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Tahiti 7/24/09 7:36 AM

Click on the photo to see more of Tahiti life.

The trains are running full steam ahead in the room adjacent to me, we've just finished breakfast and soon we will officially start our day by putting stickers on our calendar. We would check the weather, but it pretty much the same every day and we know that it will never snow, so we've given that activity up as far too redundant. After our "work" today, it will be a beach day.

Not every day is spent "lounging" on the beach. By the time I have everyone in swimsuits, packed the snacks, the toys, the floats, sunscreened us all sufficiently, packed it all including children into our double stroller, pushed them all the not quite a mile to the beach and made sure the walking child doesn't veer into traffic and then spend our time at the beach making sure Dylan doesn't drown and digging sand tunnels, I'm tired. So we average about twice a week at PK 18 Le Plage. I do love my "job" but I also find myself smiling at the singles and couples on holiday without children who seem to have an infinite amount of time to sunbathe and float luxuriously in the waves. Let's just say I don't find myself with any time to lay down and sun worship, but we do have fun.

Let's just hope there are no "Emergencies" today to hinder our cause. On Wednesday, the boys came running from their room, "Emergency, Emergency, Emergency!" Benjamin informed me that Husky dog was sick and had a high temperature. Isaac told me that Horsey was sick and Dylan came straggling behind with his blue puppy too. "Sick!" They had to take them all to the hospital of course and there the doctors established that Husky dog had been run over by the Bad guys who were trying to steal things in Dog Town and Husky Dog was trying to stop them. He broke all four legs. He had to be bandaged and put in the hospital. A hospital had to built first for him to stay at. That then became a tent for a camp out and then a circus. It was all quite the event.

Then yesterday, I walked by the boys room to see them all "floating" in their space ship--no gravity. I then learned that they had to leave the earth because there was a great fog all around the earth (Tahitian garbage fires??). They would be gone for 20 months and 20 days. Then the fog would clear and they would be able to return to earth. All the people of the earth were in space ships because of the fog.

But by and large we are very blessed with safety and protection and our "emergencies" are pretend. We hope to keep it that way.

Spears and Such

From New Album 7/23/09 9:01 PM

July is Heiva in Tahiti. That means there have been all kinds of doings on the island. Dancing, revelry, food, sports--celebrations and tradition. The Museum of Tahiti is beautifully situation near the ocean and made for a fine Saturday outing where we saw a spear throwing contest, rock lifters and coconut tree climbers. Most of us saw all of this all of the time. But after awhile, even the best of us can't watch one more spear being buzzed through the air at a coconut high above on a pole.

Click here to see some more pictures. I'm still working on getting pictures uploaded. It's a slow process here. Very slow.

New Album 7/23/09 9:01 PM

Recent Quips

7-13-09

Isaac: “I like this house!”

Isaac: “Why is there a rooster at church?” (Because they’re everywhere. The common, common bird crowing all over the island).


Isaac: “There’s smoke on this island every day. It stinks.”

Isaac: “I liked those dancing ladies!” (After a performance we saw at dinner for our anniversary and Dylan’s birthday).

NeeMom: “So Isaac people here like to say your name a different way. “es ah ahc.”
Isaac with his eyes on his feet quietly: “It’s annoying.”

Dylan: “Beach today?”

Dylan: “Helping Mama.”

Benjamin: “Who is it that likes grandma’s pumpkin pies so much?”
NeeMom: “Me!”
Benjamin: “No….” voice trailing off.
NeeMom: “You mean Dylan?”
Benjamin: “No…”
NeeMom: “You mean Uncle Neil?”
Benjamin: Happily “Yes! Uncle Neil. We’re going on the South Pacific Train to visit Neil. No we’re going to ride on the trains we rode when we visited Aunt Cheryl. What were those? We’re going from the countryside into the city where all the little apartments are where Neil lives.”

Benjamin: “We have great music in the South Pacific!” (referring to some tunes on the computer playing in the background).

Isaac and Benjamin: “We’re going on our train to Bora Bora.”

Benjamin also has a new dog that we made together named Fa’aa (just like the city where the airport is here. You pronounce every vowel in Tahitian).

Benjamin: “Dad! Don’t put your feet on our nice new table.” (After he had been using his pretend saw on it).

