I am a Triangle, the Audio version

For those of you that might prefer the audio version of the I am a Triangle discussion.


I’d be honored if you would share this I am a Triangle audio version with those in your community who might relate to this discussion!

If you prefer the written format, here is a portion of what I wrote:

Imagine a place called Circle Country. Everyone who lives inside of its borders are Circle Citizens. The Circle Country has very specific culture, holidays, celebrations, food preferences, a language that is unique to them as well as music, education and political categories.

Let’s also talk about Square Society. Everyone who lives inside of its borders are Square Settlers. The Square Society also has the culture, holidays, celebrations, food preferences (and on and on) as the Circle Country, but they are completely different.

One day, a Circle Citizen got on a plane and flew to Square Society. That Circle landed squarely (pun intended) in the middle of the Square Settlers and their Square Culture.

Circle Citizen now lives in the midst of Square Settlers, and he or she may adapt to a degree, but will never become a truly Square Settler. At the same time, this Circle Citizen will also start to lose a bit of his/her Circle culture.

The normal circle things start to blend together with the new square culture. The major holidays in Circle Country might dissipate a bit to allow for the celebration of Square festivals.

Favorite comfort foods that remind her of Circle Country give way to the acceptance of new Square foods. The Circle culture never quite gives way to the new Square norms and at the same time doesn’t go away completely either. …  Read the rest of the post: I am a Triangle


What does it feel like to you, to be able to say “I am a Triangle” in the midst of your repatriation or return home?

Fellow Passengers.

Something that is very new to me and VERY much enjoyed is the luxury of having a driver.

I don’t have to explain it to you … no hunting for the car keys, no need to worry about reaching behind you to retrieve a thrown sippy cup and no longer the requirement to be “on your game” while behind the wheel.

Guess what else comes with having a driver?  Someone ELSE cleans up the car.  It is freshly washed first thing in the morning, and several times throughout the day.  The interior is cleaned DAILY.  No more finding rancid cheese sticks or melted fruit snacks. 

If I’ve had a long night, I can doze on my way back from school drop off.  If I want to read the paper, I can do it in the car.  If I’ve let my purse get out of control, I can simply go through it, en route to the next destination.

The interesting thing – on the days I choose to look out the window – is that there are loads of other women sharing the same road.

* *

Some of them are fellow expats.  It’s obvious that they are expats, though not visually apparent from which country they hail from.  Some (if not most) sit in the same seat as me, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, nose buried in a book, or fingers typing an email.  Some appear to be exhausted, succumbed to the daily grind of getting through their days in Delhi.  Head resting in their hand, body slumped.

Others appear to be actively engaged in discussions with their children, or the fellow female passengers – possibly on their way to a lunch date or a morning coffee.

* *

Some of them are young students, crammed into a tiny bus, with brilliant white uniforms (how they keep them white is a secret I may never know).  Hair braided into two braids, tied off with big ribbon bows with oversized barrettes holding back the wayward strands of hair and bangs.

* *

One day I saw a very white and very blond woman.  If I had to guess, I’d say she’d only been in the country for a day or two, judging by the paranoid look on her face.  A beggar approached her window, which was rolled down, and pointed out the baby on her hip.  She got aggressive and began holding the baby up physically to the window, speaking to this petrified woman through the open window.

I could see the look in her eyes, as she glanced towards the rearview mirror – trying to ask the cab driver silently with her stare – to help her.  The air conditioning must not have been working in the cab, and that day the heat was stifling.

She let tears fall and tried to close her eyes.  Each time she attempted to shut out the drama right outside her window though, her eyes sprang back open.  As if she couldn’t help but look, listen and experience.  The relief on her face as the traffic light turned green, and her cab inched forward, away from that woman and the baby, was evident.

* *

I see blue license plated cars, which means its a diplomat’s car.  Is the woman riding solo in that car the diplomat, or is she married to one?  Does she like it here or would she rather return to their last posting?  Does she speak multiple languages and have a road map of history that would take years to tell?

* *

I also sometimes glance out of my window and see a yellow and green rickshaw.  Because of the way they’re constructed, often times you can’t see the passengers inside, only their feet, and their hands – most often folded neatly in their lap, clutching their bags.

* *

I see all of these other women … every day.  I’ll most likely never know their stories.

What if I did know their stories?  Would I take the time to listen?  To offer a bit of advice or a shoulder to lean on?  Would I smile a fake plastered grin and say “yea, lunch sometime sounds nice.”  Would I take the time to really get to know them … if the glass between us wasn’t the barrier, would I bother getting to know them?

When it’s not convenient to make a friend … do you make the effort anyway?
(reprinted from Delhi Bound, my blog about our time living in India, 2009-2012)

Chandni Chowk

There are virtually TONS of markets in India.

Just when I thought I could puff up my chest and say “oh yea, I’ve been THERE”, someone chimes in with a market I had never heard of.

Chandni Chowk was on the list of “must do” markets, but it was a ways from our house, so I hadn’t calendared it as a ‘must do’ market.

When I was in need of groceries, or a location to pass the time, or specific items in mind, I’d much rather have visited the markets that were in a 10-20 minute radius of our home/school.

Enter Kate, who suggested we visit Chandi Chowk together for spices.

Now … although I did 80% of my grocery shopping (Kushal, my driver did the other 20%) I was NOT cooking.  So my first response was “spices?” … I don’t need spices.  ROSY needs spices.  BUT, I am a sucker for exploration and seeing new things, so we set out.

Come with me … explore!

“Traffic Jam”



Inside the courtyard

They sift through the peppers with bare hands, looking for the perfect sack!









(these funky things, which I never did identify, caught my eye because I thought they were wickedly shaped pasta.  The green-eyed Punjabi man explained that instead they were snacks …to be fried in hot oil.  I bought 4 kgs of the stuff.  They didn’t turn out so hot but they were sure pretty to look at!




Coin jewelry from international currency

Coin Jewelry from International Currency

Back when we lived in Delhi, India, I made money magnets out of our leftover coin currency. It was a brilliant use of the coins that we had at the time and because Mia was so young, she was fascinated by them. Fast forward to a grown up little girl and more spare international currency than I knew what to do with, and it was time to find another creative option for these coins.

I love to tell stories about our time overseas in India and Singapore, but found that when we moved back to the United States, the opportunities were few and far between. You can’t just interject “So … this one time in Delhi” very easily into normal conversation.

I wanted to find a really interesting way to tell a story with my jewelry.

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