily basis. Certainly, the people I encountered in Switzerland and Luxembourg could speak High German, but they preferred to speak their regional dialects, which I understood but could not speak. Sadly, my German skills were atrocious and I was pretty embarrassed about making a mistake. Since everyone there spoke such beautiful English, I’m afraid I didn’t advance my skills much for lack of practice.

It wasn’t until I arrived in Caracas, and found myself surrounded by people who always had something to say and didn’t care if I made mistakes, that I truly learned the art of conversation. It seemed that no matter where I went there were people engaged in lively debates with openings for anyone interested in chiming in. I remember going to meetings with agenda items in my head (and my notebook) and encountering conversation better suited for the water cooler than the boardroom. Like most Americans, I was always ready to get down to business the minute I walked into the room and it took some months for me to learn to allow the conversation to slowly evolve from family matters to vacation plans and eventually to the business at hand.

There are significant distinctions in the manner of communication across cultural lines. Some cultures (like my own) follow a more direct route where one idea leads directly into another to a pre-determined destination. Conversation has a very linear progression from start to finish in the most efficient manner. We prepare agendas, conduct time checks, table items for a later time, and sum up action items before adjourning our meetings. In training programs, we lay out what will be covered, we cover it, and then we sum up what was covered. Each step is carefully measured for maximum efficiency and impact.

In other parts of the world, communication takes a more indirect path filled with detailed and seemingly unrelated details that tend to momentarily detour the aim of the message. For example, maybe your business partner starts to talk about the implementation of the project and suddenly goes off on a tangent about his teenage son who cannot learn algebra. On the surface it seems to have no relationship to the business at hand and seems to be taking your discussion off course. Once he closes the loop and makes his point, you rejoice in the possibility that your meeting just might be back on track. It’s hard not to discount the fluff of his family tale, particularly if you don’t understand all of the context he is providing in his conversation loop and how he is communicating it to you in an attempt to further build your relationship. The worst thing we can do in our impatience is essentially cut off the loops and the richness of his message.

Conversation over a cup of coffee serves as a way of warming up the relationship.

To be successful, it takes both an awareness of these differences in communication style and an ability to override your gut-level reaction to a divergent approach. I personally have learned that most conversations need to be warmed up a bit, much like you would a car on a snowy day. In Latin America, you have to be prepared to talk first about how you got your nickname or where your kids go to school or even tell a few jokes before getting down to business. And you usually carry on this social conversation over a cup of coffee or perhaps a glass of wine. I remember that I rarely drank coffee when I first arrived in Venezuela until I realized that it was often rude to refuse a beverage offered by my host.

I have been told that I exude a different personality in Spanish than I do in English. My gestures are more animated, I speak in a louder tone of voice, and I tend to interrupt far more than I would when speaking English. This is the way my counterparts in Caracas spoke and I suppose that I just mimicked this communication style to demonstrate my engagement in the conversation and desire to deepen relationships. I learned to slow down and take cues from my hosts as to when we could move ahead with the objectives of our conversation. However, since I tend to lack the ability to incorporate subtleties into my speech in Spanish, my words and tone can sound a bit direct. My colleagues in Venezuela told me that if I ever were to fire them to please do it in English because it would hurt less!

I suppose you could say that I am still a “work in progress” when it comes to mastering the art of communication across cultural divides. And I look forward to future opportunities to perfect my craft.

On Independence

In honor of our national day of independence, I felt it fitting to give tribute to the people in my life who have fostered my own independence over the years. It is, after all, something that most Americans aspire to…to be independent of their parents and living on their own. I learned this at a very young age on my first overseas experience. At the airport farewell, my parents entrusted me with my passport, my airline tickets, a stack of traveler’s checks, and a list of important phone numbers. I felt like such an adult, being responsible for myself and for taking care of all the tasks that my parents typically managed for me. What would happen if I lost an important document or overspent my budget? Who would come to my rescue if I missed my flight? It was an experience that both exhilarated and terrified me.

