Rainy Season

Yesterday the rainy season here started. When I woke up, the sky was overcast. It is always a little overcast, with a layer of fine dust suspended in the air. This time, however, I knew the cover was made of real clouds because it wasn’t so bright out. It didn’t even hurt my eyes when I walked outside without sunglasses.

The ground, which is usually a single shade of pale tan, was mottled all over with areas of deep brown. It was as if the clouds above, even before rain, were drawing up water from the earth that I didn’t even know was there. Water that has survived for months beneath the surface, somehow escaping evaporation in spite of the most compelling sunlight thinkable. And, also, there was a breeze. It was a real breeze too. Almost cool. It was a stark change from the hot wind that I have felt, for months, like a hairdryer in my face. All of these changes combined on the world overnight, so I knew when I woke up that the rainy season had arrived.

I was very busy with patients all day. There was also a change in them. I didn’t see any heat exhaustion or athlete’s foot or rolled ankles like I am used to. Some kind of change had started to draw hidden things out of people too. I spent two hours with a sailor I thought I knew. For two hours she told me the details of a worse childhood than I could have imagined. Memories that she had willfully suppressed for years, that would not be kept down any longer. It was the first time she had spoken some of it, and it was difficult for her to say through the tears and choking sobs. I heard about abuse, rejection, loss, and emptiness that repeated themselves for decades. In spite of the pain, I could sense that purging this filth brought a little relief to the emotional nausea she has suffered for years. I hadn’t known if I could help. I don’t think I am trained to help with these things. But she would not be sent to a chaplain or a psychologist, only me. So I was glad when I sensed in her a little relief.

Soon after she left another sailor came. He, too, was haunted by the past. His memories were especially stinging because the missteps were his own. He has been gone for five months now, and his wife has learned that she really can do it without him, and she intends to. He cried for his loss, he cried for his sense of worthlessness. But mostly, he cried for the agonizing regret. He wishes now that he had cooked dinner for her at least once, or watched the kids for her once while she did her homework, or spoken with her once in the past two years like she was his friend instead of just a wife.

I don’t know if I helped him at all. I hope he helped me know how to avoid such profound regret.

As the sky dimmed a little with evening, an orange light flashed far off in the distance. No more than a flickering glow at first. For an hour, the flicker grew nearer until I could see forks of lightning striking the earth wherever they chose. By the time it was dark, the lightning forks were blue nad close, and left following thunder. As I fell asleep, I could hear huge drops falling outside, cleaning the sky after months of hard use by the sun and hot wind.

Routine

I have been on deployment long enough now that many things seem routine -- for better and for worse. Unfortunately, small crises seem to be part of that routine. Just when things are getting calmed down and I think I can concentrate on just being the doc and doing sick call, something else strikes.

The most recent one was the urinalysis program. All Navy commands do random urinalysis on a percentage of sailors each month. I guess our urinalysis program wasn’t doing so well, because we caught some negative feedback from an Admiral. Very quickly some of the people involved were fired, and I was assigned to rush in to fix the program all up. When an Admiral speaks, we listen.

My skipper smiled, put his hand on my shoulder and said “Doc, I picked you because I think you are the right person to get the program back on track just like it should be.” It made me feel good that he would trust me enough to give me an assignment that was clearly important to him.

They gave me about two days, then I began to share the blame for anything dysfunctional taking place. “Why is it not fixed yet?” I was expected to know everything about the program. “Please provide me a list of all the past discrepancies by the end of the day….” “Give us a list of the top ten errors made in the urinalysis program.” “How does the software work?” “Are you sure that is correct?” “Did you call the lab to verify that?” All together, I was receiving about six emails a day about urine. Now, a few weeks later, the urine program is getting back on track, and the email volume is decreasing. According to the routine, that means another mini-crisis will happen soon to occupy all of my time again.

Perhaps a good part of my routine is that I am stuck here for the entire six or seven months of deployment. At least others tell me that’s good. Almost all the other officers in the squadron get opportunities to go off to other places for a while -- Europe, East Asia, etc. Not me. I get to stay here. Yesterday I was told “Doc, I’m jealous of you because you just get to stay here the entire time. Coming back here after my last trip was the hardest thing I have ever done. It makes it so much worse when you realize everything your missing. You are lucky to be stuck here…” I wasn’t sure what to say to that, so I guess I’ll just take the advice and consider myself lucky.

