Tag: expat life

The Novelty of Beach Life

Beach Comber From Birth

Growing up in Atlanta, I got to be part of that great American summer tradition, the annual family beach trip. Depending on the beach, my brother and I could look forward to between 4 and 6 hours of Wee-Sing-Silly-Songs cassettes, gas station candy, and fierce battles for control of the middle-seat armrest.

We usually ventured to one of a handful of beaches: Panama City, Florida; Daytona, Florida; St. Simons Island, Georgia; Hilton Head, South Carolina. Some on the Atlantic and some on the Gulf of Mexico but all had an abundance of cooked white flesh and thick southern accents. It was paradise!

I remember the thrill of the first palm tree sighting. My brother and I would then count the palms in growing anticipation until we finally glimpsed a flash of ocean between a Texaco and a McDonald’s. After checking into the hotel, we’d spend the next five days coated with sand and sunscreen jumping waves, riding boogie boards, and hunting for seashells. Often grandparents came along and sometimes aunts, uncles, and cousins. There was always a family putt-putt outing, which some of us took more seriously than others. Inevitably, the week ended, and we would say goodbye to the beach for a year.

I now live three blocks from the beach.

I can wake up any day of the week and decide to skip writing in favor of paddling around the bay spotting sea turtles. It. is. amazing!

My daughter has been going to the beach regularly since before she discovered her hands. The list of foods my girl will eat is short but includes white fish, salmon, shark, and tiny fried shrimp. Fried shrimp with the shell and legs still on them. The girl won’t part her lips for a carrot but she pops little shrimp in her mouth like chocolates. We frequently have some version of this conversation on Saturday mornings:

Me: “Should we go to beach today?”

Husband: “I don’t know. We went the last few weekends. I think she might be getting tired of it.”

Me: “Hey Little Bit, do you want to go to the beach?”

Kid: “No, I want to stay home and play with my toys.”

Yes, my daughter will turn down going to the beach in favor of staying home to play with her Littlest Pets because she has no idea how lucky she is and no appreciation for the months of waiting that I had to endure when I was her age to get to the beach. Preschoolers!

Because of these different life experiences, my daughter will probably never understand my obsession with ocean-based hobbies, specifically that she master one or several of them. Some parents dream of their children graduating from the ivy league, I dream of my daughter being a competitive sailor or windsurfer or deep sea fisherwoman. (That last one is lower down on the list.)

Given the novelty (for me anyway) of growing up next to the beach, imagine my joy when my girl started swim class and LOVED it! She has no fear of water, which makes supervising her around the pool more stressful, but is an important first step to becoming a world champion free diver!

A couple of weeks ago, we embarked on phase two of my master plan. Stand up paddle boarding in the bay!* We went as a family and spent the morning spotting green sea turtles in the bay. It was a success. You can see in the video below. My daughter had so much fun, we all went back out yesterday and the heavy grey clouds and constant drizzle didn’t deter her one bit.

Watching my daughter yesterday on my husband’s board, leaning forward through the rain with a smile on her face, I thought “I just might have a seafarer on my hands.” At least I hope I do. All she needs now is a willingness to use sunscreen.

*If you’re ever in Vitoria, Brazil, I highly recommend a morning of SUP. We rented our boards from Loop. They have windsurf and stand up equipment for rent. The bay is filled with sea turtle, fish, and the occasional ray leaping from the water.

March 2, 2015
Lessons For Toddlers and Expats

My 3 year old daughter is currently struggling to accept some of the physical limitations of our three dimensional world. “That tunnel is not tall enough for the train.” “It was made for one Littlest Pet not eight.” “Sweetheart, your teddy bear is never going to fit in that play dough pot.” She will ignore me, keep trying, and eventually hurl whatever it is against the wall in a frustrated fury. I hope it’s just a phase.

What is remarkable is her flat out refusal to accept an obvious reality. She will continue to struggle long after it’s clear that it’s not going to fit. Her tenacity is impressive. It’s also the source of many a nighttime tantrum. While I don’t want her to ever give up easily, I’d like to spare her the frustration and save her the energy spent fighting against a fact about her world.