I remember arriving at JFK airport and needing to figure out on my own how to change terminals for my connecting international flight. Mind you, I was a 13-year old kid from a small town in rural Ohio left to fend for herself in the big metropolis of New York City before the advent of the cell phone. I was beyond intimidated as I walked from my gate to the baggage claim area and then tried clumsily with all my luggage to locate the shuttle bus that would transport me to the international terminal on the other side of the airport. My senses were heightened and I was painfully aware of every second ticking on my watch. What would happen if I didn’t make the connection? My biggest fear was spending the night in the big city and I remember daydreaming about how I could make the bus move a little bit faster.

No matter how many times my parents had advised me on what to do and how to manage the inevitable challenges that would arise, I realize now that I had to live the experience firsthand to gain the full benefit from it. Preparation was just that, preparing me for the eventual experience. After all, wasn’t that the whole point of going abroad? I was a young chick venturing out from the nest. Mistakes were sure to bring learning. As scared and unsure I was at the time, I’m certain today (from my perspective of being a parent) that my parents were just as frightened and perhaps even a bit frantic that their “baby” was in a foreign country taking a step toward further independence.

I’ve heard it said that “parents give their children two things – one is roots, the other is wings.” It’s such a beautiful sentiment and one that I feel sums up our desire to give our children every opportunity to spread their wings and explore life beyond the four walls of the place we call “home.” Coupled with that comes the hope that they will feel a strong identification with “home” no matter where they may end up.

I’ve always loved this American cultural value of independence. It’s what drove the pilgrims to settle the New World, our founding fathers to draft a Declaration of Independence, and the toddler to insist, “I do it!” as he’s learning to walk. Ours is the land of exploration, innovation, and the start up. We have this ability as a culture to instill in our people a sense of self-confidence that we can go it alone and achieve great things. Is it any wonder then that we are at peace when the Kindergartener stops looking back at mom when being dropped off at school or that the college-bound student selects a university on the other side of the country or that our parents decide that they are ready to move into a retirement home?

Other cultures may view our ways as being heartless and cruel. “Why would you kick your 18-year old out of the house?” I have been asked. In a country like Venezuela where adult children live at home until they are married, it seems odd to do anything differently. Certainly, economic factors come into play in addition to cultural ones, but I cannot get past the stereotype that anyone over 30 still living at home with mom and dad is a “loser” because this is what our culture has dictated. Personally, I’ve never been comfortable with the big, involved family (think “My Big, Fat, Greek Wedding”). I imagine that all those people in my daily life would feel suffocating to me, drowning out every bit of independence I’ve achieved.

I still feel strongly connected to my family and my roots despite having lived far from home. In fact, I feel that I always carry that sense of “home” – the menagerie of feelings and experience that made up my formative years – with me on my overseas adventures. And as I prepare to send my kids off on their journey to Venezuela this summer, I hope that they will pack with them a bit of their American independence…roots and wings intact.

Happy Independence Day!

Have Smartphone Will Travel

I’m afraid that I sound like such an old person as I recount to my children memories of my life when I was their age. It eerily reminds me of the unbelievable tales my grandfather told about the difficult childhood he endured. There were rarely any happy stories. His life seemed to be marked by great pain and sacrifice, such as walking barefoot to school through deep drifts of snow. I can remember tuning out his endless lectures because I couldn’t quite understand the relevance of these life lessons to my very pampered existence. Was he trying to make me feel guilty or proud or grateful?

Fast forward some 30 years and I feel like my kids are tuning me out as well. I suppose it shouldn’t come as any surprise. It has been said that kids today belong to the “entitled generation” and as a result, they are very spoiled. While that may be true, I’m not sure that explains it entirely. You see, my kids and all of their contemporaries have grown up in a society that is more globally interconnected than at any time before. I watch in amazement as my boys “FaceTime” both their friends across town and their cousins in Maracaibo, Venezuela. This was just the stuff of science fiction when I was a kid. (Remember the Jetsons with their video phones?!) My earliest experience with international communication involved writing letters by hand on very thin, blue air mail paper to the various pen pals I had in Germany, England, and Finland. It truly was “snail mail” because the responses could take up to a month to arrive in our mailbox.