There was one recent break in my routine. Saturday night I finally had something on the schedule besides work. I was going out for pizza. You may recall that I set up a bunch of health promotion programs at the beginning of deployment and laid out incentives to go along with them. I had volunteered to buy a pizza dinner for the shop that had the most participation in my health promotions programs as on a certain date.

The maintenance control shop won. I had announced then as the winners in front of the entire squadron and even called for a round of applause, although I knew their actual participation had been under whelming. When I made arrangements to take the shop to the pizza joint, they told me that the Chiefs, who are in charge of the shop, were going to excuse themselves, and let the junior sailors enjoy the night out. The only trouble with that was that the only people who had participated in the health promotions programs were the Chiefs. I soon saw that I was going to take a bunch of non-participants out for an unearned reward. Wanting to make the most of the situation anyway, I planned a few brief words to motivate them tp participate in the programs -- to be more active, lose weight, and stop smoking.

On Saturday night, I showed up at 6:45, 15 minutes early. I took a big table and told the restaurant people that I was waiting on a group of about 13. I thought about ordering the pizzas so that they would be ready when the crown arrived. When I looked at the menu, there were so many choices that I didn’t want to have to decide myself. I would wait for them.

7:00 came, and no one was there. 7:05, and I was still alone. At 7:10 I began to be a little embarrassed, but a little glad that I hadn’t ordered the pizzas. At 7:15, I drove over to the other pizza joint in case they had misunderstood -- no one. Not only did they not care enough to participate in my health promotion programs, they were even too lazy to come for free pizza. For a split second I thought about taking the promised pizza into their work center on a different day. I quickly vetoed that thought.

Although it was a fun idea to go out for pizza, I was too cheap to want to buy any just for myself. I went to the DFAC and had a regular dinner, according to my normal routine. Like always

Faces

There is a quarter mile that I walk several times each day between the main building and the medical shack. Along the trail there is a high concrete wall, and on the concrete wall are two faces. They hang there like masks outside a theater.

Other people say they can’t see the faces. They are only randomly thrown trowel marks. But to me the faces are obvious. The one on the right is kind. He seems pleasant, old, and wise. As I walk along, he tells me I am doing fine here. Time is passing quickly, this place isn’t so bad, and I am very fortunate to be having this experience.

The one on the left is sour, pessimistic – a little grumpy. He tells me I’m far away from home, and my kids are growing up without me. It’s hot. I’m working really hard and not making much of a difference.

I often have a conversation with one or the other as I pass.

Last week I spoke a lot to the one on the left. He was listening when I had to call someone’s wife. I had to tell her that I had been wrong. The headaches that started almost three months ago were not from dehydration. His fatigue was not from depression. I had to tell her we did not have a CT scanner, so we didn’t know about the brain tumor until he collapsed and was sent on a quick helicopter to some place that did. The face on the left stuck out more after that call. He told me that phone call was the hardest I had ever made, and the costs of war are greater than the news ever reports. The one on the right tried to cheer me up. He told me that I had tried my best for the husband of that wife on the phone.

The one on the right also cheered me up with other things. He encouraged me as I stayed up late one last time completing my dissertation. He whispered congratulations. He told me that I will get to spend more time with my family now that I don’t have classes to do after work. I won’t have to cancel weekend trips anymore to finish papers. I won’t have to spend half of my vacation time searching for internet access. The one on the left said it was silly to think that life will suddenly get better just because I don’t have any more online classes

Once as I walked by, I tried to ignore the grumpy face. I said I didn’t want to talk to him. Last week I learned to listen to both – I hear them both. They are both wise in their own way. They are both important for life. And, the two faces on the wall need each other, just like joy needs sorrow, happy needs sad, and accomplishment needs defeat. A theater with only one hanging mask would be missing half of its soul.

I’m glad I can see the faces drawn by an unknowing trowel. There is a lot that they have to say during a quarter mile walk, and I seem to be in a good spot to listen.

Children

I saw two children the other day. Here on base. I don’t know why they were here, but I liked seeing them. It was the first time I had seen children since I walked away from the uncertain hands and faces of my own children pressed against the glass at the air terminal three months ago.

The children I saw here were a brother and sister. They were beautiful. The boy was probably six, dressed in a polo shirt and brown pants, with a head full of thick black hair that begged to be ruffled. The girl, about 8, was wearing a pink striped shirt and had loose, black curls half way down her back. In a way, I felt sorry for them. Children shouldn’t be in this place. There is no grass, no trees big enough to climb, no flowers. No playgrounds, no toys. Only dust and heat and diesel fumes.