Calm waters

I do wonder at those early people who navigated by stars in outrigger canoes to first discover these islands and other explorers who defied the conventional wisdom of their day to set off into uncharted water. I imagine a journal entry something like this from one of those adventurers.

Captain’s log: Day 40. More water. Surrounded by water. I believe that one day we’ll see land again. I hope that we will see land again. I don’t know how many days it will take until I see land again. And yet we sail on. Water until the water meets the sky and the clouds drop to kiss the waves. We can’t see beyond. We can only hope that past the horizon we will not meet sea monsters, storms or be driven into an abyss.

I have a map hanging on my wall of the entire world and faith that one day we’ll have internet here at the house that will allow me to look on google maps at the dot I am in the big wide of it and still I can find it a little unnerving to see the edges of the island, Moorea and nothing else but water and sky.

We’ve been in calm waters lately. No sea monsters or nasty dogs. Lots of friendly people reaching out to us and helping us find our footing here. Lots of frolicking in the ocean and on the sand. That is good. Very good. With the sails tacked, the cupboards stocked, the days progressing in an orderly fashion, the story is less about surviving and adapting and more about our own little family world settled into the peace of daily living and common doings.

I can smell the tangy twist of a freshly peeled orange floating from the kitchen—an intensely beautiful scent. The oranges are in season on the island. Along the roads, families hang their bags of oranges from impromptu posts or poles in front of their homes near the traffic. So as you travel, the bright orange bundles tied into homemade-knotted red string bags sporadically catch your eye—pops of jaunty color bouncing out from against grey stone or green vegetations walls. These are not carefully managed, deliberately cultivated timidly tame citrus. Someone in the family has gotten up the previous night and camped on the mountain or hiked in the early hours of the morning up the Punaru’u valley to where the wild oranges grow. The hike is difficult and you have to watch out for wild pigs (like the roosters formally domesticated gone wild creatures). The oranges are heavy. Men who specialize in this task develop a special muscle in their back from carrying the bamboo pole with orange bags on either end slung over one shoulder. This is the story I have been told. When the liquid gold of the nectar dribbles through my fingers, all my senses are delighted and I taste the magic of mountain oranges, I could be persuaded that the orange drops of sun sitting on my table were missives from the Gods themselves hand-delivered to the lowly mortals near the sea to gift us a glimpse of glory.

This is a place that begs you to temper your pace, bow adieu earlier to the world with the sun at night and let time lap at your toes. This is not a place where your phone is connected the next day, or the next or even the next week. We’ve been waiting for several weeks to have a phone and then we’ll wait a little longer for our internet connection. While I hunger for news, news and more news from friends and family and to feel even a distance-strained hug from and to all those I love, there is a peace of being and to slowing down and not racing to this and that to libraries, Target and preschool.

Mostly. If there were a library, I’d run, walk, bike to get there. I will have to learn French if only to be able for the sake of reading. I need books more than baguettes. Without internet or television, my supply of books has dwindled fast—so fast that I’ve already reread many of the delightful chapter books I brought to read aloud for Benjamin as well. We felt a bit sheepish about those five boxes of books, but each book is a gem during the voyage here. Isaac still includes now several weeks after the fact, “thanks that our boxes got here safely” in his prayers. Apt. I know every day there are a million things I’m thankful for that came in those blessed boxes.

Perhaps when I’ve run out of books, I can take a lesson from a man with whom we shared the beach the other day. He certainly seemed to have no troubles and nowhere to be but be. The man had pulled his outrigger canoe onto the shore near us and then he sat next to his boat in the sand looking out into the water for a couple of hours. He was still except for occasional movements of his head to watch children playing or people playing. A slight smile played on his face and he looked content. He broke camp from his boat to move out into the water a small distance from the shore. There he stood with his back to the coral break facing the shore for the next couple of hours, arms crossed in front of his chest, again barely moving but to occasionally follow something of interest with his eyes and head. He never talked to anyone. He didn’t swim, sleep or fish. He just sat or stood and looked. He had no need to be anywhere but there and seemed satisfied in the simplicity of his day and movements.

Fortunately the warmth of ward members and strangers allays the feelings of being a lost speck on the ocean, the homesickness and the loss of familiar chats with long loves of my life. When Soeur Marie-Claude Tematafaarere puts her ample arm around me and I feel small near her presence, I feel the arms of other people of other times and she wonders why tears well up in my eyes and roll down my cheeks. That arm shelters me in compassion deeper than spoken language and I am grateful to feel anchored by it.