As an expat, I should apply this lesson myself.

I’ve lived in Brazil eight and a half years, and I still struggle to accept some facts about life here. One thing that still makes my face burn is the out of control and invasive bureaucracy.

There is no question too personal for a form and no transaction that does not require one. The eyeglass store wants your social security number. The hotel wants your profession. The dentist wants your race. Your employer wants to know your blood pressure.

I get around some forms by pretending I’m here temporarily or don’t speak a word of Portuguese, but I couldn’t do this at my former job.

When I began teaching the school asked me to have a medical exam. When I came back from maternity leave there was another exam and another a year later for every employee at the school. When I gave notice at the end of last year, human resources asked me to sign several letters saying that I was leaving of my own accord and have another medical exam.

I refused. As American, an employer requiring a medical exam and making note of the fact you use contraceptives is deeply offensive. I had done the previous exams because I liked the job, and hey when in Rome…but now I was quitting. What could they do? Fire me?

There were several meetings with HR during which I nicely refused to accommodate and the HR lady just as nicely said it was mandatory by law. After checking with a lawyer, I explained sweetly there’s no law requiring a person to submit to a medical exam. She politely insisted there is.

Eventually I was told it was the union that required the exam. And speaking of the union, I had to meet with them and have a rep sign off on my paperwork. Please come back next Tuesday afternoon.

I showed up at the union rep’s office in my school and met a man very disgruntled by my lateness. The meeting was at 2pm. It was 2:02 pm. As he grumbled, he grabbed his keys, my work card, and my paperwork. Below is as faithful a transcription of our conversation as my memory allows.

Me: “Excuse me, are you leaving?”

Man I Have Only Just Met: “He’s going to wait for us.”

Me: “Who?”

MIHOJM: “The union Kahuna. (That’s my word because I don’t remember what title the guy really had.) You were supposed to meet with him at 2pm.”

Me: “Aren’t you the man I’m meeting?”

MIHOJM: “No, the Kahuna has to sign off on your papers, and he’s at the union’s headquarters.”

Me: “Wait. Do we have to drive somewhere?”

MIHOJM: “Yes. We’re going to the union office.”

Me: “Stop. I’m not leaving. Give me my work card and documents. I am not going.”

At that point I had been quitting my job for almost two months. I was done. I was out of patience and polite Portuguese. I unleashed the full force of my direct, low-context American culture on him and I wrapped things up then and there.

I am not going to the union office. I am not having the medical exam. I want to quit today. You are a union officer? Do you have authority to sign these papers? Great. Please, sign them all now.

While I did manage to officially quit, within a Brazilian context, I was a complete asshole to a guy who was just doing his job. He was acting according to standard practice and then comes this woman who freaks out on him, is blunt to the point of being rude, and very angry.

And I stayed angry. I complained about the whole process to everyone I met for days. Hurling my complaints about meaningless bureaucracy against every wall in a frustrated fury. What did that anger get me? Well, it used up a lot of my energy, a very precious commodity. It would have taken a lot less energy to shrug my shoulders.

Somethings you have to accept. Don’t waste energy being angry about something you can’t change. Lessons we expats have to learn. Expats and toddlers.

February 24, 2015
Unpacking Home Number Fifteen

Over the course of my 32 years, I have called 15 different buildings “home”. I define home as the place with most of my clothes, books, and charger cords. This averages out to a new home every 2.13 years.

I’ve been thinking about my different homes because I’ve just finished moving into number fifteen! I unpacked the last suitcases being used as storage and put up a shoe rack in closet. I took a week and organized every drawer, every closet, every shelf in my apartment. My bathroom cabinets are a wonder and joy to behold. After three and a half years here, I am FINALLY moved into my home.

Three and a half years. The moving-in process here has taken more time than my entire existence in some previous homes. I blame my baby. Really, it was her fault. She came seven weeks early on the same day we moved into our newly purchased apartment. The movers left at 5pm and I was having an emergency C-section three hours later.

