There's No Basement in the Alamo

In case I was pining away for Texas, I could go here for my birthday dinner: Condor City. Heh. Yee Haw!

One of my all time favorite movies has one of my all time favorite movie scenes. I could watch "Pee Wee's Big Adventure" any day just for the scene when Pee Wee goes to the Alamo looking for his stolen bike in the basement. Few movies feature the city I consider my home town (yes I get to choose b/c I was an army brat) even though it boasts one of the nicest downtowns anywhere. Pee Wee's film is particularly choice.

What I miss most about about San Antonio, and it isn't ranch-style houses with the gravel landscaping, is the food. As much as French food intrigues me and Indian food calls out to me every day, nothing and I mean nothing compares to a sloppy plate of TexMex goodness. You haven't lived if you haven't had heuvos rancheros in the wee hours of the morning while still a little drunk.

Even though I haven't eaten meat in 10 years, save for one Xmas dinner at Ivaner's Auntie's house and a desperate McChicken sandwich in New Jersey, I do occasionally have cravings for flesh, usually Texas delights. Obviously we can all wax poetic for a juicy, Texas Longhorn steak. But, there is one item that might compel me to eat meat right now: the Macho Cheeseburger from Chris Madrids in San Antonio. That is some seriously good hamburger right there. My mouth waters just thinking about it.



I'm not the only one that feels this way. I took that photo of the famous Chris Madrids bumper sticker last October on the summit of Mt. Kilimanjaro. It was stuck to the box that was supposed to contain the log. Surreal and yet not surprising.

As much as I love, love, love TexMex food, I've never really been into Fajitas. But what I wouldn't give for a Taco Cabana bean and cheese taco any day of the year. Back in high school, I lived on that $0.39 goodness. Yep you read that right. Thirty-nine cents.

And of course I miss Dr. Pepper (also from Texas) like my life depended on it. Thank god I had a fast metabolism because I nursed a 40oz tumbler of Dr. Pepper everyday, all day for three years. Sometimes we refilled at lunch. Crazy.

Long about 1991, Stop-n-Go sold these giant bottles that would change color depending on the temperature of the liquid inside. If you bought a bottle, then you got free soda refills all summer. Good for me and my low-on-cash friends. Bad for Stop-n-Go. Several franchises went out of business from this promotion. Say what you will about the rest of the film, there is real truth to the Big Gulp bit in the movie "Reality Bites," though I can't speak for the Houston soda drinking scene . Reid will have to fill us in on the haps in East Texas.

I apologize for this ramble, but consider this the first entry in a series of things that are great about 'Merica. I leave you with a clip from one of the best movies. Ever. Too bad nobody has uploaded the Alamo clip on YouTube.

Happy O'Postraphe Day

B- and I have decided not to celebrate St. Patrick's Day. We've redubbed it O'Postraphe Day in celebration of our Irishness, as opposed to a lasting symbol of British oppression.

Confused?

B- turns to me this morning and says, "what did St. Patrick do anyway?"

Jen: "Ran the snakes out of Ireland. I dunno why we celebrate that though."

Cue Wikipedia with the scoop on St. Patrick. Seems that Patty wasn't even Irish. He was a Briton, and a missionary at a time when the Catholic Church regarded Celts as godless animals. So, Patty was at the front lines of quashing Irish heritage. And we love him why?

And the snakes? There were never any snakes in Ireland. Wikipedia suggests that the snakes were actually Druid symbols. Wiki goes on to speculate that Patrick was instrumental in introducing the concept of threes, so prevalent in Irish symbology, a three leaf shamrock if you will. Basically, Patrick was manipulating the existing belief system to be more compatible with the Catholic Church.

I didn't used to care about the historical problems between Ireland and Britain. My family has been in America for several generations now, and I'm a typical mut. Owing to my mom's Irish maiden name, however, I've always identified more closely with my Irish heritage.

A couple of years ago, Mom and I traveled to western Ireland on a pilgrimage of sorts. The West is relatively rural, providing a glimpse of traditional life. It's also the region most devastated by the famine that compelled so many to leave their home for America, including mine and B-'s Irish ancestors.

