At my most recent pedicure, I chose a deep cranberry shade—even though my toes still spend most weekends poolside or in strappy sandals. The signs of autumn flooding my social media feeds and podcast ads from home feel distant here in Burma, where my tan is still going strong. There are no cardigans, pumpkin spice lattes, or even jeans for me. I’ve worn a long-sleeved shirt only once since arriving in Rangoon. But if I close my eyes, I can almost smell the fall leaves of Virginia and the crisp evening air tinged with woodsmoke a world away.
Here on the opposite side of the globe, as monsoon season gives way to the coolest of the country’s three seasons, warm and sunny days still prevail. Evenings are beginning to feel marginally less sweltering—but only in contrast to the heavy heat of the rainy months. It’s getting darker earlier, yet the temperature refuses to align with what shorter days usually promise.
So it was a bit of a jolt when I read an internal announcement the other day stating that all diplomatic mail should be sent by a certain date in November to arrive in time for Christmas. How are we even close to that? I wondered. It underscored just how disconnected I’ve become from the usual rhythms of the year—and how incongruous my surroundings feel with the calendar. Like Christmas falling in Australia’s summer, there’s nothing wrong with it—it just feels a little off.
Speaking of strange, when bidding opened on September 29, it felt far too soon—my tour had begun less than two months earlier. The start of the new fiscal year in October brought a government shutdown, deepening my sense of time disorientation. Compounding the strangeness, bidding was then paused indefinitely pending the government’s reopening.
To avoid disadvantaging furloughed bidders in non-excepted status, our employer instructed those of us still working—those deemed excepted—to suspend all formal and informal bidding activities. I’ve complied, reverting to the daydreaming stage of the process and wondering how far each milestone—the bid list deadline, the date bureaus can send bureau leading candidate (BLC) emails, and handshake day—will be pushed.
At the same time, I’ve been told my next paycheck will be about 30 percent lower due to pay periods not aligning precisely with the fiscal calendar. After that, my pay will stop altogether.
And yet, I continue working every day while my husband is furloughed—and neither of us are receiving a paycheck. I hope that changes soon. Since the shutdown began, the most critical work assisting U.S. citizens involved in cases from death to destitution to incarceration has continued apace.
That’s because there is no higher priority than the safety and security of U.S. citizens overseas. Our consular work continues—regardless of whether the government is open or whether federal employees are being paid. We are proud to serve our country and glad to be here.
Home seems a world away, while the concerns of most federal employees for their job security seems overlooked by a public weary of inside-the-beltway talk.
With any luck, both the monsoon season and the political storms will soon give way to clearer skies. In the meantime, the best any of us can do is keep an umbrella handy—literally or otherwise—and wait for the season to turn.
As the rains taper off and the air grows lighter, I find myself hoping the same will soon be true back home—that the clouds of uncertainty hanging over Washington will finally break. Seasons change, even when it feels like they never will. For now, I’ll take the clear skies where I can find them.
Collecting Postcards 