Must be the monnaie

Numbers and I have always had a precarious relationship.  I like the number 12 (a direct result of this animation, which I recall perfectly from my youth. I recently had the good pleasure of singing this to a friend who joined right in. I am not alone.)

I mostly enjoyed algebra class- when everything fit like pieces of a puzzle. (It was just later when I got home and tried to replicate the things we learned in class that I got stuck and frustrated.)  I am a math person, as long as it's in the middle school/elementary range. Or maybe it's about topic. No matter how I have pushed myself, researched and tried to educate myself, it's finances that remain murky. I can balance a checkbook. At least I get the concept of deposits and withdrawals. But I have never been able to fully grasp the nuances of  money systems or how to compare them. (Not to be confused with converting them- I've actually gotten better at that. I can think in two-or even three!- money systems at the same time. )

While I can't discuss what it means that 1,000 Congolese franc equals about 1 US dollar and 1,000XOF (franc cfa) equals about 2 US dollars (oh how it puzzles me, what does this mean?) I can share my observations of money.

In Kinshasa, ATM's spit out 100 dollar bills as if they were singles. There, I was up on all the latest changes in American money. The most recent version downright resembles Monopoly money. In fact, shortly after a machine spewed these out at me,  I found myself at the Embassy paying for extra pages in my passport. A man at the window next to me leaned over in curiosity and asked if that was the new 100, the way you might inquire about the new iPhone or the latest Mercurials (up to version Vapor 8 apparently.) The point is in America my life was never graced with so many Benjamins. In fact, in some parts, walking around with too many of these is suspicious behavior. In Kinshasa, there's not much choice. Luckily, changing your bill into more manageable quantities is no problem. Money changers line the roads ready to convert your $100 into any combination of Congolese francs and US dollars.

Not my hands, or my money, though when I first got one
of these I felt an overwhelming urge to take a photo.
It appeared so completely fake. 

Here in Abidjan, $100's are nowhere to be found. The currency of choice is the Franc CFA and changing US dollars requires searching high and low and long and far. The airport and the Golf Hotel are probably your best bets. The money changers so common to Kin may also be found in Abidjan, but not in my neighborhood. (Back in December when we were visiting, we couldn't really find them in any neighborhood.) So, I'm learning to think in Franc CFA and it's quite deceiving. I have to remember not to equate it with the Congolese franc; its actually about double the amount.

Both countries use similar denominations. That is, the 500 bill is considered a small bill and pretty common. Next is the 1,000- also often in use (though I do remember my initial skepticism and avoidance when it first came out in Kinshasa. All new money looks like play money.) They both also have the 5,000. Ivory Coast continues the trend with a 10,000. It is purple and gold and has a fancy security feature that involves hidden numbers shown only in black light.

Abidjan has a coin system in place whereas Kinshasa does not. Even when the smaller numbers (100's, 50's, 10's) were more popular and in use, they were in paper form. Abidjan, however, offers coins in 500, 200, 100, 50, 25, 10 and 5 - though the last 3 aren't good for much more than adding up to 50. You can buy a lollipop or other piece of candy for 50XOF. There's even the 250 coin, which reminds me of the half dollar or a two dollar bill. I always feel kind of lucky when I get one, as if they are rare (not sure there is any merit at all to this sentiment.) It's nice to have change again. Change has a way of feeling like extra money (rather than left over money.) Its small status somehow escapes the real money radar and anything purchased with accumulated change takes on a bonus status. It makes money fun again (though in dire budget planning this can be a deadly perspective to hold onto.)

It's possible-and fun- to have a pocket full of change again.
100XOF can get you a taxi ride in a yellow cab
(and if that  sounds like a carnival ride, its probably not too far off the mark)

Oddly- and frustratingly- enough, change is the thing both countries seem to lack. Not coins but small bills in return for large ones. Although ATM's in Kin seem to deal exclusively in large bills, many stores don't have the smaller bills to accommodate a purchase with a 100 dollar bill. The way to handle this in Kin is to get yourself- or send a younger gopher- to a streetside money man or woman.

In Abidjan the problem is the same- lack of change- but the symptoms are different.  There aren't money stalls banking their business on your inability to change the dollar. The dollar doesn't rule here- only the Franc CFA talks (and that's good for Cote d'Ivoire, right? I really want to understand the financial intricacies here.) But finding change for the bigger bills like the 10,000 (about $20) is a challenge. 