Because my husband and I were going to the NICU all day everyday for almost a month, my entire apartment was unpacked by my mother-in-law and our cleaning lady. Of course, I will never forget the this great act of kindness on behalf of my mother-in-law. But no one is going to organize your space and your things the same way you would. I, for one, don’t organize my books by height and color.

And this is why I am absolutely giddy. After years of thinking things lost and rediscovering stuff I didn’t remember having in the first place, I have taken back control of my space and my stuff and woe be unto the person who puts the colander back in the wrong drawer. I threw out every deviceless cable, every broken handled cheese grater, and every expired bottle of cough syrup. My week of obsessive organizing went so deep, I got pictures framed that have been buried in closets since 2002.

Such a deep cleaning brings up a lot of questions. Why would reasonable people with enough money keep a broken-handled cheese grater? Who was I when I bought the jean miniskirt with frayed edges? How does a person acquire so much lotion?

But I’m not going to dwell on questions without answers. Not when I can bask in the glory of knowing where every single thing in my apartment is currently located. Every. Single. Thing. I’m dying to make a game out of it. I want to roll my desk chair to middle of the den, sit with my eyes closed, and have my husband call out random items.

“Coffee filters?”

“Cabinet directly beneath the coffee pot, top shelf.”

“Rechargeable double AA batteries?”

“TV stand in the playroom, in the right-side drawer, on the left.”

“The cuff links a student gave me which I’ll never wear but haven’t thrown/given away.”

“Your night stand, top drawer.”

This is the closest to omniscient I will ever be. And it feels amazing. Totally worth the wait.

February 10, 2015
Nine Parenting Lessons Learned 3 Months In

I don’t have a lot of time to write these days. The last post took more than 2 months to finish. Still, I need some kind of outlet, so when a reader posted a comment about Moby Wraps and baby products in Brazil, I was inspired to post a few of the lessons I’ve learned over the last few months.

Lesson 1 About 85% of my identity is based on getting sufficient sleep. After several days of less than four hours of sleep (none of them consecutive) the talkative, thoughtful person who cracks jokes to deal with stress becomes a simmering pot of boiling rage which spills over at the slightest thing. A pacifier I cleaned minutes before pops out and falls straight to the floor and suddenly I am using every curse I know on gravity, Newton and any living relatives. Jekyll never made a potion. He just didn’t sleep for a few weeks.

Lesson 2 The Moby Wrap, a popular baby carrying device in the US, needs to come with a warning. Caution: Moby Wrap should only be used in air-conditioned environments in non-tropical countries. After 15 minutes with her in the wrap, I was on the verge of a heat stroke. I managed to sweat off a few pounds and successfully teach my daughter that blankets are torture devices.

Lesson 3 Like just about everything in Brazil, baby stuff is super expensive here. $50 is too much to spend on preemie clothes or any baby clothes. Call me cheap but I don’t want to spend more than $20 on an outfit she will either spit up on, poop on or outgrow after only three wearings.

Lesson 4 Every person who does not have a baby thinks every time a baby cries it’s due to hunger. And they will tell you this. “Your baby is hungry.” They will tell you this repeatedly for an hour and a half and when the baby is inevitably hungry again these people will say, “See. I knew she was hungry.”

Lesson 5 I don’t want big breasts. I used to think I wanted some slightly larger breasts to balance out my bottom half. Nope. Not anymore. I’m totally content with and miss my modest B cups. Hats off to you ladies who have the back muscles and patience to tolerate these weights hanging off your front and bouncing around as your work out, jog, take stairs, try to sleep, etc.

Lesson 6 The only practical outfit for a newborn is a onesie. Being told this and eventually learning this from experience will not stop you from continuing to buy super adorable dresses which make her closet look spectacular.

Lesson 7 I do not believe a baby should have it’s ears pierced, and I will not be piercing my baby’s ears. This means when dressed in any color other than pink, everyone in Brazil thinks she is a boy.

Lesson 8 Not all babies are born willing to sleep in a crib. Some are born with a mistrust and a dislike of cribs that is so strong merely standing close to a crib will be enough to penetrate the deepest sleep. They may also hate the swing, vibrating chair, stroller, car seat, and sleep in general.

