Deep thoughts by Pecos: the dog's log

So, um, hi. I really don’t have much to say because life’s just been imperceptibly busy at work the last few weeks. And my personal life has been hampered by my dear, sweet, pregnant Kate who has been dutifully working and visiting family in the States. But I feel I should update you all on what’s been going on at the Wards. To make it more interesting, though, I’ll give the scoop to you from Pecos’s seemingly savant perspective.

Again, these are Pecos’s thoughts. Here's a picture of the author:
Philip left recently. Not a day passes when I don’t recall with fondness the times we napped together on the soft brown couch in the living room. My head snuggly wedged in his groin, which radiates heat like his heart radiates love. His strong hand – heavy with the deep, relaxing sleep that comes when scratching a dog’s chest – resting stoutly on my furry flank. His other hand still on the remote control … as if dialing in the channel for the most relaxing serenity man and dog can discover. I remember the times he woofed at me. So sudden and loud. But very masculine and alpha it made me want to belong to his pack. I still miss him, that Philip. Every day. I miss him.

Since then, I’ve taken the terrifying ride down to the grandparents new house (which actually more closely resembles a Swiss chalet) in Kindsbach twice – the first time with dad and his leggy friend Josh. And the second time with the grandparents, who seem to have a much better perspective on what a dog like me wants. Bouncy rubber balls to chase. A large bowl continually, liberally, and appreciatively filled with the tastiest old lady dog food. Treats from the table. Bones and fat scraps from freshly grilled porterhouses. A large yard to dig and jump and play in – accessible at almost all hours of the day. And a younger female dog named Dodger (who happens to be in heat) to whom I can make the most playful, passionate love to any time of the day. She’s quite dim, that one. And she has the most rancid, horse-killing breath. But we’re going to have wonderfully high-spirited (and perhaps slightly mischievous) puppies one day. Mark my word.

Justin has been coming home late, unpretentiously ignoring my modest desires to lick his face and go for walks in the woods. In fact, for two nights, there, he didn’t come home at all – saying something briefly about having to go to the States to eat Chipotle and drink bubble tea. What about my wants, Justin? Maybe I want some savory burritos, zested with just the right amount of cilantro. Maybe I want some bubble tea. Egg-flavored, if they have it.

He came back tired, but still continues to leave me for upwards of 11 hours a day. Sure, I’ve learned how to read, write, and use a Discover! card to send mystery bones to my darling Dodger. But I still sometimes need him by my side, just to assure me that everything’s all right. And that the towering baby stroller he constructed won’t unexpectedly dart out from behind the couch and run me down with the same amount of crazed zeal Justin shows for burritos.

Although it’s only Wednesday, I’m looking forward to the weekend. Justin said that all we’re going to do the whole weekend is sleep in, go for runs, eat, nap, and play tug of war with The Holy Mr. Holey, my blanket from my puphood. It’s not a bad life I have. But I still can’t wait for my mom to return.

London: Phil's Island Adventure

Phil said he saw more Porches in his long weekend in London than during his whole time in Germany. I agree. We also saw a few Maseratis, Ferraris, and Lamborghinis – and a whole bevy of Aston Martin’s, Jaguars, and Bentleys.

This, I think, can be a car-lover’s way of symbolizing our trip to London. We saw a lot of posh things (and places) that were certainly impressive, even to the untrained/untraveled eye. But we were only spectators. This prohibitively pricey city – arguably the most expensive in the world – dissuaded us from entering any non-free museums, purchasing any unnecessary food items (other than British staples like fish-and-chips and English breakfasts), and going to any West End or Globe Theatre performances.

We saw London on the cheap because Phil and I were … well, Supercheap. Supercheap. We’re Supercheapy – myow!