One of the most perplexing situations to me is the taxi. If you're not carrying exact change, it's standard procedure to announce how much you have and verify the driver has 'monnaie'- French for change. Even though I know this now, I still find myself in situations where I only have a large bill which I forgot to announce, or sometimes even a not so large bill, and the taxi man has nothing. Nothing? Really? If taxi driving was my business I think I would realize my need to carry some change. For my customers. Who might have large bills. 

Just now as I am writing this, it's finally all coming together. On those occasions when I have forgotten to announce my large bill the driver responds in one of three ways when this happens: 

1. Nods his head and pulls out the proper change.

2. Gets mad, sighs and starts searching around for some change- or I send one of the boys off in search if they're with me

3. Gets mad, sighs, says he doesn't have change and then magically produces change from some hidden compartment

In one case, I went in to buy some bread in order to get change and - due to the slow line I waited in- the driver came in after me impatient and yelling about how I should have change (me? I'm the consumer. Isn't providing change part of the seller's service?) Meanwhile I was busy thinking about how I didn't even really need the bread..... but just now I am understanding some obvious reasons why taxi drivers might not carry a lot of change on them. 

In one particularly friendly mood I inquired about the lack of a radio and whether or not the silence all day was a bother. He told me he'd recently been robbed, strapped to his seat while they stole all of his money, the radio and even the taxi meter. I guess in that situation it might be better to have less cash on you. So that explains the cab drivers not having change. 

But it doesn't help in understanding why the stores never have any. I've left purchases on the counter and walked out empty handed because the cashier could not provide change for a 10,000 bill. I can't unravel the implications that the equivalent of 20 dollars seems so extravagant and at the same time doesn't buy very much. 

I've been trying to determine which city is more expensive- another mind puzzle I can't quite work through. In the end, I relent that there is no real comparing them- they're just different. Some things I want to snatch up by the dozens (carrots, for example, which seem incredibly affordable here, not to mention appetizing, after Kin's limp, skinny, high priced carrots.) Other things are expensive, plain and simple. And the lack of a Goma cheese substitute has driven me to research cheese making methods (more on that in an upcoming post on home schooling.) But when times get tough, we can always splurge on a lollipop- passion fruit flavor- for a mere 50franc. 

One of Mohamed's favorite treats-
sold a mere 150 paces or so from our front door

The beauty of play

8OO kids in a group is probably not something most people can imagine, unless you happen to be a primary school teacher. My last school had a mere 3OO students and that included kindergarten through high school.  Though the elementary alone only had about 13O kids, we spent a good deal of time discussing recess.  Recess duty, recess rules, recess routines.

My initiation into recess in Kinshasa was shocking. I was fresh from the US with rigid rules and safeguards in place. The playground I encountered seemed to be a haven of hazardous behavior and children run amok. Over the years we worked to create regulations that were clear and consistent and contributed to the safety of students. There were challenges in getting children to understand and comply with the guidelines and getting adults to follow through with consistency. It seemed to be a constant work in process.  

In the French system duty is called service, aptly so, and thus far happily involves a lot less discussion. My first day at school here, the director outlined a few new protocols he wanted to try and we’ve been off and running ever since.  The kids are allowed to choose the area they want to play in. Apparently last year students were assigned areas on a rotating basis.  Supervision is handled by teachers and the ‘surveillance team.’  I really love this concept and they do an incredible job.  

Every Tuesday and Thursday I find myself on the covered basketball court watching an obscene number of children roam wild. We have 3 main areas for recess and so the entire population of students is somewhat spread out. It still works out to a swarm of children such as I have never seen in my life. I was in awe the first day. Actually, I’m in awe every Tuesday and Thursday.

My post is the basketball court, but I also keep an eye out on the soccer field and track surrounding it, the grassy area next to the court and the picnic tables. The court hosts 4 basketball games and something that resembles soccer, except they get to use their hands and throw the ball to make a goal.  In addition to all these games going on simultaneously, there are the random groups of kids just racing through and the ones having their snacks on the sidelines.

Over on the soccer field it appears to be equal mayhem. The running track that surrounds the field turns into a scooter derby as children race laps despite the games of tag, soccer offshoots and groups of giggling girls meandering by.

