Mid-Tour Home Leave: Remembering How to be American

I learned about providing good customer service working at the Steamboat Ski and Resort Corporation for a few winters not long after college.  Before the mountain opened around Thanksgiving, sometime in about October, all employees new and veteran were summoned to the Sheraton conference center auditorium and given customer service training in no uncertain terms.  This set the tone for what was expected of our behavior and our treatment of the tens of thousands of customers we'd collectively be serving, be it a hot lunch, a brushed-off ski lift, or an expert-level moguls class. I had been hired to work in the ski school office selling lift tickets and arranging ski school lessons for all levels, all ages.  And I mean all ages, as we inquired if the little one was potty trained yet and could bend their arms and legs in their winter bunny suit. 

This was back in the day when we smoked in restaurants and wearing a helmet to ski was laughable unless you planned to be crashing the gates on the slalom course; back before downloading apps and booking online, before the internet, and even before the invention of the instant credit card machine to verify a purchase.  No, this was waaay back when we had a telephone-book to cross-check for reported stolen credit cards and a 1-800 number to call to get (from a live operator) a confirmation code for the purchase which we then hand wrote on the carbon-copy charge slip. 

There were about a dozen of us manning the counter at the ski school ticket office. We were the first stop for the great majority of our visitors who, after flying in from Dallas or New York to our relatively remote Rocky Mountain destination, would shove all their kids into ski suits and boots, their skis into rental cars, then make their way from the distant parking lots on shuttle buses to the base of the resort in order to stand in line in our crowded (but heated) waiting room while my coworkers and I booked a week's worth of expensive fun for the whole family. By the time they appeared at the counter in front of me, two kids already had to go to the bathroom, the mother had pulled off that cute pink pom-pom topped hat she'd matched to her lip gloss and shoved it into a jacket pocket, and the father was starting to swear and already sweating profusely.  It was then my job to determine their needs, describe our package deals and quiz each one about their skiing abilities to place them into appropriate classes so the parents could ditch the kids and finally fergodsake - have some fun. And vice-versa. This is where I learned about customer service.  Because even after I'd booked Mom's private lessons for each morning at 10 with the bronzed Kiwi instructor she liked from last year, the kids into all-day with lunch included teen classes, and Dad into the bumps clinic after lunch where on the last run on Thursday he'd blow out his knee and have to be brought down the mountain by ski patrol - I still had to leave my customers to stand in line for one of our three wall-mounted phones, like in a 1950s boarding house hallway, to make the call to verify their credit card purchase.  

Yes, THIS is where I learned about customer service.  

How both Mom and Dad pictured their ski holiday.

This is also where I learned that to effectively sell something - one had to really know it and be honestly enthusiastic about it.  To accomplish this goal, in their wisdom, the Steamboat Ski and Resort Corporation gave all employees a free season's pass, and just for ski school employees, all the free lessons we could take.  Yup, if I wanted - I could pop into a lesson every lunch hour and all day on my days off. We got to know the instructors' personalities and teaching styles to match with our customers; we knew which level was best for those capable of stem christie turns versus those comfortable staying parrallel and ready for more advanced terrain. We learned this by taking the lessons ourselves so we could speak from experience to properly match each skier with the appropriate level of instruction so they (and their instructors) could get the most of their time.  Beyond the day spent in the Sheraton auditorium, this was the best customer service training they could've offered us. 

Here is where I draw the connection between working in ski school in the late 1980s to being a Foreign Service Officer in 2021. In order to properly represent the product: America and service to its people, we need to go back home and remember who and what that is exactly. We need to keep taking the ski classes.  Which is precisely why I spent the entire month of October back in the U.S. in four different states on two coasts for my mid-tour home leave.   