Day 1:

We started with a typical English breakfast (and a spot o’ tea), consisting of bacon, eggs, mushrooms, tomatoes, and baked beans (no sausage :( ). Then we walked to Buckingham Palace, asked if the queen was in (she was), and continued on our way through a delightfully green park, where Phil was taken back by these delightfully cheeky British birds. EL-OH GUBNOR! A short tube ride later and we were at the Parliament, the epicenter of British government and home to the most famous clock in the world. Here’s Big Phil posing in front of Big Ben.
Across the street was Westminter Abbey (by far, the best Abbey Phil said he’s ever been to).
Trafalgar Square came next, where, as always, there was some sort of gathering to protest a horrible injustice or some such blather. As daft Americans, Phil and I could not have cared less. So Phil peed in the fountain. (That little bugger!) Then we were off to Picadilly Circus (which I, as a U.S. Army employee, kept confusing with Picatinny Arsenal, a small base in New Jersey where my step-sister works.). Picadilly is the Times Square of London. And, much like Times Square in New York, there’s really not a whole lot other than tourists and shiny billboards. We were a bit knackered after all that walking around. So we decided to eat some curries at a place Phil’s friend recommended (behind Pic Circus) and go back to the hostel for a bit of shut eye before finally going out on the town where we saw “birds” of a different type.

Day 2:

Since we knew we were going to be here for a few more days, Day 2 was more of a continuation of what we would have done on Day 1 if we didn’t have Day 2.

So, Day 2 started with a short tube ride to Oxford Circus (which is the worst circus I’ve ever seen), where we got off to walk down the fashionable Carnaby Street before heading to Soho, which is apparently just another ritzy, shopping area.

Soho, however, quickly turned into a Red Light district. But at 11 a.m., the only purchase we really wanted to make was for fish-and-chips.

Then came the Covent Garden market, which had a vast selection of stands, shops, and people performing for money. I think Phil’s favorite was the hot opera singer. My favorite was a funny Jewish magician.St. Paul’s came next, where we had to queue to find out it was 12 pounds ($24) per adult to enter. Personally, as I never enter churches anymore, this was not much of an affront. Phil was a little more outraged at being charged to enter a place of god. But, in keeping with our SUPERCHEAP motto, we took a few snaps and left our wallets unmolested. Here’s Phil being proud of himself. I SEE, FOR FREE!On our way to the Queen’s Walk (a romantic pedestrianized walk along the Thames), Phil thought he heard a cry for help. So he took the opportunity to change into his superhero outfit in a nearby telephone booth. But he somehow got stuck and became the victim himself.The Queen’s Walk was next, where we saw Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre. We knew it would be expensive, so we didn’t even check the playlist.Then we saw the eternally underwhelming London Bridge, which I think should consider changing its name or architectural style to either blow off or wow people like Phil who come with such high expectations. Also along the walk, we noticed that the diet of British dogs is considerably different from that of American dogs.
Then, since it was such a perfect, non-London-like day, we took a short nap in the park. Here Phil learned to never nap near an unmature bloke like myself. (I covered him in pretty flowers. He looks much better now).Then, finally, it was off to St. James Palace (on the corner of Pall Mall and Marlborough, believe it or not), where we’d heard there were Queens Guards. Unfortunately for us, we didn’t see any. Fortunately for the palace, we acted in their stead for a minute, protecting the palace from evil doers everywhere.
That night, we went to Hyde Park, where Eric Clapton was playing for only 55 pounds. We, however, sat in the grass outside and listened for free. SUPERCHEAP!

Day 3:

The last big sight on our Island Adventure was the Tower of London, a royal palace, fortress, prison, treasury, zoo, mint, museum, observatory, and home of the crown jewels. As you might guess, it cost something like 1 trillion pounds 50 to enter. And, since neither Phil nor I were up for such a gouging, we stood outside, took a few photos, and bid it cherrio as we walked next door to the Tower Bridge.
This bridge was much cooler than London Bridge (and is too often mistake for said bridge). As such, it also charges a steep admission. So, once again, Phil and I took a few snappy snaps and decided we fancied a pint. So, we minded the gap one more time as we boarded the tube, not really knowing where to go next, since we'd just about seen everything we wanted to. So, while flipping through our book, I saw an Irish pub I’d read about called Filthy MacNasty’s in a dodgy area in the north of the city. I liked the name. Phil liked the sound of a pint. Decision made.
I got a little pissed from that one pint (Guinness), so we had to get some food in me on the double. Thankfully, Chinatown was only a few short stops away, where I refueled on the worst buffets I’ve ever had. (I still went back up three times … I’m easy to please-y).

