The offender has already made reparation to the person complaining (7USC499g)

Redemption from Greenville, IL, to Junction City, KS

With little sleep, I woke up with a migraine that was only pounded further into my head by radio announcements of a heat advisory. Still, we managed to scale Monk’s Mound at Cahokia, a collection of early-American Indian ceremonial structures that was once a city larger than London, before the scorcher set in. Sage left an offering atop the sacred mount, and the gods seemed to smile on us later in the day.

Traversing from Illinois to Missouri through St. Louis included a pleasant pass by the Gateway Arch and Schlafly Brewery, which were inspiring sights to behold even though they were not as welcoming to canines as the ancient slopes.

Also not dog-friendly were the two wine-tasting areas of Les Bourgeois, but fortunately, the vineyards were less controlling of the great view of the Missouri River below.

Without fermented grapes to drink, we had time to explore the old village of Rocheport and the side-skirting Katy Trail, a 225-mile multi-use path mostly along the Missouri that is a rite of passage for many cyclists. Popping out for a pedal would have been a good way to cool off, but unfortunately, my wheels also are not dog-ready.

So I had to continue on four wheels into Kansas, where I was almost hoping for the nippy breezes of a storm, until I actually heard the multiple tornado warnings and watches being broadcast over the airwaves.

Nevertheless, I followed the non-yellow brick road toward the Oz Winery in Wamego, which has nicknamed itself after the Emerald City, in search of a bottle to compensate for my lack of liquid courage earlier in the day. In my quest for a red or white, I encountered a lot of grey skies.

But just like the wizard behind the curtain, the storm turned out to be more bluster than actual cloudburst. Its thundering bellows, though, were still enough to make Sage seek safety in my lap as I tried to eat an authentic Kansas BBQ brisket sandwich, which I picked up from Biffle’s Smoke House near Sweet Springs, at Gage Park in Topeka.

Perishable and therefore are particularly susceptible to supporting microbial growth if proper temperature controls are not maintained (21USC1031)

Damnation from Columbus, OH, to Greenville, IL

After a doggie play date, a great dinner, and a good night’s sleep at a friend’s place in Columbus, I felt ready to take on the road. However, I quickly witnessed a bad omen for my cross-country trip: On the road to Cincinnati, where I was going to meet another friend for lunch, a roadside billboard asked: Are You Ready for Hell? And it wasn’t even the welcome sign to Kentucky (I kid, I kid).

By the time I hit Indiana, damned if it wasn’t beginning to feel like hell on earth. I stopped in the Hoosier National Forest to walk Sage, but as beautiful as the Oriole West Trail was, with its hardwood forest and natural marsh, it was too steamy to go for longer than a 20-minute stroll.

So I made a second pet stop at Lincoln Boyhood National Memorial, which Sage thought was good – for him to poop on. Luckily, no one saw this display by the devil incarnate, including the period re-enactors, whom I pitied immensely; I could just jump back into my car, but they would need to travel through time to reach air conditioning.

When I crossed into from Indiana to Illinois, my windshield provided insectual proof that the fourth sign of Armageddon was present. I could barely see through the swarm of bug entrails to get to my campsite, where I was anxious to settle in and relax after a fiery first leg.

However, I was quickly reminded that the Apocalypse was indeed upon us when I saw the flooded campground and the three ticks that immediately latched onto my legs, despite the long pants I sweated through as I set up camp. As I tried to fall asleep, I was reminded that not even tents in the 21st century come with A/C.

Patriotic and National Observances and Ceremonies (36USC)

I wouldn’t consider myself patriotic, especially in comparison to my FACT (Foreign Affairs Counter-Terrorism) course classmates who had volunteered to go to Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Yemen. As merely the spouse of a consular officer in Mexico and completely a cynic of U.S. operations in the Mideast, I felt a bit undeserving of taking the same weeklong training. After all, I got a free hotel stay in the Midwest while I spent days ramming cars and shooting guns. But I also got to feel blissfully detached in lectures about IEDs while I contemplated whether I support the United States enough to risk life and limb in a bomb-laden country.

I was still considering this as I went to happy hour one night at the hotel, which offered pints of that patriot Sam Adams’ Summer Ale for $2 and homemade potato chips for free. I joked in my mind that these perks made America worth fighting for, as I walked to dinner at nearby Umberto’s, a pizzeria desperately trying to be authentic with its Signore bathroom-door signs but utterly failing with its “sidewalk café” covered by RV awnings inside a strip-mall corridor. The food was decidedly domestic, too, as the vegetables in my seafood ravioli were obviously made by Green Giant, judging from the crinkle cut of the carrots.