During my first overseas experience in Finland at the age of 13, I remember trying to coordinate phone calls with my parents back in Ohio given the 6-hour time difference and the high cost of international telephone communication. I don’t remember exactly how we determined who would call whom at what time and with what frequency, but I do recall quite clearly how rushed the calls were as I was reminded just how much money each minute was costing. I remember a thrifty strategy we employed while I was living in Luxembourg in which I would place a collect call to my parents and they would refuse to accept the charges. This was a signal that I was home awaiting their call. Some enterprising university students in Luxembourg discovered that there was a pay phone back on campus in Ohio that would allow collect calls to be accepted, saving them and their friends hundreds of dollars. Today we have Skype, Vonage and FaceTime that not only remove the cost but also the complication from the process of keeping in touch. Text messages, emails, and voicemails are such an integral part of our daily life. My, how they would have been useful to me during my time abroad!

Today’s SmartPhone apps greatly enhance overseas travel

I can’t imagine traveling with a smartphone and all the functionality it would provide from GPS and Internet searches to email and Facebook. In my day, we had to carry guidebooks, a camera, an address book, newspapers, a calendar, phrasebooks, maps, an alarm clock, and a Walkman on our weekend trips. Verifying my checking account balance or reporting a lost or stolen credit card required a trip to the post office (during business hours) to place a phone call to my bank back home. Lodging at a youth hostel or bed and breakfast often required a phone call (back at the post office) or a fax to check availability and/or place a reservation. Frequently, the information found in guidebooks or phone directories would be outdated by the time you arrived in a new city. Travel required a lot of research and planning. We usually started making our weekend plans a full week in advance and tapped into all of the resources at our disposal. Having a smartphone would have streamlined and enhanced that process immensely.

Before the arrival of the digital camera, I shot rolls and rolls of film without any assurance that the photos were at all decent. Because of the high cost of prints in Europe, I remember taking the rolls home with me to be developed at the local pharmacy. This made sharing photos with friends I had made during my travels next to impossible. Social media certainly would have revolutionized my overseas living experience, as I would have been able to upload photos in real time to keep everyone abreast of where I was and what I was doing (like the time I sprained my ankle in the Black Forest). The WordPress app on my iPhone would have allowed me to blog about my intercultural experiences as they happened instead of sending weekly letters and postcards to family and friends.

When I think about all the time and energy I wasted walking in the wrong direction in a new city because I had misread the map or the scary moments of being completely lost with no bearing at all, I wonder how I survived my youthful years of European travel. Just having a phone that I could use to make an emergency call (such as when my sprained ankle swelled up and we could not see any passersby to help carry me out of the Black Forest) would have put my mind at ease. So many of the challenges of overseas living could have been alleviated with today’s technology. I wonder, though, how much it would have changed the experience for me and lessened my resourcefulness and self-reliance. I truly believe that we are shaped by the trials that we endure and feel that I have earned a certain degree of “bragging rights” that my children may never understand.

Times have changed and technology certainly has shrunk our world. Just think, in 1750 it took 12 days to get a message from New York to Boston. A century later, it took 12 hours. Today in 12 hours you can fly from London to Tokyo, and you can send an email to the other side of the world in fewer than 12 seconds. I’m not sure what the future will hold for my children and grandchildren, but change is the one constant we can all count on no matter where we journey.

Happy Trails!

Open Your Heart and Home

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a fascination with foreign cultures and languages. I have vivid childhood memories of many international visitors who spent time in our home, sharing a bit about their way of life over a delicious meal. Over the years, there were business associates of my dad’s as well as a parade of exchange students from such diverse countries as Guatemala, Denmark, Syria, Japan, New Zealand, and Argentina. I would sit spellbound listening to the many tales of life beyond the borders of the small Ohio town where I grew up. With my atlas in hand, I would ask questions and absorb all the knowledge I could. Through these brief encounters, I traveled vicariously until I had the opportunity to venture out on my own overseas exchange at the age of thirteen.