Usually home leave comes between overseas tours and requires spending 20 working days - federal holidays not included - inside the U.S. or its territories, meaning this can be taken in the U.S. Virgin Islands, Puerto Rico or Guam, too.  (Please don't make me look up the difference between territories, protectorates or possessions; I'm sure you get the idea.) We can visit Canada or Mexico for the day, but not overnight. After all, the whole idea is to come back from the brink of going native and remember what it means to be American.  Given our tour extension to four years, I was directed to take this leave at the mid-tour mark of two years into our time in El Salvador.  I mentioned in an earlier post that this requirement is just mine, as the employee, and does not apply to family members.  They can go as rogue as they want, apparently.  Beyond a requirement, it is also an "allowance," meaning Uncle Sam will sport the round-trip plane ticket for the employee and all family members and throw in an extra checked bag for those who might need enough clothes for say... one month of living out of a suitcase, but that's it.  Sure, I also get my salary but embassy-employed family members do not and have to use vacation leave or leave without pay to join along.  Given that, my husband chose to join me for just one week, after which he returned to the peace and quiet of his routines in our house and garden, to bond with the cats, and to slip back on the yoke at his job while I spent the remaining three weeks visiting family.  

So did it do the trick? In brief, yes, I think it did. 

First of all, I got to see my old friend Autumn again and be reminded what it's like to go through a change in seasons with all the traditions and routines that entails. (P.S. apparently it's okay to capitalize seasons if you're personifying them. So there.)  I'm not talking just "Ooh, there's a chill in the air, let's get a pumpkin spice latte!" kind of autumn experience, although yes, I both said and did that, no - I mean we spent a week during peak leaf-peeping season in New York's Adirondacks along the glassy shore of Long Lake to be astounded by natural beauty. Although it was just the first week of October, staff the handful of stores and just about every restaurant or cafe warned use they'd be closing down today, tomorrow or next Sunday.  We chatted with the cashier at Hoss's General Store, home to every Adirondack souvenir you could imagine and some great local white cheddar cheese, about her plans for the day-after-tomorrow, her last day on this seasonal job.  

"See that light blue rig across the street?" and she pointed to a small RV parked in shady lakeside lot tucked behind the BBQ joint. 

"I'm hitting the road again!" she proclaimed jubilantly. "I'll make my way south of course, but then head west to Arizona; I'm chasing 70!"  I commented that she looked nowhere near 70 and she laughed, "No, 70 degrees!  That's the goal - always keep it at about 70 degrees. I like it up here, they let me park right there and offer me this job all summer, so I'll be back. But when the season ends, I move on to the next gig."  Seeing our interest, she went on to detail the best places to be and when, recommended the most informative "rubber tramp" YouTube channels we'd have to check out, and described how affordably she can live without having to pay rent or maintain a house, emphasizing that she has never felt freer. A truly American option for retirement-aged folks who don't want to be tied to another truly American tradition - the huge mortgage. 

Beyond this conversation, I also took great pleasure in eavesdropping on people at nearby tables in a language I could fully understand to hear what Americans talk about. My husband and I noticed who masked up and who scoffed at mask-wearers. We felt uncertain on what to do where, and my husband swears he got dirty looks when we continued to wear our masks in stores when the signs on the door directed "Must wear a mask if you're not vaccinated."  Did they look askance at us because they thought we weren't vaccinated? Or at the other end, were the looks because we were still wearing masks when we really didn't HAVE to?  It was just awkward. 

Continuing our education, we watched local news and weather reports, paid attention to (i.e. were shocked by) the price of meals, gas and real estate. We visited the Adirondack Experience museum and hiked out to old iron smelter sites and learned about the great era of American industrialism. We visited family in NJ and drove through Norman Rockwell-flavored towns with brick architecture and steepled churches built centuries before some western states were even admitted to the union. And before my husband flew back home, we spent a day in NYC.  It was just like I pictured it, skyscrapers and everything. 

Cabin along Long Lake, NY

Sitting along the Hudson River got me wanting to listen to Billy Joel. 

More glassy reflective lakes than you could shake a birch branch at. 

Home of Adirondack white cheddar cheese and smell-goody balsam fir gifts. 

Typical Adirondack cabin style. 

View from the top of Mt. Coney

Are the orange and red receptive rods and cones in your eyes burned out yet?

I'll name the chair style for $100, please Alex. 

Flag in foreground lest you had any doubts. 

To me, classic NY architecture as viewed from the Highline. 