What is more, people in this place don’t act as if there are children. Perhaps it is the lack of children that makes people here act the way we do. We are a little harsher. Less patient. Less kind. Less concerned about others. I think God is wise to spread a constant supply of children around the world. I think they make the world a nicer place for all of us.

Even though I feel a little sorry for the children, I am selfishly glad that I saw them.

Independence Day

I hope you all had a very enjoyable 4^th of July.
I read the papers back home and saw that many events paid tribute to deployed troops. It is nice to think of all that thought and good will directed our way.

Besides the thought and good will, however, it was pretty much just another day here. Why should there be a celebration? In our world without weekends, why have holidays? I did notice that the Air Force put up a slip ‘n slide for their people… we weren’t invited.

I guess there was the “extravaganza.” I am not sure if it was planned to be an activity for the fourth of July, but that is the day it fell on.

There is a small market just outside our area where you can go buy hookahs and really bad ripped off DVDs – the kind with heads from the theater bobbing around at the bottom of the screen. Anyway, they announced that there would be an “extravaganza.” The plan was to augment the normal market with several vendor stands selling local antiques, baked goods, real silk carpets, and artisanal crafts. There was also going to be a camel to ride.

Honestly, we were pretty excited about it – something different, and potentially fun. I was hoping to find something cool that was actually from the local area that I could send home to my kids. I even went to the finance office and got a bunch of American cash and a bunch of local currency – just in case I saw something I couldn’t pass up. I read online all about how to tell real silk carpets form fake ones… I was not going to be ripped off.

On the Fourth of July, we drove out there with money burning holes in our pockets. When we arrived, we saw about four tents more than there normally are – with real local merchants, as promised. It was good to see some people that at least looked like they were born in this quadrant of the world.

I first approached the antique stand. Immediately, as you might expect, a young man with surprisingly old-looking teeth behind his smile arose. “Bery old,” he said through an accent, and held up a copper plate. “Bery, bery, bery old. Tirty dollar.” I took the plate in my hand and saw that it was a machine made copper plate, tarnished enough to give it an antique look. There was a nice brass design attached, but the attachment was poorly done with aluminum pop rivets that were certainly not bery old. I set it down on the table. The man’s smile dropped, hiding his teeth. He continued nonetheless to show me the fine craftsmanship in each little carved stone elephant and dog down to the end of his table.

I wished him a good day, and went over to the baker’s table. This certainly did look genuine, because nothing looked similar to anything I am used to eating, and because the gentleman there spoke no English at all. I found someone who spoke his language well enough to ask if the various baked balls were sweet or savory. I picked a tray of handsome looking sweet balls, resembling white powdered donut holes with tiny brown caramelized specks. The gentleman pretended to not be able to make change in local currency, apparently preferring dollars, so I paid him three dollars and took the goods. My first bite revealed that they were simply finely shaved coconut baked with a little sugar. Not too exotic, but not bad. And my lack of illness since then suggests that they weren’t poisoned as part of a terrorist plot – another bonus.

The carpet vendor was under the largest tent. I guess my advanced study paid off, because I could see from 15 feet that the carpets were cheap imitations, definitely not real silk. OK, the give away was that some were pink, featuring Disney Princesses.

At this moment I was struck with déjà vu. I considered it for a moment, knowing that I had certainly never been here before. Then I placed my finger on it – Tijuana. It made me feel a little closer to home.

The last tent was the artwork tent. Inside, the walls were covered with paintings, and local artists stood by to sell and even paint portraits if we desired. There were a few decent oil-on-canvas still life studies of fruit. Everything else was a depiction of lounging local ladies in shiny, fringed clothing, painted on black velvet.

We had, by this point, noticed that the money was no longer burning holes in our pockets, and we began to regret our exchange for what was clearly way too much local currency. Well, at least we would get a camel ride.

As we approached the tent with the camels, we saw that there were two, but one was resting. The ride was to consist of hopping on the camel and having the camel stand up. There would be enough time for a picture, then the camel would sit back down to let us off. I think this was the first time I had seen someone ‘riding’ a camel.

I soon saw that camels are great creatures, much more cantankerous than any American donkey. With each person who would sit on its back, the camel bellowed, neighed, and huffed. It spat through its huge teeth that were even a few shades darker than its owner’s. After thirty seconds of throwing a fit, it would stand up reluctantly and await the command to sit again.