As I people-gawked during my meal, though, I began to see that this was not the small town that it seemed. I overheard one server tell a couple who could’ve easily played my grandparents in a TV movie that her family was trying to move to the States from São Paulo, Brazil, to join her. They smiled in her face, murmured behind her back, and probably dropped no more than 10 percent for her tip. My waiter revealed himself as a non-native English speaker as well, possibly Salvadorean, when a nearby customer ordered a “Peroni cerveza” and “pasta picante.”

Other patrons included a three-generation 4G family in which the post-16 and Pregnant mother ignored her mother with an iPhone and vice versa while the grandfather helped his granddaughter with an app and vice versa. Down a couple of tables from them was a couple out to eat with their adult child, whom I would bet was a lesbian. And the payout of the bet would be the “Good People Drink Good Beer” T-shirt she was wearing. Across from me was the imposing awkwardness of a first date where friends try to become something more by the guy pulling out the chair for his girl “like he does for his granny.”

Alongside the “café,” I manage to catch some conversations over the pounding music of the fitness center next door, which is located next to a billiards center, which are swathed by a Food Lion, Gabriel Brothers, and Room Store, which is offering four years of free interest with a minimum $1,999 purchase. After dad receives text from mom, kid asks: “What does she want?” As 9-year-old boy grabs for phone, dad responds: “Can I at least look at it first?” Later, a similarly buzz-cut tween asks his dad: “Can we at least go to McDonald’s?” And younger sister asserts to no avail: “I know where we can eat: home.”

In between these auditory snippets, fleeting images stalk the hallway. A trio of young Latino men, likely oft said to match the description of suspected gang members. A tight-jeaned, Broadway-worshipping high-schooler with his Confederate-clad, gun-loving pal. A sharp-dressed Samoan man on a mission. A series of families of a similar economic class yet dissimilar ethnicities.

Ah, the absurdity of it all. Absurdities I often mock with my friends to separate myself from the chaff. And yet, absurdities that define American – my – culture. When I have lived overseas, I often have noted the contradictions within the society. Somewhere inside, I probably contrasted this with a sense of consistency in the States. But the only consistency we have is in our incongruity: We want to give our children the moon but balk if they become spoiled. We want authentic culture but only if it is served in a comfortable American package. We want good deals from 4 to 7 p.m. but shell out thousands of dollars if we can delay payment for a few years. We want the traditional family dinner but only if we can communicate with people not at the table all the while. We want to build a community but not if we have to let in too many outsiders and their opposing beliefs.

And still, our government sends thousands of people around the world to represent U.S. interests, either because other country’s citizens want to be like us or we think they want to be like us. How ludicrous! But sitting there, taking a break from learning about the outrageous lengths others will take to harm those representatives, I realized that I would defend our ridiculous inconsistency. Indeed, I, too, want to be a proud American – but only if it doesn’t make me too blindly patriotic.

POSTSCRIPT: In an interesting coincidence, I found out during the middle of training that I had passed the written Foreign Service Officer Test, meaning I advance to the second step of the application process: responding to a personal questionnaire (the third and final step is the “oral” exam, which includes an interview and other face-to-face scenarios). When I told TJ the good news, he responded that maybe I could go with him to Iraq or Afghanistan for his next tour. Maybe. After a nice posting in Europe, East Asia, or South America. I’m definitely not that patriotic yet.

Important matters of first impression after, to the extent practicable (5USC--App.402)