I then flew to northern Washington state, a stone's throw from the Canadian border, to see my mother and step-father for a week.  The beauty of the Pacific Northwest, even having known it since the early-1990s, still astounds me. This was followed by two weeks visiting an old friend and 80 percent of my siblings in California. I drove from the central coast at Morro Bay, to Monterey, to Silicon Valley and up to Calistoga in the wine country. I marinated in the differences between the two coasts and even between Washington and California. I'm not referring to political divisions, as those were evident even within each of the states I visited. I mean the subtler differences, like portion sizes in restaurants, regional terms, how friendly people are/aren't, and the most common cars they drove. (Summary, in case you're curious: upstate NY = full-sized trucks; Washington = Subarus; California Bay Area = Teslas). Finally, before my own return to Central America and my life already in progress - I drove myself off the grid to Wilbur Hot Springs for two days of no internet, bring and cook your own food in the communal kitchen, clothing optional soaking in thermal baths. It's a place my father had taken us as kids in the 1970s and I've always wanted to re-visit to see how much had changed.  The answer? Not much. Sure, it's been yuppified, as he'd have said, but it was still as crunchy as ever.  After a meditative walk through a labyrinth marked in stones under the spread of an enormous live oak, I sat for a spell in the windchime garden, not another soul in sight, taking in the smell of the dried grasses and bushes of my childhood, and reflected on all I'd learned and re-learned over the month.  

Given this description of this place - and even if I didn't already mention the state - it's likely you pictured this spot to be in northern California.  You knew that because as a native, you know your country: the stereotypes and idiosyncracies, the flavors, the landscapes, the accents, the houses, the lifestyles and whether one gets their groceries at Publix, Haggen or Safeway. You just know. 

Silver Lake, Whatcom County.  I can see Canada from here. 

It's a subtly different kind of forest reflected in the glassy lake. 

The San Juan Islands of the Puget Sound fill the window view from the little prop plane.

Mt Ranier as I take off from SeaTac Airport. 

San Francisco Bay and one of its bridges with the queue of cargo ships waiting to be unloaded. 

If you've ever been in the U.S. in October, this needs no caption. 

Rugged landscape in south-central coastal California. 

Morro Bay harbor and iconic rock. 

Sea otters being exceptionally cute. 

Hugging the coast up Pacific Coast Highway 1

Calistoga vineyards in their fall foliage.

A horizontal "fog-bow" gives hope and color over Alexander Valley vineyards. 

Wilbur Hot Springs main lodge. Thermal baths behind privacy screens in background.

Dawn off the grid.  This line doesn't go to Wilbur. 

Labyrinth under the live oak. 

Clarity.

After a month, what did I conclude? It's a really, really big country with room for every type of person they make. While I may grumble about what American culture means or what society is coming to these days - and I do - and even though I live abroad and will continue to do so for another decade, it is still the country I was imprinted with and recognize as "home."  Like the Steamboat Ski and Resort Corporation, Uncle Sam also knows how to keep me enthusiastically representing the product. 

A Day in the Life of Three Salvadoran Towns: An Afternoon in Panchimalco

Some places attract visitors due to their historic significance, some for natural beauty, others for cultural preservation or a dedication to the arts. And some keep you coming back simply for their vibe, a tangible, self-perpetuating positive energy that differentiates them from other places.  Panchimalco is all of the above, but primarily the latter.

We found the little town in the way we often do - we stumbled upon it. Tucked into a deep valley only 30 minutes' drive from our house, it sits just 7 kilometers downhill from popular Planes de Renderos, a ridgetop town with panoramic views and restaurants with big patios to take advantage of those views.  The kind of place where families gather on Saturdays for lunch and fresh air.  Just a few minutes from Planes de Renderos, Panchimalco is also overlooked by a spot often visited by folks just before they settle down to stacks of pupusas: La Puerta del Diablo. With a distinctly ominous history as first a Mayan Pipil sacrificial site, a practice sadly modernized during the Salvadoran civil war as an execution and body dump site, the two rocky peaks of La Puerta del Diablo tower high above the valley and serve as both visual and historic backdrop to the town. 