That night we went out to a nearby neighborhood to watch Germany lose to Spain in an embarrassing soccer game. Oh, the disgrace! Especially since we seemed to be the only fans rooting for Germany in the entire country. (Apparently the Brits still consider Germans evil mustachioed volk).

Day 4:

This morning, we had yet another dense English Breakfast at that same nearby neighborhood, sat down for an alfresco spot of tea, and headed to the airport, confident that we saw it all – and paid for none of it!

Phil in Prague

Kate and I had been to Prague a few times before. We’ve seen the magnificent churches, met people under St. Wenceslas’s horse’s tail, had the pilsner beer, and eaten the dumplings. We knew a good walking route, were familiar with the confusing exchange rate, and even had a favorite restaurant. Even Pecos had been there before (and had a lot to remind us about it, as you can see).

But I can’t say that this made us any more prepared for the trip.

For starters, we underestimated the distance.

Although we knew he was jetlagged, we wickedly got Phil to wake up the day after he landed at 7 a.m. (1 a.m. his time) for an early departure to Prague-Wonderland, thinking we’d get there lickity-split. Well, pride and prejudice got the best of my 4.5-hour estimate, as it took us close to six hours to complete the harrowing (almost deadly) trip to this very pointy city lying.

Then, once we got there, (and since Kate and I had been to Prague a few times before), we immediately rushed Phil to what we shallowly thought were the biggest and best places to see – the bridge, the castle, the town square, and our favorite restaurant. Here's Kate and I at the restaurant. (You can see Phil's reflection).

And here's Pecos on the bridge, touching the bronze relief showing a soldier petting a dog in a dungeon. Legend says if you touch the dog and wish for a secret to never come out, this wish will be granted. Pecos told me he wished that Kate never find out how much more he loves me more than Kate. I guess he didn't understand the rules.

As this was Phil’s first time in Europe, however, we didn’t realize he couldn’t fully appreciate St. Wenceslas, the dumplings, or the tried-and-true walking route that cuts through the city in the most efficient way (and perhaps not most attractive) way. What he would appreciate, we later found out, were the staples of Europe: outdoor cafés, good beer, and views of the pretty dames.

Luckily, Phil was a flexible tourist, able to enjoy the many views – no matter where he was – both high and low.

Here’s Phil finding something attractive high. And here’s one of the numerous attractive things Phil found low (that we can show you a picture of). (We’d show you more pictures if it was socially acceptable to take pictures of those things).

Since Kate and I had been to Prague a few times before, we knew that, if you just use your ears, you’d swear Prague is an American city with a lot of foreign tourists (chiefly British). Luckily, we used our eyes too. Here are my, somewhat less traditional shots of Prague: And here are some of Phil’s more traditional pictures:
Then, since Kate and I had been to Prague a few times before, we’d a few of Prague’s nicknames: City of a Thousand Spires, City of Gold, City of Lost Cars.

It was this last one that we really found an appreciation for. Because, despite the fact that Kate and I had been to Prague a few times before, we unknowingly parked in a tow zone when we arrived. So when we realized the car was missing the next morning, I was quickly reminded of this apt nickname and very, very worried that someone had ganked our Ka.

Fortunately, after a few phone calls, a long walk, and 66 euros, the Ka was back in our possession – no worse for wear than it already was.

(For those readers that haven’t been, Prague is certainly a place worth checking out, despite the nickname.)