Because TJ arrived during Semana Santa, he only had to work for two full days before he got his first long weekend, which gave us the opportunity to explore our environs. Before we arrived, we scoffed at those people who went to San Diego every weekend, but we soon learned why. Tijuana is a perfectly serviceable city. It has all the everyday amenities that you need, including parks and restaurants (even ones shaped like sombreros, as shown in a previous post), but in terms of unique attractions, it's mostly casinos, dog tracks, and, well, this ...
Fair disclosure: This store was actually in Ensenada, a cruise-boat port about 60 miles south of Tijuana, but Avenida Revolución in Tijuana was packed with similar pharmacies, mixed among the souvenir shops that try to lure in customers with donkeys painted like zebras, also known as zonkeys, which incidentally is the name of the local basketball team. TJ and I skipped shopping for tchotchkes (according to Google Translate, there is no Spanish translation for this word, but then again, there's no option to translate from Yiddish) and found Cerveza Tijuana instead. Its beers -- a light, a lager, a pilsner, a brown, a Marzen and a bock -- were no match for the craft beers in San Diego (like Karl Strauss, Ballast Point, and Stone). But the latter two, at bottom left and top center in the picture, were definitely drinkable.
The food at the TJ brewery, on the other hand, had a lot to be desired. We ordered a version of a charcuterie plate, and the "sausages" were mini hot dogs. But I love that they give you chips and salsa at nearly every restaurant, even if you are just going to drink. And unlike in the States, the salsas are distinct. Another culinary bonus is that most every dish is garnished with fresh avocado: fish tacos, ceviche tostadas, and this shrimp cocktail, a Mexican specialty best served with local beer.
We had those cocktails at a restaurant in a little beach town between Rosarito and Ensenada, called La Fonda, where we stayed for a night. We splurged for a hotel room, but just up the road was beachside camping where you only had to pay for parking. For the holiday weekend, the cars and tents were jam-packed, so we were happy to have beach space away from the madness, but we look forward to camping along the beach off-season. Even our end of the beach was a bit noisy because of locals offering ultralight rides. But I guess there has to be something else to do when it's not warm enough to swim in the ocean.
Despite the peacefulness of the Baja coast, it was hard to resist the pull of San Diego. For our first forays into the city, we did some pretty touristy stuff, like visit the Old Town State Historic Park, a collection of restored buildings that mark the first Spanish settlement in California and the initial downtown of San Diego. TJ and I agreed that it was a cross between Frontierland (in Disney World) and St. Augustine.
We also tooled around Balboa Park, a cross between New York's Central Park, with its zoo, and DC's Mall, with its museums. We scouted out museum exhibits to visit, theater shows to see, and exercise trails to run. We visited on Easter Sunday, and the flowers between the Museum of Man and Museum of Art showed up for the occasion.
On a whim, we bought cheap seats at a Padres game. With our lack of interest in the outcome, we left after the 6th inning, having had our fill of the wonderful view. The bridge in the background goes to Coronado Island, one of the more posh oceanside destinations. We drove to the island, along the Silver Strand, but preferred to stop and linger in low-key Imperial Beach, the most southwesterly city in the continental United States, and hip Ocean Beach, the home of the original dog beach.
We lucked out when we drove up the coast to Cabrillo National Monument, which waived the admission fee for National Parks Week. The monument is named for Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo, a Spaniard-cum-Guatemalan who piloted a boat from Mexico to become the first European to land on the U.S. West Coast. Perhaps the bigger attraction on the park land, though, is the Point Loma lighthouse, which was thought to be in a perfect position on a high peak at the mouth of San Diego Bay but ultimately was ineffective because it became fogged in so often.
Just around the bend from the national park is a free city park, Sunset Cliffs Natural Park, where you can park and climb down to the beach below. Or just stay at the top and look at the view, like we did. The area actually reminded me of the cliffs north of Herzliyya Pituach, where we lived in Israel. It was a nice place to stop and reflect on our new overseas adventure. From this vantage point, our first impressions were definitely positive.

Facts pertinent in establishing qualifications for preferential status (8USC1154)

TJ left for his cross-country trip to Tijuana the second week of April and arrived on what just happened to be the first day of my spring break. So I took the shorter and faster route, by plane, and met him in San Diego, so I could help him settle in during his first week in Mexico. Now, we've been overseas before for international teaching, and a good school usually provides a "buddy" who is supposed to help during this transition. But I thought coming down might be a good idea, considering we have experienced a lack of support in previous situations (I won't mention names). Of course, I should've realized that the government would have the buddy system down to a science. 

The assistance was well beyond our expectations; it might've helped that we knew our buddies, because I taught their children at a school in Israel (coincidence?). Obviously, Jim and Liz provided the obligatory airport pick-up, comp dinner, and grocery run. But even better, the welcome kit of household supplies was not only already in the apartment, but also unpacked and in place. After a day of traveling, it was nice to not have to make the bed. Perhaps the best service, though, was that the phone was already hooked up on the day we arrived and that the Internet was turned on by the end of the week, without either of us having to spend hours on a telephone with someone who didn't understand nor care about our need for contact with the outside world.

And some efforts really surprised us, both in their overwhelming generosity and surprising pitfalls. A fellow non-immigration visa officer invited us to dinner. Thanks go out to John and Marissa for welcoming us into the community so easily and quickly. But at the last moment, the dinner had to be moved to another officer's house because of some concerns -- very low-grade, I must add -- about a threatening phone call. So thanks go out as well to Chris and Lisa, our new hosts, who along with John and Marissa reassured us with their nonchalance about the change in plans. 

 Another beneficial favor was that Jim was able to expedite our appointment to finalize our SENTRI pass, which is a way to save oodles of time crossing in the border by having your and your car's credentials pre-certified. When I applied by myself, the first available appointment was in August, four months away, and somehow, he changed it to two days away. He even chaperoned us to the SENTRI office, which could be difficult to find, as it is cleverly disguised amid all the border-area strip malls. He led us through the SENTRI lane, even though we didn't have our passes yet, hoping the border guards would accept our diplomatic passports in good faith. They didn't, and TJ got socked with a warning for inappropriately using the SENTRI lane -- which was perhaps the best perk of all, because he could have been fined $5,000.