Looking back, I marvel at my parents’ openness and generosity to these travelers far from home. With five kids and one nephew living under their roof, they had a lot of mouths to feed, but they always made room for one more when international visitors knocked at the door. I remember that our dining room table had two long benches running along each side where it was easy to add another seat. I watched with great anticipation as my siblings each hosted students and then traveled abroad to visit those students on their own summer exchange programs through CISV (Children’s International Summer Villages). I couldn’t wait for my turn! As luck would have it, our “no pet” household made us a perfect match for Virva, an exchange student from Finland with severe allergies. We became fast friends during her stay with my family during the summer of 1981 and I soon discovered the joy of showing her around the town that I always assumed was the most boring place on earth. Her delight with each and every sight caused me to see the hometown that I took for granted in a whole new light.

Making friends as an exchange student in Finland (1982)

We would ride our bikes to the pool, which I always hated, but Virva was fascinated by the rural scenery with cows and horses adorning the route. She loved the cookouts and sleepovers and fireflies that summer vacation brought. Despite her many food allergies, she enjoyed my mother’s wonderful cooking and identified her favorite treats to take back home to share with her family. One particularly funny memory was of an incorrigible kid we babysat together, who made a deal with us to go to bed provided that we would never return to babysit her again. That was an easy promise for me to keep because I knew that I never wanted to set eyes on her again and Virva was quite certain that she would not be back to Troy anytime soon. Our summer was marked by so many great memories, including a brief flight in a hot air balloon, roller coaster rides King’s Island amusement park, and waking up before sunrise to watch the royal wedding of Charles and Diana.

After so many years, the memories of those fun times and the deeper cultural understanding we discovered along the way endure today. This first hosting experience for me was truly the spark that ignited a life-long passion for other cultures and I had the wonderful opportunity to reunite with Virva and her family several more times over the years to follow. On one occasion while I was living in Luxembourg, I took the very long train journey to Finland to spend the Christmas holidays with my host family. Along the way, I visited with Anders, a student my family had hosted some 12 years earlier, who lived in Copenhagen. We had planned to meet in the train station and I was hopeful that my memory of the very blond, blue-eyed boy would be sufficient to find one another. After all, there can’t be that many blue-eyed blonds in Denmark! Since Anders was looking for the tween that he knew back in Ohio, it’s a miracle that we ever reconnected! So much time had passed since our last meeting and while we had changed so much physically, that sibling bond remained. I greatly enjoyed getting reacquainted with my “older brother,” meeting his family, and exploring his amazing city.

I’m thrilled to be in a position now to open our North Carolina home and our hearts to a foreign exchange student because I firmly believe that such an experience can be life changing for everyone involved. I want my kids to further develop their generosity as they share their home, their mom, and yes, their video games with a virtual stranger from a foreign land. I know that by the end of the school year, they will be greatly enriched by the experience and fired up to journey abroad in search of their own overseas living experience. I’m excited for my neighbors and friends to learn a bit about another country while they build a relationship with a young man under our collective care. And certainly, we are overjoyed to be in the position to be the surrogate family for a young international visitor to our community and honored to show him all that is good about our nation.

The Sixth Sense

My son and I had the opportunity to watch the 1999 Bruce Willis movie, The Sixth Sense, a few weeks ago and it’s still on both of our minds. As an amateur filmmaker, Pete was blown away by the surprise ending and how many assumptions he had made about the plot as the story came to its suspenseful conclusion. I enjoyed watching the flick with the full knowledge of what was real and what was imagined. Watching the final scene of the movie certainly causes you to question what you thought to be true and in Pete’s case, he felt the need to talk through all of his questions over subsequent days. This reminded me of just how unsettling intercultural interactions can feel when you assume too much.