Even waiting brings blessings. Last Sunday (July 5th) we walked a short distance to stand next to the bus stop where Soeur Annie would pick us up to take us to church. The bus stop was close to a beautiful pink church next to the ocean and we watched the congregants gladly greeting one another with the common cheek-to-cheek kisses of the island. To the other side of the serene church we looked down to see an American flag hanging from the more humble looking home of a family. We’d seen their flag before, but this time a man and woman were sitting outside, so I gave them a wave, pointed to the flag and said, “Hey, the American flag. That’s great! We’re American” and then gave them a thumbs up. A few moments later, the woman came up to the bus stop to talk with us carrying three lovely mangoes in her hands. I do love mangoes, but was even more jubilant that she had come to talk with us—a friendly face in the sea of fences and gates! She could speak a little English and explained that one of their daughters was born on the Fourth of July, so they hang the American flag. I in turn explained that it was Dylan’s birthday and our anniversary and thanked her profusely for the mangoes. We chatted for quite a bit and just as Soeur Annie arrived, her towering Tahitian husband came over to embrace and kiss each of our little boys, Eric and me. He would have doted on the boys more had there been time.

The boys attract admirers wherever we go. Children and adults will pat them on the head to touch their light hair and smile at them and then at me. At church, Heanna, Heanui, Keanui, Olea, Vaipoe and many others are constantly trying to find ways to get the boys to smile and interact with them. They never sit alone in Primary. Soeur Eleanor, the teacher of “Garderie” absolutely loves Dylan. Dylan is as happy as can be and as friendly as ever here.

The beach has been more active since the children on the island are now on school holidays. Most days at the beach during the week we would only see a few French tourists, French civil servants and military enjoying a day off, and a handful of Tahitians. Now the beach reminds me of our neighborhood pool in the summer. Moms with the bags of snacks, sunscreen and towels talking with other moms while children swim and play with friends.

I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me that last Thursday we quickly attracted some Tahitian children to us. At first we just splashed at each other and made Dylan laugh. Then I used all the French I knew and we figured out each other’s names, the kids names, ages and a little bit more. One thing led to another and before I knew it, about six other children had joined us in building sand roads, tunnels and castles. Then we buried one boy in the sand. This boy is actually the son of a beach friend we’ve made—a French woman who lived in Hawaii for ten years—so he speaks some English, French and Fijian. Before they moved to Tahiti, they lived in Fiji for a year where the woman traveled with her two boys in villages and sold woven baskets made from coconut leaves door to door. I digress. But this woman has been telling me stories from her own life that rivals my almost gone novels.

So one boy sand buried and rescued. Then suddenly all the children (except for mine) wanted to have themselves covered in sand. “Madame! Madame!” They would point. I’m always up for some good fun. So I got a bucket and hefted sand for a while and they were all pretty well covered. They were a sight—by then five of them in a circle in the sand. I begged off and headed to the ocean with Isaac and Benjamin to play in the “soft” waves as Isaac calls them. Dylan stayed behind to play with the new friends.

Out in the ocean, Isaac says he wants me to sing an ocean song. I can’t think of any ocean songs but for one.

And in the way of things here, when someone starts to sing, it isn’t long before other people join in either humming, harmonizing or singing the words with you. Me, the wide ocean and a handful of Tahitian, French and my American children singing at the top of our lungs:

My Bonnie lies over the ocean,
My Bonnie lies over the sea,
My Bonnie lies over the ocean.
Oh bring back my Bonnie to me.

Bring back. Bring back. Oh bring back my Bonnie to me, to me.
Bring back. Bring back. Oh bring back my Bonnie to me.

Editors Note

This is Eric, bearer of messages from Renee. I just wanted to let you all know that we don't have internet access at our home in Punaauia yet. In order to post on the blog Renee writes the posts and I then transfer them from a memory stick to my computer and then upload them when I'm at work.

Renee can't respond directly to your comments yet but I do cut and paste them into docs that she see's when I come home each night. Hopefully we she will be able to comment directly in a couple of weeks (things move slowly here in Tahiti!).