As we approached the front of the line, it was determined that this camel, like its friend, was too tired to continue. They would still let us sit on its back, but would not have it go up and down.

By the time it was my turn, I was quite entertained. I felt like I should feel sorry for the animal. It probably was really tired. But it was throwing such a huge fit as each of us sat down that it lost all credibility. Pure camel drama for sure. As I sat down, it let out an ugly snort and shimmied its hump to show discontent. I had no trouble grinning for the picture, but did find it hard to make it look genuine.

So, we drove back, pockets still full of money. To top off our celebration, there was a large flag sheet cake in the DFAC, but a placard below it declared it for display only. The real high point of my day was a package from my mom with the best socks I have ever worn. No, not even the mail here stops for holidays. To our delight, there were no fireworks that evening…

Next year, at home, I will certainly be busier with festivities. I will be sure to take a moment, though, to think of the Independence Day camel and laugh.

Shirt vs. Tobacco

Remember. I am deployed to a war zone. There may always be danger, so we must always think tactically. There are always little wars going on. The other day, I was caught by a surprise attack, and found myself unprepared. I started at a tactical disadvantage, because I had forgotten to go to a meeting, which is a huge no-no.

It started when the Command Master Chief approached me the other day, with a forced smile that was not quite adequate to hide his slanted scowl.

Battle I

“G’morning, Master Chief,” I said with a very wide smile, trying to counter his expression with a little cheer.

He replied with a tone of voice that was definitely more scowl than smile, “Doc, don’t you read the flight schedule?” This was quite the accusation, since it is understood as a standing order that everyone will read and abide by the flight schedule every day.

“Yes, Master Chief, I…” I stopped mid sentence when I remembered about the Chief’s meeting. I am not a Chief, so the “All Chiefs Meeting” on the schedule hadn’t really caught my attention. Now, as my face and scalp flushed a dark red, I remembered that the skipper had wanted me there to present something to the Chiefs about the psychology of morale. Master Chief could see the realization filtering through my brain, and knew his point had been made. Seeing my flushed bald head, he definitely had the upper hand in this little battle, and he was going to use it.

Now, for those of you not in the military, the Master Chief isn’t above me in the chain of command. He is the senior enlisted leader. Since I am an officer, I technically outrank him. But he is still part of the executive team. As a junior officer, I am definitely expected to show him respect. My flushed skin revealed my tactical disadvantage, so he came right in with another blow:

“Doc, it would also be very much appreciated if you could wear a brown shirt, sir,” he said as he looked at my tan garment top collar under my flight suit. Obviously something he had been saving for the right moment. Then, in my mind, a hundred possible comebacks flipped through, and were each suppressed in turn:

“Well, thanks, Master Chief, that was totally unrelated to the meeting. Do you just want a chance to straighten an officer up?”

“Master Chief, don’t talk to me about uniforms. The brown shirt with a flight suit isn’t even in writing, it’s just your preference, but not walking around with that plug of tobacco in your mouth is written three places in the uniform regs!”

“If someone in charge of me asks me to, I will, Master Chief.”

“OK, Master Chief, you want to play colors? I will change my shirt out as soon as you trade your tan belt for a black one like the regulations say!”

All these and more I let pass without saying anything.

“Noted, Master Chief.” I finally said. Then, to keep myself out of trouble, I let the moment end.

End Battle I – Result: Shirt Retreat/Defeat

I calmed down and restocked my weapons stores that had been exhausted in this miniature battle. I even strategized a little before re-engaging later that afternoon. The more I thought about the tobacco, the more the subject grated on me.

I am not only the doc, but I am the command health promotions officer. I have twenty people currently trying to quit tobacco, but it is really hard when tobacco permeates everything around us. In this Navy world, where we live and breathe by regulations, why are the tobacco regulations entirely disregarded? The Secretary of the Navy (our boss right under commander in chief) issued an order last year stating leaders shall “create, by personal example and command climate, a tobacco cessation program which supports abstinence and discourages use of all tobacco products. Leaders are encouraged to be tobacco free.” Furthermore, they shall “ensure tobacco use is not part of our culture and encourage a tobacco-free lifestyle.” Yet, my Commanding officer and Command Master Chief both love to stick a wad of that smelly worm dirt (Red Man and Copenhagen Long-Cut, respectively) in their lips as often as circumstances permit. Skipper spits the juice into cups, or trash cans, or on the ground – all of which are also expressly prohibited in the regulation. Master Chief swallows it, which is even worse. They also both love to smoke their evening cigars as a “cultural celebration” of another day well spent in the desert. Yes, as you can tell by my rant, my little mind did ruminate on these facts for a while.