There is pushing and tugging, screaming and laughing. Kids fall down and friends offer a hand to pick them up.  They argue about who had the ball, who gets the ball, who is out and who is in and, most often, they resolve their dilemmas on their own. Rarely is an adult called on to intervene. The few times I had to talk to a group about rough play, they dispersed back into the crowd, disbanding and forming new groups, new games and new disputes. 

It’s beautiful play. Children being children. They are allowed the space to discover, explore, create, discuss, argue and problem solve.  They organize their time, some choosing to sit and eat before playing, some choosing to munch while they wander. They touch and tug, fall down and get back up. They win and lose. They share and refuse.  And they keep an eye out for us adults. 

I generally enjoy recess duty. I like the chance to be outside, to walk around and to see the games children play.  What I’ve noticed most about having so many kids out there playing together is that my presence is needed less. I still check in occasionally and there are a few that like to hang around and talk to me but usually only for a minute. It often seems that by the time I arrive on the scene, I’m no longer needed. Today I saw a boy lingering by the basketball hoop. He looked as though he might be feeling left out or trying to figure out how to join in. Just as I decided to go and talk with him, one of the kids from the basketball game swooped by, wrapped his arms around the boy and invited him to join in.  The boy refused, preferring to stay where he was by the post, but now I knew he wasn’t lonely or left out.

It feels good, this not being needed. It feels right. I’m there for safety only, for the serious stuff they can’t work out, and only after they’ve already tried.  It leaves me feeling a bit like an anthropologist.  Surrounded by masses of little people, I wander amongst them observing and discerning….what are they doing? I saw a group of boys today playing a game that looked similar to Mother May I? except they were striking poses and the ‘mother’ appeared to be doing everything in his power to make the others laugh or break pose. Turns out this game is called 1,2,3 Sun and that’s the most I could gather.  They seemed a bit suspicious of my questioning. I continued my observations from a distance and left them to go back to their beautiful play.

On being the "Other"

As an educator, as in any profession really, I’m no stranger to meetings. Endless meetings it seems at times. I’ve never actually calculated the hours, but in the French system there is a formula for this- of course. 106 hours of professional meetings. Those of us in the bilingual program are mandated for a bit more- happily this comes with extra pay.

I spend most of my time, as I may have mentioned, actively listening. It takes a lot of effort to be sure I understand what’s really being said and make sure I don’t miss some obligatory duty or deadline. My binome  (the closest I can come to translating this interesting word is co-teacher, though it seems reserved specifically for the partner teacher in a bilingual situation) is great. He is constantly checking in with me to make sure I understand and is ever ready to ‘translate’ (still in French but in simpler terms) whatever I might be unclear about.

Our most recent meeting involved discussion about events for the year- ways to incorporate English into the other school events and presentations that might include the ‘regular’ classes (known as classique -where English is taught as a language class but for far fewer hours a week and with less intensity than in the bilingual classes.) This meeting left me with huge sense of deja vu in a reverse sort of way.

In Kinshasa we- or at least I- spent a lot of time devising ways to incorporate the Congolese perspective into our curriculum. Oddly enough, I was often deferred to as an expert- or, minimally, as someone with some knowledge in this area, even when other Congolese teachers were part of the meeting.  I can tell you that’s an odd feeling.

It’s not so easy to try and pick out the relevant aspects of a culture not your own to present authentically to students. I spent a lot of time questioning the assistants, other teachers and my friends to get their ideas on how to do this. No matter how much information I gathered on what was important to them, which experiences were most accurate and significant, I could never ignore the fact that I am not Congolese and therefore risked getting it wrong or being slightly off in the presentation.    

I guess it’s poetic justice then that I found myself at such a meeting, this time with a chance to be the other.  The French teachers were choosing holidays and food to share, planning a traditional English ‘tea-time.’  I have no insider knowledge of this English tradition but, perhaps because I was in the room or perhaps in an effort to be more inclusive, talk turned to American traditions. Specifically, Halloween (I guess October is upon us, my how the time flies when you’re in school.) Maybe I should say thankfully Halloween- a holiday I do know something about. I’d been having an odd feeling of panic and being exposed. Most often I feel like a quasi-American.  What are the most iconic symbols and experiences of my country anyway? Do I really know?