I’ve often been in situations when I knew the gist of what was being discussed, but I either tuned out momentarily or didn’t have enough Spanish (or German) vocabulary to truly follow the conversation. My attempts to contribute anything of substance were futile because my understanding of the context was way off. Why is it that we are so afraid to admit our shortcomings when crossing language or cultural boundaries? There are other times when we think we understand a situation and fail to pick up on the subtleties of the language or culture that tell us that we don’t quite have it right. As I watched the movie, I realized that even when all the cues are there and we might even be told quite directly (i.e. “I see dead people”), we don’t always listen to our inner voice.

I’ve always been an information person. As a kid, I loved reading encyclopedias and reading news magazines. My favorite retail establishments were office supply stores where I would purchase and then hoard notebooks for journaling and making lists. I absolutely love words and cherish a greeting card over gift any day. I’m a whiz at taking meeting minutes and I’m known for a “quick draw” on my iPhone, producing speedy results to Google searches. Certainly I’ve heard of this thing called “intuition,” but I have not been that well acquainted with mine throughout my life. No matter how many alarm bells are going off in my head, as long as the data proves otherwise, I’m inclined to turn down the volume.

I can think back to many intercultural interactions in my past where my intuition rang out loud and clear, serving me well. I remember traveling with my Eurail Pass as a college student, escaping one dangerous situation after another by turning away from the suspicious man at the train station or keeping my pockets clear of the gypsy kids’ grabbing hands. My inner voice told me that the “kind” purser on the ferry, who offered me a free stateroom for the long journey between Italy and Greece, was up to no good. I soon learned to trust my intuition, having realized how much trouble I could have been in if I had not, and found that it became an internal compass leading me instinctively through my travels. How else could I explain the ability to know without consulting a map the route from the train station to the heart to town?!

Through my intercultural studies, I have learned that some cultures are more in tune with their sixth sense than others. As Americans, we tend to rely more on facts and figures, science and logic. Gut level reactions are considered impulsive if not backed up by evidence. I wonder, though, if we choose to deny our intuition when it doesn’t serve our needs, such as when someone you care about lies to you and acceptance of that betrayal is just too much to handle. Or when we forge ahead with a plan that we fear will not succeed due to a sense of pride and the need to please others. Or even when we fail to communicate with words and hard evidence what instinctively does not feel right. It is in these situations that we would be well served by listening to our inner voice, which is calling us to move beyond what can be seen, heard, felt, smelled and tasted. It may be that the sixth sense is the most important of them all.

Playing Blizzard

We just received the news that school will dismiss early tomorrow due to the forecast of afternoon snow showers. This is now the second Friday in a row that the kids will be out of school. Since my kids were born in the tropics, they are always thrilled to see and play in the snow. I think all kids, large and small, enjoy playing hooky now and then due to Mother Nature’s frozen precipitation. In our overscheduled, highly structured lives, it is such a luxury to gain some time back in our day to use as we please. When everyone is in the same boat, it makes it all the more fun. When I was a kid, we called this “playing blizzard” when we would gather with our neighbors to play games, tell stories, and share potluck dinners. Even when we didn’t have snow or another weather emergency, we would find an excuse to gather together to enjoy one another’s company as if we had nowhere else to be.

I’ve been living in North Carolina now for five winters and still marvel at how freaked out the locals become at the mere mention of wintry weather. Being from the north, I grew up with significant annual snowfalls and sub-zero temperatures. Boots, hats, and gloves were an integral part of my winter wardrobe. Although we so rarely had snow days, I fully remember sitting in front of the TV praying that my school’s name would appear on the screen with the other school delays and closings. We were the generation that survived the notorious blizzard of 1978. At the age of 16, I passed the ultimate driver’s ed test on the icy roads of Troy, Ohio. After spending two Christmases traveling through snow-covered Scandinavia, I was getting pretty cocky about how well I could handle winter weather. Imagine my surprise when I arrived in Vermont in the spring of 1993 to start grad school and found that the town was buried under a blanket of 4+ feet of snow.