I also couldn’t help but notice the part of the regulation stating “acceptance of free tobacco products is prohibited.” Then, reiterated in the next paragraph, “free distribution of tobacco products from organizations or businesses is prohibited.” Funny, since “care packages” from “troop support organizations” containing thousands of cigarettes and cigars have been sent, and are placed next to our snack area for free distribution.

Yes, we have all the free tobacco we could want. Most of it is candy flavored. You know how Congress just outlawed the candy flavored ones because they are used to get people addicted? Well, apparently the remaining stock is being laundered and shipped to servicemen through non-profits – a subtle reinstatement of the tobacco “morale” ration that ignited the military tobacco culture in the first place. Yes, my mind ruminated on these things too. But it wasn’t time to address those things quite yet.

Battle II

The same afternoon, after my rumination, I found myself driving in a car with Master Chief. “Master Chief, I didn’t think there was any specific color T-shirt prescribed in the regulation for wear under a flight suit.”

“I stand corrected, Doc, I think you’re right. It’s a squadron level determination. We Chiefs, however, are trying to ensure that the squadron is all wearing the issued brown shirts for uniformity.”

“The reason I wear a tan shirt, Master Chief, is because of my faith. You are from Idaho, are you familiar with the LDS religion?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We wear undergarments all the time as a religious symbol. Fortunately they do make these tan shirts for service members. Unfortunately they don’t make them in brown. I really would prefer to not wear an extra layer in 130 degree weather.”

“I respect the religious thing, doc,” said the Master Chief, though clearly without affection for it, “And I understand what you are saying about the heat.”

End Battle II -- Result: Shirt Victory

The very next day, and probably after some rumination of his own, Master Chief barged into the sick call office, unannounced. “Good morning, Doc.”

“Good morning, Master Chief.” I said, lifting my head to make eye contact. There was no eye contact to be made. His eyes were bouncing all over, as if he had entered so abruptly to chase a stray rat. But I noticed that every other bounce of is eyes seemed directed at my tan T-shirt collar.

“Doc, I just came to check on HM2 Wilson this morning.” He said, speaking of my (enlisted) corpsman, over whom he does have true authority. Then he turned to HM2.

“Hi, HM2. How are you? Oh – look at your hat. This isn’t right. The symbol needs to be updated. Make sure to get that done right away. Let’s all make sure our hats all have the right symbols and (his eyes now tilted my direction) that we are all wearing brown shirts. Have a good day, gentlemen.” Having accomplishes his purpose, and not wanting further discussion, he walked out as quickly as he came in.

“That’s OK,” I told myself. “I can wear two shirts. It drives Chiefs crazy anyway to have two shirts showing. I need to pick my battles wisely.”

End Battle II Revisited – Result: Shirt Victory Defeat/Retreat

Battle III --

The next day, I was given a little opportunity myself. My commanding officer walked in with a small medical complaint, which I cannot disclose due to privacy issues. I took the opportunity to mention how tobacco use could be related to this little complaint. After he left, I set to work.

Our designated tobacco area, or “smoke pit,” is exactly outside the back door to our main work area. Yes, this location is in violation of the regulations concerning tobacco use, but clearly we like to ignore those anyway. I looked up the regulations regarding its proximity to ordnance, flares, and oxygen bottles, and found some more condemning evidence. Then I went to my Executive Officer. The XO, the one person in the executive office who is tobacco free, listened to my case, and offered some challenges. Finally, he told me to find a suitable alternate location, and we will make it happen. We will move the smoke pit further away. Small victory.

Next, I crafted a careful letter for the Master Chief related to a conversation from days earlier, but which cited some applicable portions of the tobacco regulations that we violate routinely. I know this will at least cause some heartburn for Mr. Mega Rule Enforcer.

Finally, after working late that night, I went to the snack area at about midnight. I grabbed an empty Dr. Pepper case and filled it to heaping with tobacco products. “What are you doing, Doc?” said one junior sailor “You don’t smoke, do you?”

I smiled in reply, “I heard these were free for whoever wanted them.” I deposited them in the back of a dumpster, careful to place them behind some very smelly bags. I returned for a second heaping armful, completely emptying the supply. The second trip was made not without notice, but at least without interrogation. This time I stomped on each box before tossing it. I was honestly quite nervous, because I think that distribution spot had some high level support. I had just thrown away several hundred dollars worth of "gifts." To my delight, I was not summoned to see the Skipper in the morning.