I was reminded of my first trip to Guinea. We were in the village hanging around a campfire one night. The musicians were singing the songs of their country in beautiful, bittersweet voices. Whenever I asked what a song was about, invariably it had to do with love of their country or duty to family. After they’d finished their round, they asked the two Americans in the group to sing something. Not only is my voice something I’m rather shy about, but put on the spot like that I couldn’t think of a song that equally represented the US and expressed a profound moral. It seems like all our songs are love songs- and not often very good at that.  (It wasn’t until much later that I remembered America the Beautiful, a song whose words I’d had taped to my headboard as a child and sang myself to sleep with every night. I could have sang that had I my wits about me.)

The problem is, if asked, I’m not sure what I could come up with as significant American symbols. America is huge. It depends on which part of the country we’re talking about, which social class, which ethnicity, and on and on. I started to understand the difficulty of posing such questions to my Congolese friends who surely grappled with the same issues. Congo is vast, complete with it’s own multitude of ethnicities and languages. It seems the best either of us could do is pick the cliché….exactly what I’d always tried to get away from. Apple pie and baseball. Or basketball. American football. Ice cream. Thanksgiving.  It’s about all I have in my tool belt when it comes to spreading American culture.

Nevertheless, I found it amusing to listen in as they tried to nail down something that would exemplify America- and I felt oddly “other.” Far away memories, a distant sense of having known that life but almost as if had happened to another person, which I suppose, in a way, it did.

America is filled with immigrants who’ve left their countries in search of something more. Many have decided to stay without returning to their home countries, whether by choice or by circumstances beyond their control. Over time, they come to see themselves as Americans, through and through. I’d often wondered what it was like to have another country in your back pocket- how does it feel to spend so many years away from the place you were born and raised. It feels real is one thing I’ve learned. (And as the American debate over immigration continues, it’s a point I wish could be made more clear somehow. Returning immigrants ‘home’ after so many years in the States is really akin to landing in a strange country and learning it all over again. Not home at all.)

I’m beginning to get a taste of being the immigrant, even if I don’t yet have another country to take the place of my birth home. For now, it’s Congo. And I guess that’s how it goes for the third culture generation. Whatever country we’ve last come from is the one we identify most with. I am surprised but happy enough to identify with Kinshasa, remembering when I’d first arrived there I identified with Guinea. I guess a true nomad has enough room in the heart for many homes. 

Renaissance People

They came bearing suitcases. They had boxes, bags, and pieces of small luggage. The first day of school resembled more of an international flight line at the airport than students on their way to class. The French system requires that parents purchase everything- including reams of copy paper to be handed over to the teachers to fulfill their photocopying needs.  It has taken me some weeks to see this is comparable to the US university system. (I admit to walking around in something of a daze these first weeks of school. Not in the classroom- that's like riding a bike. Kids are kids and school is school- I know how to be a teacher. It's all of the periphery systems that have me dizzy.) Much like the college system, parents can sell back their children's books if they haven't been damaged or written in.

In order to accomplish this, a myriad of notebooks are on the must have list. They're even color -coded which is every elementary school teacher's dream organization method. The green notebook is for science, the purple notebook for math and the transparent book for English. I love two things about this method- there is a yellow notebook and it's for poetry and there is such a thing as TP. I am not exactly sure what TP stands for in terms of the abbreviation (surely something French) but it refers to a certain style of notebook that has a blank drawing page following every lined writing page. The poetry notebook looks like this as does the science (all those diagrams of experiments and brilliant hypothesis just waiting to happen!) I think there is a place for being exposed to and even memorizing poetry. It makes me think of the Renaissance experience....well rounded and exposed to  bit of everything. Which is apparently valued in the French system because at the primary level, the teacher is everything. PE teacher, art teacher, music teacher. While these classes are required, there is no specialist educator to present them. So now I am planning a sports class once a week and eyeing the eight djembes in the 'reserve room' where extra supplies can be found.

And then there's the red pen. I've spent most of my teaching career avoiding the red pen syndrome, refusing to use it and adhering to the philosophy that correcting student errors in that way doesn't lead to real learning. Now, it's all about the red pen. There is even a system for it ( color coded, of course.) When we make corrections as a class, students use their green pens (required as per the supply list) and when I make corrections on a student's work, I use the Red Pen. All notebooks must be corrected before going home (to be signed on Fridays, or every few weeks, timeline decided by the teacher. Parents can sign in any color.)