And finally, on the drive back Kate and I thought it appropriate to stop at Würzburg – a city that Kate and I agreed seemed like a smaller and closer version of Prague. It has a pedestrian bridge, a castle, a large square, churches, a few good looking women, and, now, a new favorite restaurant.

Philip's first trip to Europe

Phil and I have been friends for 13 years. Back then, the most important things in our lives were girls and driving. Well, even though we’ve both grown up some since then, when we’re around each other, a reversion occurs that makes us (or me at least) 15 years old again. Our collective desires stoop to baser levels and our brows drop correspondingly. (i.e., poop and farts are funny once again).

Thankfully, the two places Phil said he wanted to go during his first trip to Europe were Prague and London – two easy-to-get-to and attractive locations that (whether he knew it or not) fulfilled suitably our 15-year-old desires. Prague had the ladies. London had the cars. And they both had farts.

(No farts were harmed in the making of these blogs.)

Makedonia - my second trip

From the air it looks like a huge swatch of bubblewrap, with similarly dispersed and sized mounds rising uniformly from a drab olive-colored floor.

But from the ground, Macedonia is much more colorful. The cities, an eclectic jumble of Soviet-bloc housing, post-modern high rises, and vibrant ads. The people, a soft and consistent blend of Greek, Turkish, and Slavic looks – which basically means short, trim, attractive, dark featured, curly-haired folk with high cheekbones. The food, a healthy mélange of fresh and local fruits, veggies, and small animals. And the culture – the most colorful of all – a flamboyant merger of Orthodox, Catholic, and Muslim ideals flecked with post-Soviet pushy commercialism and stirred together with a relaxed, smoky Mediterranean feel.
What’s that all mean? Well, this was my second time here in three months and I’m still not sure. It’s more diverse than New York and more backwards than Greece. And it’s a lot of fun.

(Especially thinking about what these mounds look like from the air).I was here, of course, for TDY, giving presentations to government officials from many surrounding states on the how to handle the media during a disaster. The work itself was a little slow and the people in my group needed some motivation. But, after goading and prodding, we set our sights low, barely accomplished them, and celebrated at the end like we’d just cured cancer. Such is the way of life here, I guess.
Here is about half of my group - the others were too "busy" to have their picture taken.

Unfortunately, and unlike last time, I spent most my time in the hotel. I should have learned from my Georgia and Azerbaijan experience that that’s no way to travel. But I’ll be coming back one last time in November and will certainly make more time for exploring, sightseeing, and of course, celebrating.

Sugar and spice and everything nice . . .

that's what the baby in my belly is made of, or at least, that's what the ultrasound showed. Yup at my latest ultrasound there was a jar of cinnamon-sugar in my uterus. It's probably the result of all those waffle breakfasts Justin makes. I kid, I kid . . . for real, we are having a girl! You can see her below in an image from my 20 week ultrasound. Cute, eh?

I had grand intentions of documenting more of my pregnancy on the blog, but life got in the way, so hopefully you will be satisfied by a wrap-up of how the first half of my pregnancy has gone (really, I'm halfway through). I've been busy with school, work, and travel. However, I am now done with school! I submitted my last final yesterday, and, assuming I pass both of my classes, I have completed grad-school. You should now refer to me as Master-Kate (In turn, Pecos would like to be referred to as Master-P). I look forward to having more time to get ready for this baby because I don't feel very prepared right now.

Overall, dare I say it, my pregnancy has gone smoothly. I was a little tired in the first trimester, and had to eat all the time to keep my stomach calm, but that was about all the excitement I had. Okay, I have thrown up about 5 times, but I was never faced with all-day nausea. Some days I would wake up and know that my breakfast cereal and I weren't going to be able to make the long-haul together, but I'd force it down anyways, and then get to see it again as it took the express route from my mouth to the toilet. Justin did not get to witness any of these episodes, so he accused me of not being pregnant, but just looking for excuses to get fat. Fortunately for his sake, my moods have remained under-control, and I was able to laugh about that comment.