Lesson 9 Nothing, absolutely nothing in the world, is as adorable as a new baby smiling. It’s what keeps you from dropping her in that ridiculously-expensive crib she hates and putting on some noise canceling headphones.

Check out more great…

October 25, 2011
My Recommendation for an OBGYN in Vitoria

My expat identity has taken a back seat in my last few posts to the teacher or pregnant woman part of me, but after reading some blog entries from other expats in Brazil I’ve been inspired to finally write a post that has been in the back of my mind for some time.

Coconut Water is officially recommending Dr. Paulo Batistuta for anyone in Vitoria looking for an OBGYN.

While I’ve endorsed several Brazilian food options including açaí and moqueca capixaba, this is Coconut Water’s first official endorsement of a healthcare professional in Brazil and I’m recommending Dr. Batistuta with the same fervor I do a big bowl of açaí.

A fairly common complaint from expats here is that doctors in Brazil don’t really explain things to you. They tell you to get a test and bring them the results. Unless the results require being ordered to get another test or bypass surgery, that’s all you’ll hear about them. Another complaint specific to women in the process of childbearing is that doctors here in Brazil prefer doing c-sections to pretty much anything else. (I’d believe even more than sex given the rate at which they are performed here.) Some private hospitals in Brazil have c-section rates as high as 90%.

Dr. Batistuta (Dr. Paulo here in Brazil where they use first names) defies both of these stereotypes.

Personal anecdote. After an early ultrasound, I noticed there was one item that had an abnormal reading, specifically low blood flow in the left uterine artery. When we took the results to Dr. Batistuta, I asked about it and Dr. Batistuta picked up a pen and immediately began sketching a uterus and arteries. He explained what the test measured and what the result meant. He even sketched out exactly where the placenta was attached in my uterus. You know, the more information the better. He assured us that this wasn’t a problem given the normal results for everything else and we’d check it again at the next ultrasound. He was right. Everything was normal at the next ultrasound.

Dr. Batistuta never rushes us out the door. I’ll pull out a list of questions. He’ll happily answer everyone, giving me cards, books, even DVDs that will provide further information. While I’m in the bathroom changing I can hear him and my husband chatting away about upgrading their computers’ operating systems. We were in his office for almost an hour during our last visit.

As for c-sections, Dr. Batistuta is one of the leading voices in Brazil for natural childbirth. If you speak Portuguese you can watch him being interviewed on youtube. While he will state point blank he believes the best birth for the mother and baby is one with no unnecessary medical intervention, he has also told me that ultimately the doctors and staff are there to support me and what I want. If I ask for drugs, they will give me drugs.

I should mention cost. One of the great things about Vitoria is that you can get great medical care (private) for half the cost of what you’d pay in Rio or Sao Paulo. For an office visit, Dr. Batistuta charges BR$200 ($118). We pay this out of pocket at the visit and send a receipt to our insurance company for reimbursement. For the actual birth, Dr. Batistuta is charging BR$4.000 ($2,353). Again, we’ll pay and get reimbursed later. (Once the whole birthing process is said and done, I’ll do a summary of all medical expenses for giving birth in Vitoria.)

Finally, the language issue. Our visits are conducted exclusively in Portuguese but when I have to use an English phrase Dr. Batistuta understands. (I suspect he is modest about his level of English and understands way more English than he lets on.) Fortunately, my husband attends every visit and supplements my intermediate Portuguese with his native tongue thus preventing any serious misunderstandings. I can’t say for sure how it would go if you don’t speak any Portuguese. I think everyone could muddle through but it is important to know that Vitoria is a much smaller city than Rio, Sao Paulo or Belo Horizonte and English speaking professionals are in much shorter supply here.

If you are an expat in Vitoria looking for an OBGYN, I strongly recommend Dr. Batistuta. He talks to his patients as intellectual equals. He supports natural birth and medical intervention only when necessary. He understands some English and is very patient when listening to bad Portuguese. You can find his profile and contact info with the CECON medical group.