View of Lake Ilopango from Planes de Renderos

Volcano of San Salvador

Nahuat-speaking man of Pipil heritage met at La Puerta del Diablo

Nov 2020 - This family said this was their first time out of their house since March lockdowns started.  Puerta del Diablo peak. 

High above even the ever-present soaring vultures. 

Even today, as many Salvadoran towns experience, in the hills and hamlets nearby, MS-13 lets its presence be known. 

Lest we forget...

It was just about lunchtime when we pulled into Panchimalco the first time.  We found the main street blocked off by canopies shading rows and rows of tables and a gathering of (mostly) men in red vests.  The crowd and their animated conversation kept us at bay for a bit, but we soon figured out from the initials on caps, vests and banners (FMLN) that we'd come upon a political party assembly and the stump speeches and negotiations we were witnessing were to select the party's candidates in upcoming elections.  Our presence went completely unnoticed given their focus to the task at hand and we easily slipped around the tents and into the heart of downtown.  

Political party gathering

The main street was lined with pastel-colored storefronts, bakeries, a few tiny restaurants, and stands selling home goods and clothing. The town center was marked by a small shady plaza with occupied benches, the Mayor's office (Alcaldia), and the entrance to the market building, full of stalls. And just around the curve, we could see the backside of the imposing colonial church.  Even beyond the political activities, the main and side streets were humming with people just going about their days: selling, buying, gossiping, carrying loads, doing street repairs - the pleasant buzz of day-to-day life. Not the stresful or frenetic activity of a city, just life moving along and minding its own business. I was tempted to order a cone of tamarind sorbet from the guy with the push cart and take a spot on a bench to simply watch it all go by. But instead, we saw the sign indicating an outdoor sculpture garden just off the hillside from the plaza. 

City hall with the rocky peaks of La Puerta del Diablo in the backdrop

Sporting a sign of the times

Never miss an opportunity to be colorful. 

Necessity is the mother of invention.

And the grandmother.

Let me step back and give an excruciatingly brief bit of Panchimalco history, which will explain some of what we saw and felt there.  First, the town is known for maintaining and celebrating its native heritage in a country with surprisingly few remaining pockets of indigenous populations. Originally occupied in pre-Columbian times by the Toltec, it has been considered a place of refuge. An example of this occurred during the 16th century when the indigenous Pipil fled there during the Spanish takeover of the city of San Salvador.  

The Spanish soon caught up and settled the town, building the central church, "Iglesia de la Santa Cruz de Roma" sometime in either the 1600s or early 1700s, depending on which iteration one considers the original as it faced many an earthquake and flood over the centuries.  It's now the oldest colonial structure still standing in El Salvador.  This mixed indigenous and Catholic history is the background for Panchimalco's festival each May, La Feria Cultural de las Flores y Palmas in which the women show off their colorful woven headscarves and the patron saint parade full of flowers and worshippers fill the streets. 

In more modern times, I've read some about the town being a hideout for guerilleros during the Salvadoran Civil War (1979-1992), some remnants of which could account for the current popularity of the leftist FMLN (Farabunco Marti National Liberatin Front) party we saw upon arriving.  

The side of the Mercado Municipal building was painted with a two-story mural featuring Saint Oscar Romero, the archibishop of San Salvador who was assasinated during the civil war in 1980 and canonized in 2018.  The text to the left reads, "Even if the assasin's bullet kills me, I will be resurrected in the people" and given his overwhelming popularity, it seems he has fulfilled his promise.  However, seeing said assasin's bullet painted blue, white and red, my husband and I paused, and began anxiously whispering to each other. "Why are they blaming the French for Romero's assasination? Were the French involved in the civil war? Oh dear - are they blaming the U.S.? But wouldn't that would be red, white and blue? Who are they blaming?" Flushed with a sudden caught-behind-enemy-lines feel, I started considering other nationalities we might pull off, say Canadian or Australian, should we be surrounded by the folks at the political rally. But those fears were never realized and what we wouldn't learn until days later is that the colors being blamed in this mural for Romero's death represented the flag of ARENA, the right wing political party and opposition to FMLN, not the French and not the U.S. 

Phew. 