Getting used to the French system has been mostly all right. Although I feel on the edge of tears most mornings, everyone was super nice and forgiving when I had to take 2 days off in the first week of school for that malaria flare up. Having the work day end at 1:00 is really good for morale I think. While some of my days continue to be a lot longer than that, when I do get done at 1:00 I feel like I am skipping out early. By dinner time I've forgotten that I even went to work at all and it feels like the weekend. Amazing. I could live a whole other life in my time outside of school. I am beginning to understand the appeal of the French way of life.

As a local hire however, I think I must be missing some perks. While the hours may leave time to enjoy life, the pay scale doesn’t really permit much. And I've already mentioned the lack of free schooling as one of the biggest drawbacks. Recess duty is the hardest time for me as all I can imagine is how much fun the boys would be having and how much they are missing out on.

Because I have yet to work out that hurdle, the boys and I are doing work at home. I envisioned many scenarios before coming here, but of course I never anticipated working and trying to home school at the same time.  We are getting lessons in being patient and trying to keep our hopes up, but we're missing Kinshasa. 

The boys miss friends and soccer. They miss birthday parties and weekend sleepovers. I miss....well, I've been trying to figure that out. What is it exactly that I miss? Every time I get close to an answer it sounds too much like all the things I was hoping to get away from. I know the truth about myself though- my big secret- I like things messy. And complicated. Rough around the edges, risky and uncertain. Abidjan is neat and clean and orderly and while that was refreshing, I miss the chaos and disruption. (Of course, when I mentioned that idea about Abidjan being neat and orderly another new teacher kind of shook her head and furrowed her eyebrows. Neat and orderly? she questioned. I guess it's all relative to where we're coming from.)

 I’ve always heard we spend our adult lives trying to recreate the environments we grew up in…which is probably why I search out the hardest situations. Its what I know. From the middle of those places, I look out and tell myself I am ready to have things happen easily, without a struggle. It’s my time, I think, to cruise through and enjoy life.  But once I am here, in the smooth lane, something is missing. 

I suppose a large part of it has to do with having not yet made connections in the art scene. I haven’t met any painters. I don’t have an inside track for canvas, stretchers or veneer banc. I’ve heard the magic of the djembes but only from a distance and, while I am in the market for a dance teacher, I haven’t yet discovered her. Abidjan has yet to come alive for us. 

On the flip side, turns out Kinshasa is way huger than I actually believed.  I may miss the sound of Lingala on the streets but it’s no stranger to the inside of a cab. Kinshasa musical artists seem to be a favorite of the taxi drivers, which only serves to fuel my not-so-secret dream. I could be the one driving around listening to Fally all day, dreaming of destinations a mere gas tank away.

I thought it was a significant sign that Mikitisa was playing in the taxi on my ride to school the first day. A little bit of Kin to send me off to a good welcome. Now I realize it wasn’t so unusual after all. The majority of taxis are most likely to be playing either a Congolese artist or reggae music. Despite this, I remind myself that Ivory Coast has a rich culture full of the rhythms and sounds that first attracted me to West Africa. I'm just waiting to feel the full effect in person.

I happened to catch a glimpse of a unique version of the quiz show one afternoon in a waiting room. The TV was tuned in to a question/response type of show that everyone was chiming in on, agreeing or disagreeing with the contestants, clucking and shaking their heads when they disagreed with the answer given. The Ivorian twist, however, included a traditional dance contest interlude after each segment of questions. Apparently teams represented districts around the city and each group sent a representative to answer questions followed by the team dance, complete with costumes, make-up, live musicians, and the occasional special effect. More entertaining than the African soap operas featuring chiefs, village magic and 1970's style special effects.

Though I may be feeling far from creativity and the arts for the moment, I am lucky enough to pass this odd tree every morning. A calabash tree, I am told. I am familiar with dried calabash, as used in instruments, but I’ve never seen what’s really inside one. And I never considered they might grow on trees. It’s just odd enough to give me pause, to make me think, to step outside my box for a minute every day. I hope I never get used to this tree. I want to stop and ponder every morning…. pumpkins? watermelons? What are those things and why are they growing on that tree? Who am I and what am I doing at this French school?