End Battle III – Result: Tobacco Defeat/Retreat

I am a United States Sailor, and sailors don’t give up. I will continue to fight the battles that come my way, and take my little victories where I can. I’m sorry, though, that you have to hear me rant about all of them.

DFAC

Yesterday I ate ice cream. It was good. Most days I’ve been able to resist the temptation. I think that was only my 3rd helping since I arrived – OK, maybe 4th. The DFAC is what we call the Dining FACility. If this was a Navy installation, it would be the galley or chow hall. But in this not so nautical world, it’s the DFAC. When I got here, I quickly realized that the DFAC was going to be my biggest enemy.

The DFAC is a modular structure – like a bunch of trailers all hooked together. It is surrounded by a tall grey concrete wall that makes it hard to really size down. As I approached it, I was expecting it to be kind of a small joint. I entered for the first time into a smallish room without windows, and with the walls completely covered by stainless steel sinks. Papers taped to the wall above the backsplash caulking declared “HANDWASHING IS MANDATORY.” One of these papers was even in a frame, which, out here, lets you know the contents are important. There were also graphics posted to visually instruct us in proper hand washing technique. As I advanced past the garbage can full of paper towels, another set of taped papers caught my eye. These used scare tactics, just in case we had gotten this far without washing our hands. They threatened diarrhea unless we complied with the prescribed course of cleansing.

Having been properly sanitized, I merged again with the flow of people headed deeper into the DFAC. We shuffled through another small room, where we each, in turn, scanned our ID cards and grabbed a tray. I followed the faint boot prints on the white tile floor a few more steps, then looked up.

Instantly overwhelming. All the food you can imagine. An enormous quantity of food. I turned my head to the right and saw a wings bar with buffalo wings, barbecue wings, and fried wings. Next to that was the Mexican bar with all manner of tortilla and bean choices. An aroma of cilantro led my eyes to the vegetarian bar with some great smelling eggplant parmesan. Turning my head straight again I saw the main line with potatoes, barbeque ribs, corn on the cob, baked trout, fried trout, and baked potatoes. A glance to the left found a fast food line with onion rings, burgers, fries, and other deep fried goodness. In the middle of the room I ran my bulging eyes down a huge salad bar. Across the aisle was a hot sandwich line, a cold sandwich line, a fruit bar, and a soup serving area. In the center of the room was a huge wire basket full of single serving cups of every cereal ever invented, as if it were a monument to General Mills himself. And all around the room, I saw hundreds of tables with thousands of sweaty, uniformed bodies in a whir of conversation and mouth stuffing, with ketchup and hot sauce being dripped liberally to their trays.

Finally, next to the 17 coolers filled with soda, juice, and Gatorade, I eyed the desert display. Cheesecake, chocolate cake, every kind of cookie (big ones), smoothies, baked cobblers, pumpkin pie, pecan pie, and all the ice cream you can eat. Cookies and Cream, Chocolate, Vanilla, Pralines… Baskin Robbins. Except here, the whipped cream, hot fudge, and nuts are self-serve.

As I stood there for the first time, I was totally lost. Questions in my head overcame my hunger, and prolonged inaction. How do they get all of this out here? Is this why the Higginson kid came back from the Marines so fat? How much (taxpayer) money does it cost to feed each of us each day? Is this a terrorist plot to fatten and decondition the entire U.S. military? My initial excitement died down a little when I reasoned that the food must be terrible. After shipping it halfway around the world and preparing it in the biggest school cafeteria you can imagine, it was going to be bad.

I finally noticed that my standing in awe was holding up the line behind me. Re-engaging my military bearing, I followed the flow to the main line and filled my plate. I wanted to try at least a few of the tempting dishes, but didn’t have room on the tray for a fraction of the offerings. I sat down, still expecting some taste disappointment. Then I realized I had been totally wrong. Cafeteria food can be good. The ribs were tender and tasted like they had been rubbed, marinated, and sauced before they came off the grill in the back yard. The lettuce was green, cool, and crisp. Even the steamed carrots were crisp, not soggy, and were topped with a little butter and just a dash of pepper. And the Baskin Robbins was the real stuff.

The DFAC is definitely the enemy. Three times each day, I fight another battle with it, trying to strengthen the self control of my jaw with each surrendered bite.