June 25, 2011
The increasing weight of my uterus

The other morning at breakfast my husband casually brought up an old colleague who had called him out of the blue. I listened attentively and then with a slowly furrowing brow as my husband explained this colleague wanted to put my husband in touch with a local college. This college is in need of professors. Perhaps my husband would be interested in teaching beginning in September?

Between bites of peanut butter toast, I calmly reminded him that he has a daughter arriving at the end of August. Won’t things be stressful enough without a new teaching gig on the side? That’s why he was taking the month of September off from work. So, he could be here helping with the baby and coordinating international family visitation. I agreed this was going to be a huge help but what about after September. He would go back to two jobs and I will be at home with no jobs.

We left the conversation at “Let’s wait and see what the college offers if they ever actually call,” but I continued to think about it for the rest of the day. Even knowing how much my husband loves teaching and has missed it over the last few years, I couldn’t muster any enthusiasm for this new project. His dissertation is not due for another few, stressful months and he’s already looking for something new to fill up his time. I would have thought a new baby would fill time pretty effectively but my husband seems to think he will still have some left over.

And he just might be right. After all, he isn’t the one whose body will be battered and bruised and need recovery time. He doesn’t have the mammary glands required to feed the baby every few hours. It’s not his voice lecturing on supply and demand that the baby will have heard for months and most likely have become very attached to. He’ll have a more fit body, more energy, and maybe even enough time to teach a few law classes, all in addition to having a warm, squishy baby to rock to sleep. Who the hell came up with this ridiculously unfair system?

That was it. That was the real reason I couldn’t support my husband pursuing something he loves. While there are legitimate arguments to be made about adding stress and leaving me alone for more hours during the week (I’m including the hours needed to plan lessons), my real hang-up is that I am jealous.

Taking on a professorship in September would not even be an option for me. There is no discussion. No debate. There is not even a discussion about continuing the job I have in September. If my husband and I have a baby, I’m not working for several months. Period. It does not matter how much I enjoy my job, how much money I make, or how long I’ve waited to find a real job in Brazil. I’m staying at home because in this partnership, I’m the one with the uterus.

I’m loving my job. I have been waiting for years wondering if my master’s degree would end up a completely wasted investment. I’m making friends and coming home daily with enough stories to fill up a week of dinner conversation. Seriously, at this point, I’ve got conversation material to last through July. But that doesn’t matter. I will be giving it all up for months and my own dreams, interests, and capabilities do not matter. Because I am the one with the uterus.

Before the defenders of motherhood swoop down around, let me say that, yes, having a family is a dream of mine, so having a baby is in fact pursing one dream. It’s just not the only one I have. And my husband gets to have a family without putting any of his dreams on hold and even has the option to pursue an additional interest.

I do not regret getting pregnant and I cannot wait for the moment I get to meet my daughter face to face. It is just a little shocking to me to have my life plan decided so absolutely by an internal organ other than my brain. I haven’t changed. The person who is Brynn still has the same interests, the same flaws, the same quirks as four months ago but, at least for the end of 2011, those things are secondary to the fact I have a uterus and have put it to use. Do men have any experience remotely equivalent?

I brought all this up to husband over dinner last night. I asked if he had any problems with my blogging about the subject. He said he didn’t mind, but he added one thought at the end. He told me he was making sacrifices to have this baby too. I asked what they were. He told me, “I’m going to have to share you with someone for the rest of my life.” And I suddenly felt a whole lot lighter.

Update: My daughter was born 7 weeks early and is turning 4 next month. My husband did finish his PhD and take the teaching job. He is now the coordinator of the law school…And despite not having a full night’s sleep since July 10, 2011, I have managed to write a graphic novel set in Brazil. Now if I could just get an agent to say yes, I’d have quite the uplifting cinematic ending. ; )

April 9, 2011
The Miracle of Pregnancy?

The miracle of pregnancy is that any woman voluntarily goes through it more than once.

At 19 weeks into my own pregnancy, this is the conclusion I’ve come to. Am I the only one that thinks a process which makes the act of consuming food torturous at exactly the same time your diet becomes more than ever before, is flawed? Admittedly, eating has become less of a chore in the second trimester, but between constantly belching like a teenage boy chugging soda to an increasingly limited number of comfortable sleeping positions, I’m not sold on the experience.

