When Global Means Local

Today I divide my time between two towns in Iwate on the coast surrounded by beautiful purple-green mountains.  These towns face the ocean, and on this Sunday the winds from the sea have blown away all clouds leaving a bright and blue sky.  We can see for miles.

This wind and the chill it brings we remember fondly in August when the humidity is too much and we drip sweat just standing outside.  Today we're cold.  Today we're cold but venture out even in the wind, enjoying the crispness of the day and the calls of the hawks overhead.

People in these towns are happy and pained, bored and committed, mean and kind, petty and generous.  These towns are like any other; we're just like you.

Except that we're not.  Still reeling from the disaster three years ago, life here is different.  Adjectives describing emotions are more intense.  Not better or worse.  Just intense.

Much has been written on the plight of those affected by the disaster that struck northeastern Japan three-plus years ago.  For the most part, the reporting has been accurate, fair, generous.  A small population exists in these regions that has received less coverage, and today I write about these people.  Today, this is personal.

I can count the number of foreigners living in these small, banged-up communities.  We know each other.  We stand out in town.  There are very few of us.

Some lived through the disaster.  They too lost.  Homes.  Cars.  Friends.  A sense of normalcy.  Their lives have received significantly less coverage.  A victim is a victim is a victim.  Right?  Wrong.  We still quantify pain based on loss.  When we clearly don't blend, we are automatically "not of here."  Except for each other and the friends cultivated personally, there's no immediate support group for these foreigners.  Add to this the language barrier and cultural nuances often lost in translation and the uphill battle my foreign friends have fought is on a good day just tiresome, and on a bad day debilitating.

Enter in a spring day with sunshine and we have our version of a fix.  Today a bunch of foreigners from the region gathered to show each other there does exist a network in these towns.  We brought food.  Eggs were boiled the night before in preparation for an Easter egg hunt.  Kids played in the park while parents stood around eating, chatting, hugging.

My job is to handle global PR for a city in Iwate.  Today global met local, my focus shifting from the outside global community to towns where I have a personal connection.

In communities where foreigners are still a rarity a "gaijin" (foreigner) sighting can be cause for tears or giggles.  For the gaijins who gathered today it was pure joy;  a celebration of what makes us different making us the same.

With the firm support adults offer each other and the squeals and laughter shared by the kids, it's a no-brainer--we'll get together again--definitely.

On Seat Mates Who Read Girlie Magazines

Never have I woken up and wished to be seated next to a man reading porn on a train.  Evidently, and I'm learning this the hard way, not wishing for something specific has nothing to do with the universe and it's ... sense of humor? ...

As in, just because you don't want it doesn't mean you won't get it.

My seat mate is reading porn.  A girlie magazine.  There are photos.  There are cartoon descriptions of kinkiness. 

Porn in your bedroom?  Fine. 
Porn in public?  On the train?  Next to me?  Not fine. 

Do I say something? 
What would I say? 
"Is that interesting?"
"Do you have a hard-on?"
"How much does a magazine like this cost?"
"What's the attraction?"  Scratch that.  I'd have to add "other than the obvious" and dumb questions usually get dumb answers.

Do I get to say something?
Just because in my world it's in poor taste to look at naked women on a crowded train does not mean it is in Japan.  Whose morals rule in such a case?  Japan is not my country.  He's Japanese, I'm a foreigner.  Japanese social norms trump my definition of public decency.  Right?  Really?

What if I read it with him?  Is that being passive-aggressive?  If that were the case, would that be so bad? 

What if I--oh, I'm so sorry--spill coffee on his magazine when I reach for the cup from the young food-selling woman?  Is that kind of passive-aggressive behavior better?  It's certainly less passive and more aggressive.

What if I break the rules and make a phone call in Japanese right here, right now?  I'm supposed to go stand on the deck to take or make calls.  Sorry.  Dumb foreigner.  I don't know the rules.  Do I dare?  Then again, if he knew I could read what he was reading would that change his mind?  Would he care?

So far I have no answers.  Perhaps by the time he gets through to the end I'll have thought up some witty and biting comment that may or may not make him think.  I'm open for suggestions.

Post-Christmas Update: What Happens When Santa Comes to Rikuzentakata

I did not see this coming.  Careful preparations and planning did not indicate there would be an aftermath, especially one predicting a divorce.  Allow me to explain.