In the first trimester I also had about two weeks of crazy back pain. I think it was some kind of nerve pain, though it was pretty early in my pregnancy for my uterus to be causing those kinds of problems. Basically, any kind of getting up or down motion HURT. Those first few steps in the morning would almost bring me to tears. This would be my aching back that Justin referred to in the blog entry/poem called "Easter in the Alps."

And here's a picture of the babe at 6 weeks to give you some idea of how much she has grown. She is that little white circle inside of the black raindrop-shaped sac.

I know some of you are eager for belly pictures, but there's really not much to show. Below, with me in pink, is my belly the day we found out, so I was four weeks pregnant. Looking at this picture makes me wonder where my butt is. Really, I've always thought I had a butt, but maybe I don't.

This next picture, of me in gray, is from this past weekend when I was 20 weeks pregnant. I know it's a bit deceptive because the picture is much closer, but hopefully you can tell that I've grown some. I think I look much more pregnant at night than in the morning, and this picture was taken in the morning. My comment about looking more pregnant at night led my father to conclude that it's all just gas, no baby. I can't say that Justin would disagree with him.

So, as far as my growth, there hasn't been much. I can still fit into some of my regular pants, and those I can't I can wear with a Bella Band (a spandex tube that covers the unzipped fly). I did order two maternity shirts and one pair of jeans (it took them a month to arrive!), but I haven't busted them out yet. The jeans are pretty big, but I suppose I will grow into them. Oh, and I've had one stranger notice I was pregnant. Justin was shocked the guy said anything to me, because I could easily just be carrying a spare tire. I think it was the way I was rubbing my belly.

The baby has been doing well all along. Her growth has been on track or ahead since the beginning. In Germany, ultrasounds at every appointment are standard practice, so I get one every four weeks. It's reassuring to get to see her and know everything is going as it should. It's fun to see her kick her legs and rub her eyes. She made it very difficult for the doctor to get her measurements at my last appointment because she wouldn't keep her legs still.

About two weeks ago (at 18 weeks pregnant) I started to feel her move. She's most active in the afternoons (like now) and her movements are low. I enjoy feeling the movements, but I might feel differently when she gets stronger and closer to my bladder. I probably won't be inviting people to feel her kick for awhile because, as much as I love all of you, I don't want you sticking your hands down my pants. Justin, luckily for him, is allowed to stick his hands down my pants, and he felt her move just this past weekend. Hopefully he'll get to feel her again when he gets back from Macedonia tomorrow.

Oh yes, and the babe has a name, though we're still working on spelling and nicknames. She will be Elizabeth, or perhaps Elisabeth. Feel free to share your preffered spelling and nicknames, but we probably won't listen to you. We are considering a few nicknames, but I am going to keep them quiet for now. When I revealed them to my family one of the names resulted in a voicemail being left that was just mooing. Yes, moooing, like a cow and the voicemail was not left on my phone. I have a feeling I wasn't supposed to find out about it. Again, they are lucky my hormones are in check.

I am very excited to be heading back to the States next week. I arrive in DC on June 24 and leave on July 22. I'll be in Atlanta for work from July 6-11, but besides that I'll be in the DC area for the most part. I will go visit Barbara and Bill (June 29-July 2ish), but I don't have any other travel plans. My big plans are, honestly, shopping. First, I need to find professional clothing for Atlanta. Once that's accomplished, I get to shop for the baby (YAY!) and clothing I can wear for the next five months. I am in dire need of some exercise shirts that wick sweat and cover my belly.

If you're in the area, I am eager to hang out. I won't make you shop for sweat-wicking clothing with me; I promise.

My apologies to those of you I have been very negligent about emailing. Again, Kate+Spring=Busy. I will email you soon, probably once I'm in the States. Between now and then, Phil is coming and we are going to Prague. Right now, I must go clean in preparation of his arrival.

Thank you all for your support and love.