I’ve been doing a lot of research. I’m reading every thing from mommy bloggers debating epidurals to the Mayo Clinic’s week by week summary. Pretty much everyone, doctors and bloggers alike, reference this “glow” pregnant women experience. A warm, fuzzy feeling that radiates from toes to earlobes every time a woman looks at her belly. Unless this glow refers to light reflecting off of my sweat, I don’t know what they’re all talking about. I’m waiting for the fuzzy feeling. Seriously, any time now.

Maybe my hormones are off. Although, I’ve done so many blood and urine tests at this point, I’d think somebody would have noticed and told me if they were.

Do not misunderstand me. I’m not upset about being pregnant. I’m not regretting it. Really, I’m a huge fan of family. Go family! “More family,” I say. I can’t wait to go to school plays and put colorful, abstract renditions of the family pets on the refrigerator. I’m just not a huge fan of the pregnancy part and based on the vast majority of what is online, this feeling (or lack of) puts me firmly in the minority of women.

Reading the material available for pregnant women and new mothers, it’s pretty clear there are millions of women who dream about being pregnant. They yearn for it. They wish, hope, pray and stare longingly through store windows at baby clothes. I have never felt this. I never dreamed about being pregnant and giving birth was never on my list of life goals. In complete honesty, getting pregnant has yet to give me even half the personal satisfaction that finishing my master’s degree did.

When my husband came home from the doctor two years ago and said we might have trouble getting pregnant, I said “We can just adopt. There are plenty of kids that need parents.” I truly didn’t feel any sense of loss. What I wanted down the line was a family and that, at least in my mind, never required my being pregnant.

I understand many women feel a need to be pregnant, but I can’t empathize. I’m thrilled the baby is healthy and growing. I’ve got a library’s worth of books coming that will tell everything from how her synapses are forming to all the colors her poop can be and what they mean. Her nursery color scheme and theme are set five months before she’ll need it. Yet even amidst the nesting, there is a feeling Audrey will be an only child. At least, the only one I’m giving birth to. I’ve told my husband we can totally have more kids but it’s his turn to gestate. He assures me this won’t be possible. I shrug my shoulders and say “Well, there are lots of kids who need good parents and a big sister.”

March 30, 2011
Coconut Water in a Bottle

I’d like to share a PSA I’m working on.

“Hey kids, let’s talk about statistics! Statistics are lame? Ok, how about, sex and statistics? Did you know there are lots of statistics about sex? Totally! People base entire careers off of pie charts illustrating issues about sex. What issues? Well, you could have data about how likely it is for someone above a certain age with a certain medical history to have a baby. You could then pass this information along to doctors. Doctors in turn pass it along to patients. These doctors might even chuckle when the patient talks about continuing to use birth control for the time being, because the doctor knows the odds of pregnancy are so slim contraception isn’t necessary. Then the patient and his partner, believing the doctor knows what he’s talking about, think it’s ok to go a few weeks without birth control. Four months later the couple is researching baby names and picking out colors for the nursery. Look kids, my point is that the only statistic about sex that really matters is ‘A small chance is NOT the same as no chance.” Say it with me, ‘A small chance is NOT the same as no chance.’ ” -This message was brought to you by the US Department of Agriculture, for years bringing you numbing statistics such as raising child from birth to 17 costs $221,000 (not including the cost of time, sanity or college).

A little wordy for a 30 second spot? Maybe. I could just make t-shirts that state in bold and all caps “A SMALL CHANCE IS NOT THE SAME AS NO CHANCE” and give one to, well, everybody .

It’s an important lesson my husband and I have learned, because, obviously, the story above is ours. I am currently 18 weeks pregnant. We’re expecting a little girl August 26.