In mid-December, I asked my beloved to play the role of Santa's brother as he and I visited preschools throughout disaster-stricken Tohoku.  American Christmas candy donated very generously was carried over my husband's shoulder in a large, white bag resembling the one Santa is known to carry.  Here the anonymous goodwill of those who donated this candy would meet bubbling children, eager for chocolate, chewy candy, and sweetness previously untasted.  A time of cheer, we visited five preschools, leaving the sixth for the last day.  Here the real Santa was arriving.  No faux "Santa's brother" at this place.  Whereas other principals and I had strategized keeping the real Santa for Christmas Eve would be less confusing to kids, on Friday, at this preschool they wanted the real deal.  Never mind today's Santa wouldn't look the pictures they'd seen to date.  About the only thing Santa-husband and the real Santa had in common was that they were foreign.

No, today's Santa wasn't a grandfather.  No, today's Santa didn't live in the North Pole.  He lived in Boston.  In America.  No full bearded Santa would arrive.  The kids were fine with this.  Santa was Santa.  So long as he brought presents, who cared whether he was a jolly old man with a belly full of spiced eggnog, bearded, and spoke with an accent?

So, Santa arrived.  The kids sent a letter ahead of time letting Santa know there would be a big sign on the gymnasium window indicating where they were located.  He was to "park" the reindeer back in the hills so they could chat with their deer cousins local to the area--the ones the kids would see by the side of the road on their way to school.

I was Santa's warm-up act.  Walking into the gymnasium in my reindeer costume the kids dressed in their various Christmas and wintry outfits and hats called out, "Santa's coming!" and "Is he here?" and "Do you really know him?"  Santa's visit to this preschool was arranged by me, personal friend of Santa that I am.  I'm happy to make the introduction.  Truly.  I'll do a lot to raise my status with these kids.  Slight exaggeration of who is in my inner circle?  Sure.  Why not?

The teacher gets up and quiets the children.  They can hardly sit still, craning their necks towards the large windows, curtains closed.  She gives a short speech about Santa, how he doesn't speak Japanese so Amya will interpret, that they can ask questions but he will eventually have to leave.  Etcetera, etcetera.

"Well, shall we open the curtains to see if he's here?  If we can see him?"  The kids scream, standing up as fast as they can, running over to the window, curtains now flung open.

And, there he is.  My beloved in a Santa suit, carrying two massive bags over his shoulders.  Little hands bang the window, "Santa! Santa!" and Santa waves back.  The cheering is deafening.  A Brazilian football stadium would have good competition over who was louder today.

That's what happened in December.

Fast forward to March.  I haven't seen these kids since Santa's visit, hating to miss them but unable to work out a schedule that fit the school's and mine.  Entering the same gymnasium where Santa held court three months back, the kids who file in see me and talk at once.
"We got a letter from Santa!"
"Did you?" I say.
"Let me go get it," says a boy and he runs back out to the door proudly displaying the letter written by my Santa-husband, his terrible handwriting visible to all.  He comes back holding the large sheet of paper and hands it to me.  I read it out loud, proud of my Santa-husband's words to these kids.

"Do you think Santa will come again this year?" a girl asks.
"I don't know," I say.  "Santa says here he'll try, but that you have to be good.  Can you be good?"
The room buzzes with kid-talk, and I hear "we will" and "yes" and "of course" and "if he says we have to be good we'll be good" comments flying in all directions.

And then...

And then.  One boy's words, "When I get older I'm going to Boston" kicked open a conversation, a true I-can't-make-this-up moment only kids can make happen.
"You are?" I say.
"Yes."
"For what?"
He gives me a woman-you-are-truly-dumb look and says, "To see Santa."
"Oh," I say, smiling.
"Maybe you can study while you're there, too," I add because maybe Santa-husband won't live there by the time they arrive.

Then I hear, "Me, too!' and "Me, too!" and more of the same.  In twenty years there will be onslaught of students visiting and studying at various Boston universities all coming from Rikuzentakata.  Perhaps at that point they won't be looking for Santa (my husband) anymore, but Boston is now these kids' Mecca, the holiest spot on earth where all good people live and all good things happen.  It is, after all, Santa's home and that alone is reason enough to consider Boston toy heaven.

There are so many children committing to visiting and studying in Boston it's overwhelming and I start to tune out the noise.  I let my eyes wander over the crowd taking in the sounds of Boston-related cheer and then I settle on a girl sitting below me to my left.  She looks up at me and says as if it's the most natural thing in the world, "I'm going to Boston, too.  But, after I get divorced."

Huh?
I misheard, right?
She's five.
I definitely misheard.  And, it's not funny so I'm definitely not going to laugh.
Don't laugh.  Don't laugh.  Don't laugh.
I look down at her again and she repeats herself.
"I'm going to Boston after I get divorced."
"Okay," and I am not proud of the fact I could not respond with a better line.

So, Boston friends.  Take in these children who know of Boston as Santa's home whenever they may arrive and make them feel welcome.  Let them believe Boston is worthy of the place Santa chose as home.