The best TDY of my life: Georgia and Azerbaijan

Although I’ve never had a sore thumb, I’m sure my coworker and friend Charles Samuel sticks out like one. He’s an early middle-aged black man from the Caribbean island of Antigua who lives in Tbilisi, Georgia. I would say there are probably two other black men in the entire country (who are probably just passing through as roadies or Americans working at the embassy). But neither of them have thick Caribbean accents like my buddy Charles.

Charles is in charge of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers’ support to a 10-year, DoD-funded assistance program to help the Georgian government get on its feet after 70 years of being in the Soviet Union. He’s been in the beautifully mountainous country of Georgia for five years and, after our first day together when I asked lots of questions about what living in a poor, corrupt, ex-communist, isolated country like Georgia was like, he said that it’s impossible to explain all that he’s been through.

Pshaw, I thought. What’s he been through? Well, after a few days there an in Azerbaijan for work, I agree completely. You just can’t easily convey daily life.

Here’s a sampling:
First, there’s the traditional third world stuff. Electricity goes out often, even at the embassy. Stray dog processions line every street. Dead dogs line every highway. Speed limits are bound not by signs but by how fast you can go around errant cows, horses, donkeys, sheep, and pigs who find themselves lost and scared on highways. Grocers without cash machines still use abacuses (I shit you not). A “family car” is one that is able to hold a family of four, a sheep, four hay bails, and two mattresses.

The list goes on. But the best stories to share about the Caucasus countries all involve the experiences you can’t get in America.

I was in the area for work, obviously. And one of the projects I visited was a school we’re constructing for children living in a poor Kurdish community near Baku, Azerbaijan (next to Iran). These people are the poorest I’ve ever seen, living in poorly made dirt-floor cinderblock houses with holes instead of windows and no sewage (or drainage or electricity or utility) system.

After seeing the impoverished at their worst, we returned to our $220/night hotel to work out at the members’ only gym (the nicest in the city) shower in our mammoth bathrooms (complete with bidet), and get ready to go out to dinner at a Russian restaurant called Yolki-Palki (which is apparently like “damnit” in Russian).

Although we were in Azerbaijan, we ordered in Russian. And although Azerbaijan is a Muslim country, we ordered white wine, red wine, and, of course, vodka.

There was an older Jewish couple who passionately sang, danced, and played the accordion. At times, they would come to our table and violently jerk myself and Charles (who they loved … how many black men to these people see in person?) on the floor to clap, dance, and sing along to their Russian/Azeri/Jewish songs … which we’d have to do even though we didn’t know the beat, steps, or words.

Then came the toasts. Apparently it’s a cultural faux pas to go a meal without making several toasts. It’s also a faux pas not to drink (which I tried to do at first in keeping with my New Year’s resolution). It’s also a faux pas to listen to a toast and then not toast back in return (the equivalent, I was told quite crudely, of having a women satisfy you and then you having the gall to not satisfy her). It’s also a faux pas to refuse drinks from those who buy them from you. And, as our luck would have it, the three old, drunk, wart-y gentlemen at the table next to us somehow got word that Charles was an Army general (he was not) and so decided to ask us to drink and dance with them – and sing happy birthday to one of the geezers.

So, there I was, eating borscht (Russian), sturgeon (Azeri), drinking copiously (against my will), making toasts for the health and well being of people’s families who I didn’t know, and occasionally clapping, dancing, and singing old Jewish country songs I didn’t know, and holding hands (a Muslim thing) with old, wart-ridden men who kissed me on my cheeks for saying such nice toasts about their families during my toasts (which I didn’t want to make in the first place).

As awful as all that sounds, I had the most wonderful time I’ve had on all my TDYs.
We finished up the night by crowding (all four of us) into a beat up Lada (an old and unreliable Russian car) with a cracked windshield that had to be pop-started downhill by two young Azeri boys. I was drunk, sated, and absolutely jovial at having one of the best nights of my adult life – all in a place and in a way that was completely new to me. Weird. Hard to describe. But wonderful all the same. And I owe it all to a man who must feel even more out of place than me.