Impressions-The First Two Weeks of Tahiti Life: Completely Random

First Moments
Walking down the stairs of the plane onto the tarmac while shepherding sleepy, confused boys who had just been woken up. The cacophony of ukuleles, foreign tongues, foreign sounds. Salty sauna. Waves of hot humidity. Tropical. Sweat pouring down my back. It was dark, but the small airport seemed lively. Confused. Anxious. Trying to carry multiple bags, backpacks and two fussing children—Isaac and clinging Dylan. Thankfully Benjamin slept walked with Eric, but he walked. I didn’t know where to focus. Someone handed me a Tiare flower, but I didn’t have hands to put it anywhere properly. It smelled lovely. I worried about getting through customs and what they might demand or reject. Eric was fussing about getting through immigration. He had a packet with all of our visas and paperwork, but you just don’t know things like this until its over. Flutters in my stomach. This is it. What will this be like? Can I do this? Comforting children. Yelling at Eric who had gotten to a different spot without us.


We became part of a mass of travel-worn people moving into lines. Suddenly this woman was beaming a thermometer at me and chattering something. Health department officials. Checking for swine flu symptoms. Thankfully none of us had a fever, although because Eric was already hot, flustered and worried with beads of sweat on his forehead, they repeated the scan a couple of times to get an accurate reading. Had we shown signs of illness we would have been like the poor girl in days earlier who ended up in quarantine, tested positive for the H1N1 virus and missed most of her honeymoon. Maybe with such caution and the heat, we have escaped that flu.

Now we’ve schlepped, pulled carried everyone and we’re standing in front of a box with windows. An immigration official in uniform sits behind the glass and examines our documents. Shuffling. Typing on the computer. It seems to take forever. Others have scooted through and have already retrieved their baggage. It’s all right Isaac. We’re in Tahiti. It’s all right.

Then Bienvenue we’re through. We’ve been accepted and processed. Now Benjamin and Eric get over to the carousel to collect our eight bags and duffels plus the box for the lab. We make a train of the rickety luggage carts. A duffel tumbles to the ground. We pick it up and rearrange. I finally get my stroller again and settle the two little boys and our mountain of carry-ons into it. I get the bag with our food commodities and practically have the customs officials laughing at my eagerness to disclose all. They just keep waving me on. They see us, the three little boys, the tower of bags. They’re amused by our fluster. We’re practically the last people to get it all gathered and go through customs. They’re ready to be home. They wave us through. No questions. No worries. We must have looked honest—or they took pity on two frazzled parents.

We get out the automatic sliding doors. Journey over. Eric’s colleagues are graciously waiting to drive us to the house. Bethany and Eliane have already been to the house and left us some basic food supplies and made sure everything is in order.

Heat. Hot. Waiting for Eric to get the baggage into Herve’s truck. The boys and I will follow with Bethany in the university Land Rover.

Down the way in the open air of the open airport building. Drums, dancing, singing, whooping celebration. Flashes of yellow skirts. Men and Women exhuberant. Frolicking rhythms leap, surge and invite shouts and affirmation of the joy of being. Being together. Being here. A group has gathered to welcome someone home. Embraces. Laughter. Glee. Drums. Dancing. Swift hips. Happy hands. Joyous voices. A fete on the spot at the airport. Cheering. Even the disgruntled boys watch and smile. We are entranced and calmed by their enthusiasm and liveliness. Drums. Singing. Dancing. Jubliant. Heart-pounding, heart-lifting, light-hearted. We are here. We’ve passed through that gate. This will be our home too. Drums beg dancing. Tap your foot. Boys start swaying. Our hearts drum; our souls sing; a memory dances. The boys mimic this the next day. We are here. Bienvenue. Maeva.