I find it quite amusing to watch how the Southerners react to a forecast of the white stuff. The local news team starts early to hype an impending front with such enthusiasm. I’m often disappointed, for their sakes, when the weather system doesn’t materialize. When frozen precipitation is expected, shoppers enter panic mode and raid the grocery stores in search of bread, milk, and eggs. The empty market shelves seem to indicate that we may be stuck at home for days when in most cases, the snow has melted by the time lunch (egg salad sandwiches with milk?) is served.

Oddly, this compulsive shopping reminds me of my time living in Caracas where national strikes and protests were common during the years that I lived there. In particular, 2002 was a year of much uncertainty as protest marches, days off of work and school, and street violence became a part of our weekly routine. Whenever a strike or a march was announced, residents would descend on the nearest abasto or supermercado to stock up on basic food supplies, toilet paper, bottled water, batteries, etc. No one knew how long the unrest would last and what goods and services would be available during the crisis.

There were times when the water or electricity would be cut or be rationed, meaning that you had to be prepared for any eventuality. Being frequent travelers to the U.S., we had a well-stocked pantry and a freezer full of our favorite American convenience foods. I often joked that all we needed to buy was charcoal since we had enough food in our freezer to feed our entire family and circle of friends. Besides, when the electricity was cut it would be a shame to let all that good meat go to waste.

During those days “de paro,” we gathered together with family and friends for fellowship, card playing, and lots of eating and drinking. Much like my family’s ritual of “playing blizzard,” we tried to ride out the storm with fun and laughter as our primary goal. So, on this eve of another winter weather alert, I wish you a safe and fun-filled Friday. How many more days of winter remain??

Christmas Traditions

With Christmas now just 4 days away, I’m taking a few moments between baking cookies and wrapping presents to reflect on the season. It seems that at this time of the year, our days are ruled by lists – things to do, gifts to buy, cards to send, and let’s not the forget the “naughty and nice.” It’s a blessing to have children in your life during this magical season because they find joy in the little things. Since returning to the States now 5 Decembers ago, I’ve made efforts to establish holiday traditions and create special memories for my kids that I hope they will treasure for a lifetime. I know that I have very fond Christmas memories from my childhood growing up in Ohio. Plus, I carry with me the holiday traditions from my years lived abroad – visiting the outdoor Christmas markets in Luxembourg, receiving clementines and sweets on St. Nicolas Day, listening to gaitas in Maracaibo, drinking glühwein in Germany, eating pan de jamón in Venezuela.

For reasons my siblings and I could never understand, our parents were sticklers about a specific Christmastime routine. I think they knew that the threat of Santa’s constant gaze loomed over us and we would be compliant to their every request. I wonder now if they were secretly laughing at their little obedient soldiers, jumping through hoops and checking things off their list with the promise of Christmas presents as a reward for good behavior. You see, we were a family that NEVER opened presents on Christmas Eve, no matter how much we begged. Every year, it was the same story. On our way home from church, we would start asking for “just one” present. It was futile and yet we never let up. Then one year, Pizza Hut advertised that they would be open on Christmas Eve and even came up with a little “Pizza-Hut-pizza-to-go” jingle that we swiftly committed to memory (and I can sing it to this day!). Once our appeal to open “just one” present was shot down, we started in with the request for a Christmas pizza like in the commercial. My parents never relented even when we tried to negotiate for a frozen pizza that we had slipped into the grocery cart specifically for the occasion.

As long as I can remember, this was the Christmas morning routine at the Timm home: each child had to wake up, get dressed, brush his/her teeth, wash his/her face, and make his/her bed. This was the one day of the year that we managed to complete all of these tasks in record time. If that was not enough, we had to come to the table and eat breakfast together while the Christmas tree overflowing with presents taunted us from the family room. After breakfast, the torture continued as each child had to help clear the dishes from the table and clean up the kitchen before adjourning to the gift zone. I remember that we all had our unofficially assigned seats around the family room and my place was usually on the shag carpeting in between two brothers.