Modeling the Real World, Mostly

A few of these guys have tattoos loving drawn on

Big hips, like real women have

They have accessories (note the handbags, scarves and sunglasses) and they get their clothes changed often

I've been wanting to share these photos for a long time. A billion things have happened since I took them but I still feel slightly amused whenever I pass this store- a happy little presence on my way home. Mannequins like these can be found everywhere throughout the city, but I've developed a little affinity for these guys. Some of them have tattoos. The lady on the end has ring lines clearly etched into her neck (I'm told this is a sign of beauty, these neck lines) and they're big. Mannequins should reflect the people they are modeling clothes for and these Abidjan models do. Well, in body form anyway. They're still a bit light in skin tone. Maybe America's obsession with thinness is Africa's obsession with lightness.

The Low Point aka Living on a Dollar a Day

Being an adventurer is not for the faint of heart. It requires you to have courage and strength and forever see the positive in whatever life throws at you. The fact is, that’s not really me. While I certainly aspire to all of those things, and maybe sometimes romantically imagine myself that way, I haven’t quite truly developed those qualities yet, not deep inside where they have roots.

I realized this as we were riding around town completing a few errands. I’d been feeling discouraged about the school situation for the boys (definitely not one of the perks of the contract it turns out,) a few other standards of living I haven’t quite figured out how to make happen yet and our financial situation in general. We passed two old women sitting, sleeping really, by the roadside. They had their blankets spread out and their beggar bowls nearby. I reflected for a moment that my life was in a tad better shape than theirs. I hadn’t it made it to the roadside yet.

We stopped at a clinic to pay off a small debt. I seem to have developed a penchant for dancing with death and after only 3 months here have faced my second malaria attack. I had a 40° fever on and off for a week. When Doliprane no longer seemed to be having any effect, I finally made my way out to the clinic. For reasons long and short, good and bad, real and ridiculous, I found myself without the money to pay for any treatment, not even the fever reducing perfusion I was seeking (I’d already started quinine for the malaria.) The doctor offered to let me pay half and scolded me for being in such a situation in the first place. She was absolutely right. Being without insurance or cash for medical care in Africa can quickly turn deadly. I was extremely grateful and somewhat stunned by her offer.  So, as soon as I found the means, I was off to repay the debt. On our taxi ride home, we passed a naked man sitting in the middle of the road. Another moment of reflection. “At least I haven’t reached that point,” I said to myself, trying somehow to see the positive. I realized it didn’t say much about my current state if I was comparing myself to old beggar women and naked men in the road.

I have recognized that poverty is the real spirit breaker. It’s easy to be positive and see the sunshine everywhere when you can afford the comforts that everyone else has. Once things get tight, discouragement and negativity start to kick in. So many aid organizations talk about Africans living on less than a dollar a day and you wonder how they can possibly do it.  It’s meal by meal and lots of walking. It involves bartering with neighbors, making small exchanges and taking on debt. The juggling game that those living in poverty anywhere quickly learn how to play. The ultimate in Wimpy…. “I’ll gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today.”

This recent bout of discouragement found me longing for comforts from another world. Things I hadn’t really thought of or missed in years. A diner. A breakfast diner to be exact. I’ve been dreaming of scrambled eggs and pancakes with orange juice and a cup of diner coffee- the endless cup.  I want to buy a loaf of bread that comes in a bag and has 50 slices at least (and then I realize it’s not fresh bread and I’m probably better off with these tiny loaves that need to be replaced almost daily.) I want to buy fruit out of season and most of all I want New York cheddar cheese- sharp. Extra sharp.

I want the comfort of knowing there is an emergency room, open and obligated to take me in any time of the day or night. And I want free schools. I’m not sure if this means I am ready to make a return trip. As much as this latest illness has worn me out, made me feel like quitting and going home, I still couldn’t figure out where that would be. And obviously, we’re not in any position to move anytime soon.

So, on with the adventure. The boys have been handling things amazingly. There are always lessons to be learned. Mohamed has finally developed some money management skills and begun to look at and compare prices. With Christian away, he’s taken over some of the household responsibilities and he chooses to take on a lot of the baby care duties as well. We’re developing our ability to have patience and be happy with less. And Nabih, our favorite food connoisseur, has taken to praising even the simplest of meals and continues to eat with gusto no matter often we have rice or rice or more rice. I guess we’re still hanging in. I’ve been thinking of October as month when things should start to improve and I keep reminding myself we’re in it for only a year. Then we can start that grand search again where the world’s the limit…. or maybe we’ll have already found ourselves well down another path by that time. For now, just trying to get to October.