What’s Like Camping
1. The grated with a criss-cross pattern perpetually open windows at the top section of each of the bathrooms. When we first walked through the house I was stunned. “Eric. I thought there was a mosquito problem in Tahiti. So why are the windows in the bathroom OPEN!” He muttered something about mosquitoes not entering the house at a point that high. I muttered something back. Can’t change those windows anyhow. We for sure couldn’t change those windows at midnight Tahiti time and even much, much later on our old time. I suppose it helps to dissipate smells. And moisture. Wouldn’t want that smell of a camp latrine in the house now would we. (Eric says to make sure and let you know that we do have running water, hot water, flushing toilets and the standard household ammenties minus a toaster, tv, microwave, dryer, radio, cd player, and until the city employees get around to us internet and phone). Besides, the screens we do have in the house are nothing to write home about (even though I am) and screens are hardly common here. We see many wide open sans screen windows—church, schools, home.
2. The smell of everything wood in the house. You know the smell of wood that just never gets completely dried out? That smell. Like a camp cabin. Dank.
3. The cabinets in the kitchen that have multiple doors but are completely open to each other on the inside. I just don’t know where I’m going to put onions so that they won’t smell up everything else. Only one set of cabinets right above the stove do not have some kind of funny cleaner, air freshener smell. I’ve stashed anything that might take on odor (like boxes of cereal and the flour) there.
4. Black feet and the dirt, dirt, dirt. Sand and dirt. It doesn’t matter how many times you sweep the tile floors of the house and take off shoes before entering the house, the floors are gritty and our feet quickly turn black. I don’t think they’ll lose this black sheen until we live somewhere not here. It mostly doesn’t matter, except that I wish we didn’t end up with grit and sand in our beds as well.
5. The primitive look of too many of the houses that we pass on our way—more cabins than houses—constant reminders of how grateful we are for our accommodations. We have a lovely, roomy, airy, modern house.
6. Chaotic development, pock-mocked roads, rough and tumble yards.
7. Campfires. I mean fires. Every day. Different spots. Different yards. Very, very common. At some point in the day, that smoke smell drifts into the house. Sometimes you cough on it as you’re out and about. I guess it’s the easiest way to deal with rubbish. Trash, fast-growing vegetation, etc. The garbage gets picked up twice a week and yet the dump fire acrid smoke is a constant.
8. The being somewhere in between a vacation and living here feeling. It is home for us, but not our permanent home. We get to play here, but we’re also here to work and learn.
9. Creative cooking. I made Snicker Doodles with my mom’s recipe but without any correct measuring apparatus. We burned the bottom of the first batch in our propane oven but succeeded with the rest. We celebrated with fanfare those cookies make with multiple variables—different flour, heat and guesstimation. I’m very proud of this and all the other culinary successes I’ve had without any help from Betty Crocker or Martha Stewart.
10. Geckos in the closets. Do geckos chirp? If we had internet we might know.
11. Incessant crowing with the occasional riff of ambulance sirens.

What Makes This So Much More Than Camping
1. A consecrated period of time. We have certain, specific goals and a dedicated amount of time in which to achieve them. There will be a beginning and an end to this experience. We wake up each day present and aware.
2. An assurance that it is right for us to be here.
3. We like it here and we’re happy. We’ve got everything that is essential and more. We’ve got no complaints. Some things are just different.
4. The joy and delight we daily experience with our boys and as a couple—the intensity of a new beginning and vastly different experiences.
5. We are our own best companions here having left our loved ones on a far distant shore. We share in the joys and trials together. We are learning a new language and the culture of this place together.
6. We daily witness the hand of God in our lives.

Viva la Beach

June 18, 2009

So it costs at least $8 for a gallon of ice cream and $6 dollars for 20 eggs. Perhaps for good reason. This living close to the ocean part—it is more amazing than I had expected. I am a Midwestern girl so I haven’t always given much stock to sunshine and water. I can change my mind.



Tuesdays and Thursdays for now are our beach days. We’re still doing “calendar” and “school” each morning along with chores. We’re getting used to walking kilometers to places. Benjamin easily covers the whole kilometer and half without complaint often adding a skip and a lusty arm swing. He even manages some of that distance on the way back and recognizes landmarks. Dylan revels in his stroller. Isaac walks a bit of it just fine. He’s been known to cover the distance with his little legs, but he becomes discouraged. I cajole and coax him past his whining several hundred more meters and then he gets a ride. Our “single” stroller is glorious. Again Graco gets my endorsement. When the need arises, Dylan sits in the seat, Benjamin stands on the front foot rest and holds onto the canopy and Isaac sits on the console attached at the back to the handle bars. Even with the extra load, the stroller handles well and the wheels chug on down the road. I keep it going at a pretty good clip. It’s the best sit-and-stand-and-sit ever. We’ve even figured out a system for when both Isaac and Dylan are tired and falling asleep. We recline the seat completely, lean Dylan in the back and then Isaac lays on part of Dylan. Apparently, when they’re tired enough they can make it work and they sleep away. It’s nice to own something that was actually built to last and withstand heavy use. I can’t say that if I had any other choice, I would recommend walking with small children along Route 1 next to large, rumbling trucks, diesel fumes, commercial busses, a constant stream of cars and motorcycles and past the requisite barking dogs and wild roosters, but it is not inconceivable—we’re also not the only crazy people that do this. I feel less daunted by it all now and not as jumpy. I will never like it, but I can cope and not jump ten feet out of my shoes every time I hear a motor just an occasional twitch and veer. So, prayers for safety have taken on new proportions and off we go hugging the side of the road—the bit of concrete left for cyclists and pedestrians. (Yes. Mom. I know. This is not what you want to read about. I’ll be VERY careful. At least the speed limit is quite low and people obey it).