Political message not so hidden. 

Politics aside, Panchimalco's dedication to preserving its heritage is seen today in the town's advocacy for arts.  By this, I don't mean they have one or two nice galleries to visit, but I mean a whole-town support for the value of the arts. 

Which brings me back to us finding the sculpture garden...

Set down off the central plaza under a shading canopy of trees, the sculpture garden with its murals depicting the town's history, pathways curving through the sculpture installations and the gentle splash of a small waterfall provided refuge from the day's busy-ness.  A secluded spot for romance, too, it seems, as evidenced by a few couples nestled together on benches and a sign warning people not to engage in amoral behavior in the park.  At the back of the park we found a small cafe with a wide balcony overlooking the mountains and rooftops and stopped for a lemonade and a bite. 

Revisionist history of indigenous warrior?

History of the country in relief mural. 

The large tree to the left is still standing and is as impressive a structure as the church itself. 

Sculptural sense of humor.

Cafe balcony off the sculpture garden.  I recommend the pollo encebollado. 

Leaving the cafe and scultpure garden, we walked back up to the main street and continued down a few blocks to the church. Finding it unfortunately locked up, I stuck my head into a tiny bar/cafe next door where two men were seated with a pot of coffee and conversation between them. I asked if they knew when the church might be open to visit.  Perhaps it was the novelty of talking to foreigners or perhaps just the coffee, but 20 minutes and centuries of condensed colonial history later, we parted company on the sidewalk with promises to continue the conversation another time.  

Funky cafe with chatty and informative owner on the left. 

Although we were out of luck that day, in later trips to Panchilmalco we have been able to explore the church and take in the delicately carved wooden ceiling beams, the meter-thick walls, and despite the soaring ceiling and unobstructed, airy interior the building has kept its musty smell - like finding a wooden trunk in the attic that hasn't been opened for decades. 

Iglesia de la Santa Cruz de Roma

Directly across from the church, set down off the street level, is La Casa del Artista with its banner boasting the municipality's connection with Xi'an, China.  Local press reported the town mayor's desire to establish a sister-city relationship with the Chinese city famous for its terracotta warriors given their shared dedication to preserving their cultural patrimony.  We found a group of teens in modern t-shirts and jeans practicing traditional dances in a small plaza surrounded by walls of murals, their bright colors blurred by the encroaching moss. 

Headed back through town, we came upon the Casa de la Cultura. With it's tie-dyed exterior paint job, it's impossible to miss. It houses a gallery of local art, a small museum of dusty artifacts and historic photographs of artisans alongside the current day artisans themselves, weaving vividly-striped cloth on looms in a large interior courtyard.  We bought some woven face masks from an elderly weaver which were just as colorful and musty as the Casa itself.  

Woman waiting outside the Casa de la Cultura.

Artifact on display at the Casa de la Cultura. 

And finally, if all this weren't enough, directly across from the Casa de la Cultura on the high side of the road we made one final stop at the Fundacion Miguel Angel Ramirez, an art institute and gallery occupying an equisitely renovated old stucco house. The property expands up the hillside in a series of patios, gardens with water features, decks, lookout perches and hidden rooms- each area dedicated to a different art medium.  We arrived as a group of local kids was finishing their day-long art class, gathering their pencils and sketchbooks and tidying up their little stools and benches.  The director stopped to chat with us and give us a tour, explaining the foundation's purpose: an apolitical, non-religious NGO dedicated to promoting and recognizing the potential in young people through art and culture. Their slogan is "Colors for Humanity," which after multiple afternoons spent in Panchimalco, I believe doesn't stop at the foundation's doors, but is embraced throughout the entire town.  

Arbors framing the view from one of many patios and balconies at Fundacion Miguel Angel Ramirez.

Wrapping up the day's class. 

We've now visited this little town tucked into a valley many times and I have yet to change my mind about it. There are places that just have a good vibe: welcome, warm, bright, and positive despite the violence of their past or even their present. It's evident that Panchimalco hasn't let its daisy be stepped on and continues to bloom with each generation. 

Next: A Day in the Life of Three Salvadoran Towns: Nightfall in Suchitoto