What struck me was the sheer beauty of the land. It's the Emerald Isle for a reason. Holy cow that is one green country. It's just so spectacular. And the sea is so blue. So blue. Everywhere you go is evidence of the rich and ancient culture that prevailed for centuries before the Romans came to muck it all up. The Irish are a people that love their country. The soil is fertile and families are close. There is no reason to leave.

It's not easy to piece together the circumstance of the famine. It's a very controversial topic with some likening the English behavior to genocide. Wikipedia's account is notably balanced, but the view within the hardest hit regions is that the neglect was deliberate. Keep in mind that at the time it was a widely held belief that the Irish were a subclass of humans, inferior to the English. The idea that Irish and English are different was only recently debunked by a DNA study of Irish, Scottish, Welsh and English people revealing that we are all from the same stock. The growing rift between Protestants and Catholics is also considered to be a contributing factor. Regardless of why, the British government had an obligation to feed its starving people and they didn't. The just didn't.

They forced my family to flee their beloved country, and that hit home as I stood atop the cliffs of the Dingle coast gazing at the treacherous sea. On the one hand you have an amazing land and a strong sense of place. On the other hand you have a dangerous passage to a country that doesn't really want you, where you are going to be treated like dogs. What a choice! What a crappy, crappy choice.

People sometimes snicker at Americans with Irish heritage who cling so strongly to a culture that isn't really theirs. For me, it's because in my heart I know that my ancestors didn't really want to leave their land, and that they sacrificed so much for me to be here at all. To hold them in memory is to honor their struggle.

So, what does this all have to do with me and B- rejecting St. Patrick? Patrick was British and among the first to treat our ancestors like so much crap, though he did it less obviously and bit more subversively. The only reason he's the patron saint of Ireland is because of the strength of the Catholic Church and good marketing. I'd even be ok with that, even though we're not Catholic, but for him playing a role in suppressing our ancient culture - the very thing we celebrate on his day.

Instead, we'll raise our glasses to the O'Postraphes in mine and B-s' family (even those that dropped the O' to avoid stigma in America), for their courage and sheer will to live. We remember.

Éirinn go Brách

I Am The Paperwork Queen, I Can Do Anything

As you all know, B- is not an American. He's the greatest in all other respects. But, he cannot just willy nilly fly back to the U.S. and stay longer than three months. In the eyes of the guvment, he is but a tourist.

Thus begins immigration filing, round three. Let me type that again for effect. Round three. In little more than one year. I must have it out for myself. First, B- and I came to Holland. Then I had to apply to stay in Holland. Now we're high-tailing it back to 'Merica. More paperwork. Shmaperwork. I'm a pro. I could do this in my sleep.

At first, applying for residency in the U.S. seems easier and and more straight forward than our Dutch immigration. At least our forms are in English. The process to bring a spouse to the Land of the Free happens in two steps.

Step 1) Prove you're married. As the "petitioner," I first submit documents to the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Service (USCIS, formerly INS) that prove I'm a U.S. citizen along with documents that prove we're married: marriage certificate, joint lease, joint bank account statements, and affidavits from friends swearing that they believe that we're married.

Step 2) Mysterious application process at U.S. Consulate in Amsterdam. Upon declaring that we are, in fact, married, the USCIS sends a letter to the consulate stating such. Then we dunno what happens, but it can take 10 weeks. TEN WEEKS.

Did I mention that the Step 1 takes 12 weeks? That's 22 weeks total, or in layman's terms 5 1/2 months. We can't even send off the paperwork for round two until our stupid bank sends us a cashier's check in the mail. Lazy jerks said it could take two weeks before we receive the check. Waaaaah!

What's more than a little unnerving is our lack of knowledge about what really happens during these 12 and 10 month steps. Will we have to go to Frankfurt so they can quiz us on personal details about each other? Crap, I don't know B-'s favorite color! C'mon now, it never came up. Will they show up to our apartment unannounced one day to make sure our unmentionables mingle in the same laundry bin? Note to self, must vacuum pet hair off furniture more regularly.

But even more importantly. What am I going to do with myself for the next six months? At least six months. We can't really make arrangements to leave until we know when B-'s visa will be approved. Realistically, we're here until October.

FCUK.