We spent most of our morning and part of the afternoon contentedly lounging at the beach (PK 18 in the direction of Paea). I’m really glad to know that the beach and I just got off to a bad start last week. We’re learning that there is not really a daily high and low tide, but the depth and intensity of the water changes with the moon. Last week the moon was full; now it is waning. Today the beach and ocean again exceeded all expectations. Gorgeous. An adult would be hard pressed to find a spot where the water is more than chest deep in the large swath of beach around us and for quite a ways out towards the coral reef where you can see the waves breaking. It was like a giant wading pool with that beautiful clear water and calmly lapping waves. The wind was blowing a bit, but while it was cool, the day was warm and we were never chilled. As we floated in the ocean, we could look back at the island and see the peaks and valleys of the lush vegetation wealthy mountains behind us with palm trees and coconut trees softly swaying in the breeze, while the shadow of the island of Moorea has become a constant friend of a landmark. I should also mention that the temperature of the water—perfect. At least during this time of year (the cool season) the water is so pleasant.

We’ve decided that while we liked our Tuesday beach because of our little friend (Isaac wondered if we would see him again today) and all the fish, the Thursday beach was much better for swimming and for playing in the sand. There weren’t nearly as many rocks under the water. I was encouraged that there would be far fewer places for things to come out and surprise me that I didn’t really want to see close to me.

Adding to our fun today was a school group enjoying a field trip to the beach. They looked like first, second and third graders. They had partitioned off a portion of the water with floats so that the teachers could keep an eye on all of their charges. Most of the children were playing happily in the water, while some of the boys were conducting large-scale sand excavations on the shore. We positioned ourselves near them and enjoyed their antics and laughter. What proved most helpful for my boys was the line of floats in the water. They grew a lot in confidence today because those floats made the ocean seem less vast and gave them a guideline. They were more likely to swim further (still waist-deep) and explore because they didn’t feel so lost. It added to the easy-going mood of the day to have the company of this nice group of children and their teachers—it felt familiar and friendly.

I later talked with one of the teachers whose English was very good. She told me the group was from a school in Papeete—a private school and that you could tell by the way they were swimming that they were “city” kids. She had grown up in Tahiti-iti and Moorea. She currently lives in Moorea and commutes via ferry to Papeete every day to teach. She substantiated my belief that Moorea would be a more pleasant place to live. Tahiti is heavily populated—a bit crowded and Moorea is more quaint and kept pretty for tourists. I enjoyed the friendly chat and it felt good to communicate with another adult other than my own Eric.

We played the day away. We swam, snorkeled and never ran out of things to do. This is good. This is our Tahiti version of a “going to the playground.” The beach is our new playground and a great one at that. I hear that there is a children’s playground in downtown Papeete. I hope to sometime figure out how to get us all on the bus and there and home again, but that’s a few weeks away.

Our expedition to the beach has earned me the unprecedented leisure of sitting in the garden of our porch without any boys asking me questions or looking for me. They are back in their bedroom dressed in engineer pants pretending to be driving on the Canadian Railway. Dylan is slightly distressed that he does not have a pair of engineer pants, but everyone is so mellow from all our beach time, that even that can’t mar this late afternoon lull.

Except it took only about 14.5 minutes and here they are. Where I am. But they’re running races around the house and still happy and calm. They even have their lanes figured out. They line up “small, medium, large.” It’s pretty cute. Wait. Pause. They have to go change from the engineer clothes to “running” clothes.

It’s dusk now. It’s great trying to put kids to bed here. It’s always dark when you want them to go to sleep. Of course it’s dark by 6:30 every night. That’s a bit too early for bed. Still we get the boys to bed around 8:00 after reading and talking. They usually fall asleep very quickly after our full days here. We’re very soon to follow. We just collapse in our beds at night. Tired!