Despite what my PSA might imply, we are excited. Although, to be completely honest, it is has taken me a couple of months to reach that stage. We always planned to have a family, but we were going to wait another year or two. Being a person who sticks to any well-made plan the way others adhere to religion, I was thrown by this schedule change. “Buying an apartment comes before having a baby!” Then I looked at the big picture, the one where you see your entire life laid out, and I realized that having a baby after college, after grad school, after marriage, after employment, even if it’s still one year earlier than planned, is actually pretty darn good life planning. Also, I started looking at baby stuff and discovered there is not a single item of clothing that does not become totally adorable when miniaturized. OMG, baby socks!!

Now that I’m far enough along, I’m comfortable posting about my pregnancy to the world. This means Coconut Water will have lots of posts in the coming months about having a baby in Brazil. Having read about expats in Rio, I already know having a baby in Vitoria is about half the cost as Rio for the same quality of care. There will be posts about my doctor (love him!), raising bilingual kids, costs, hospitals, finding a nanny, coordinating family visits, etc. Between the new job and the new baby, I have so much to write about but right now I need to go edit essays. So many posts, so little time.

March 26, 2011
Blog Upgrading: Brynn in Brazil’s Coming of Age Tale

My new job has done the impossible. I have been made to feel like a computer guru. My husband, brother, stepmother, and any other family member I have recruited as tech support over the years, will marvel at this development and immediately question the quality of teaching staff at my school.

I’m not particularly good with computers. I know I could get better, but I have no patience for them. The slightest thing goes wrong and I get a knot between my shoulders and a seriously cranky attitude. One complication and I shutdown faster than my MacBook. This assumption I have that anything beyond word processing will make me want to cry, is why I continued to put off upgrading my blog.

Back when I started writing,(I think this is probably true for most expats) my blog was a simple way to keep family informed about what I was doing in Brazil. It’s so much easier to write a single blog post than 20 emails. I got a Mac with iWeb and realized I could have a blog with pretty pictures. Oh, and a cool black background. And no code!!! I never had to see rows of letters and symbols ever! My needs were simple, and iWeb filled them.

Last year, we moved to Cachoeiro de Itapemerim. I was without work and started putting a lot of energy into the blog. I found a whole world of expat communities online and started registering my blog on their sites. One day, I got a comment from someone I had never met, spoken to or heard of. A complete stranger who found my blog, read a post, and liked it enough to spend her time leaving a comment. My sense of validation only increased when I discovered the commenter was a gifted photographer, cook, writer and blogger. Only her blog, named after a brine soaked sea fish, was a hundred times more sophisticated than mine. (Really, you should check it out.)

I rediscovered my love for writing. By writing regularly, inspiration came more easily. My blog soon had a ton content and some regular readers. The quality of my posts improved. (At least I think, do you all agree?) This was the point when iWeb started to let me down. It’s still hard to admit because I’m a Mac worshipper but iWeb, in the words of my husband, “really sucks.”

He’d been telling my this for years and I had ignored him. This made acknowledging the need for a better platform, all the more difficult. Not only did I have to betray my Mac and face headache inducing computer stuff, but I also had to admit my husband was and had been right all along. (Honestly, I’d rather try writing software code.) The other major hurdle was that now I had three years worth of content to move and no idea where to start.

Fortunately, my parents put me in touch with a guy who would do everything for me. He’d get a new domain name, host site, and move all my content. This was back in December. Due to various delays that included him being stranded because of blizzards and me having serious stomach issues that had me postponing every Skype call, it took two months to get everything set up.

Thus, the two month silence at Coconut Water (UPDATE July 2015: Now officially Brynn in Brazil).

I’m glad I did it. WordPress is so much better. Not as simple, but I think I’m ready to use real blogger tools. In the end though, no one could figure out how to transfer all my content, because, cue husband, “iWeb sucks.” Yes, I know. I’m now copying and pasting old posts into the new site a few at a time. 50 down. 70 to go. I’m still glad I moved.

I hope you all like the new site and design as much as I do. I’m in love with the banner, which was also the result of someone generously donating their time. Turns out I’m neither a coder or designer. That’s ok. I just want to write.

Oh, and the reason I’m the computer guru among my fellow teachers? The school has started moving to Macs and no one knows how to use them. I wonder if I should talk to them about iWeb.

March 19, 2011