In our home, the gift opening ceremony was savored as each present was opened and everyone had an opportunity to “ooh” and “ahh” over the contents. If a gift was especially good, hugs would be shared and we even came up with a rating system consisting of the number of hugs it provoked (i.e. that was a two-hug present). My sister once got a present that garnered 5 hugs and a lot of tears of joy. I remember that at times like these, we would have to take a break from the action (to go to the potty and steal a few cookies from the kitchen) so that the gift recipient could regain her composure. Unfortunately, I was significantly less emotive when receiving the dreaded gifts of socks and underwear. And it didn’t take long for me to learn to be very specific when crafting my wish list to avoid such disappointments. The year I asked for a “ruffled blouse, without too many ruffles” was a memorable one for me as I got everything that I wanted and exactly the way I wanted it.

Our gift opening ritual always started with the heated debate about the order of the rounds. In other words, were we going to open from littlest to biggest or biggest to littlest? As the baby of the family, I had a huge investment in this decision. Mind you, patience was not among my strengths and the excitement over the great number of presents with my name on them was more than I could handle. What I realize now is that no matter the order, I usually had more presents to open than anyone else in the family. Could this be because I was so well behaved or I was spoiled? I’m sure my family and I would disagree about the answer to that question, but we all agree that we loved opening presents on Christmas morning because it seemed to go on forever.

As with many things in life, we often don’t appreciate these family traditions until we encounter something new and different. In Venezuela, our family’s Christmas Eve celebration was loud, happy, musical, and lasted well into the wee hours of the night. I was always delighted to be allowed to open presents on Christmas Eve! The event focused on food, fellowship, and family. One of the highlights of the night was the procession led by the children, who carried the baby Jesus in a small handkerchief while singing Aguinaldos (carols). After passing through the back yard and the entire house, the baby was gently placed in the large nacimiento (nativity scene) that filled an entire corner of the room. Songs and prayers continued, celebrating the baby’s birth. The gift exchange was an opportunity for laughter, surprises, and utter chaos. It was nothing like the systematic gift opening that I knew from my childhood. Wrapping paper quickly filled the air and floors as everyone opened his/her gifts simultaneously. There was no opportunity to stop and watch the emotion of receiving a carefully chosen gift. Those moments would often leave me a little homesick.

The great thing about being exposed to different traditions is that you can pick and choose what you like as you establish traditions for your own family. While we still do not open presents on Christmas Eve at our house today, we have added stockings to our routine since I never had them growing up and I thought that an additional gift opportunity would be fun for our boys. We allow them to raid their stockings first thing in the morning before they start the traditional “Timm routine” of getting dressed, making their beds, having breakfast, etc. (Interestingly enough, I believe that all of my siblings follow the Timm torture ritual in their homes on Christmas morning! Perhaps it is because we secretly enjoyed or we feel that our kids should suffer as much as we did.)

Santa comes to our house and leaves some of the best presents, which are beautifully wrapped, under the tree on Christmas morning. We also get a visit from el Nino Jesus, who leaves presents by the single shoe that we each place in the nacimiento by the fireplace before going to bed on Christmas Eve. (And no, the size of the shoe has no correlation to the size and/or value of the present.) My boys have been eagerly crossing things off their holiday traditions list – watching Elf on dvd, seeing the holiday light display at Tanglewood Park, making gingerbread houses, attending a stage production of Charles Dicken’s A Christmas Carol, baking Christmas cookies – as we count down to the big day. And as for me, I’m taking time this year to enjoy each and every activity as we make precious memories and celebrate the beautiful season of Christ’s birth. From our home to yours, we wish you a memorable holiday of family traditions!

Merry Christmas – Feliz Navidad – Fröhliche Weihnachten – Hyvää Joulua