A Silly Story About Handwriting

I used to have recurring dreams.  Not the exact same dream, but the theme was identical.  I dreamt about tornadoes.  Always in the den in the home of my late grandparents, in my dreams I would look out across the fields of corn and watch tornadoes dance towards me.  Some were pastel pink, blue, and mint green.  Once I stood in one looking up at the wind around me.  Never scared, I loved these dreams.  I was in awe (I still am) of their power and grace.  These tornadoes did not destroy.

A suggestion I analyze my dreams led me to a bookstore where I combed through dream dictionaries trying to find meaning.  All the books offered the same explanation:  trauma in my life, crises, extreme emotions, impending disasters.

Please.  Dreaming about tornadoes was a gift.  I felt no tension, upcoming temper tantrum, or doom and gloom on the horizon.  Quite the contrary.  I loved waking up after seeing tornadoes in my sleep.  I felt calm.  Happy.  In my dreams, tornadoes were good.

Which is why I stopped reading silly dream dictionaries.  I didn't agree.  They were wrong.  My dreams.  My rules.

Reading somewhere recently that handwriting filled with loops indicated sociopathic tendencies, I was reminded of these dream dictionaries.  Allow me to share a story.

Because banks in Japan are generally rigid with rules I don't always understand, I opened an account with a branch of a US-based bank.  Here my signature was enough to open an account whereas Japanese banks require a registered stamp.  I have one of these stamps but I don't always know where it is, making it more of a challenge to go to the counter and beg for mercy to access my account without the proper proof of who I am.  (The stamp proves I'm me.  Not my ID.  Don't ask.)

I recently went back to the branch office of this US-based bank to change my address.  I showed proof of who I am and signed on the dotted line.  I handed the paper back to the teller who looks at it, then at the computer screen, then back to me.

"Your signatures don't match," he says.
"What signatures?" I ask because this doesn't make sense.
"Your signature here," and he points to where I just signed, "and here," now pointing to the computer screen.
I'm tempted to ask, "So?  You know it's me," but I don't.  Here's why.

I am one of these people whose signature changes with my mood.  Some days my writing is illegible.  Other days I have big loops for the "y" in my name.  Still other days the "a" and "m" are angular.  Today it's a combination of the above.  The point is, the my signature today does not look like the one I offered when I opened the account.  My mood today?  Okay.  I'm in a hurry.  I'm hungry.  Not cranky.  Generally good.  This leads to a slightly illegible, loopy "y" and pointy "a" and "m".  So then, what was my mood when I opened the account?  How the hell am I supposed to remember this?

Evidently, this hand-writing-changing-with-moods thing is not all that common.  All around me are people whose signature has remained the same for years:  my parents, husband, son.  I'm baffled by this.  They're baffled by me.

I think through all this as I contemplate what to say to the man in front of me.  I finally decide on what seems to me the simplest answer.

"May I see my original signature?"
"Ah, sorry.  No."
I laughed.
I did.
He didn't.
Fine.

"Okay.  Let me try again."  I take a piece of paper from the small tablet in front of me and sign it not all that differently.
"Here.  Try this."
He takes the sheet, looks at it, glances up at the screen, and handing it back to me, says, "Sorry.  No."

You've got to be kidding me.
"Okay.  Fine."
I completely change my signature to the one I use when I'm annoyed and hand that to him.
"Closer," he says.
I am not amused.
"What's different?" I ask.  "And, why can't I see my signature on your screen?  You've seen my photo ID.  You know I am who I say I am."
"Yes, I'm sorry.  But, we need your signatures to match."
Of course.

I sit back.  Here is the first time my changing-by-my-moods handwriting has gotten me in trouble.  Don't other people have this problem?  Why doesn't my husband's handwriting ever change?  And, what about this "loopy handwriting indicates sociopathic tendencies" article I just read?  Am I weird?  I really don't remember how I signed my name over a year ago, much less the mood I was in on that day.  I'm actually stumped.

I lean in to the counter.
"Look," I say.  "I don't remember how I signed my name a year ago.  I don't know what to do."
The man in front of me sighs, exasperated by this foreign woman whose handwriting doesn't match.
"Try again," he says, handing me another slip of paper.  I am close to yanking it out of his hand but don't.  I slowly sign my three names, a deliberate attempt to let my handwriting express my complete and utter annoyance.  He doesn't get it, of course.

I slide it across the table and sit back again, crossing my arms across my chest in defiance.  This is a challenge.  He takes a pen out of his drawer and circles two names from the first sheet and one from the second.
"This combination," he says.  "Copy these two from this paper and this one from the other."

Not feeling cooperative anymore, I take out my phone and snap photos of the two sheets with circled names.  I now have a record of how I must sign my name at this bank.  How I wish they would just let me use my stamp.

Signing again, looking at each circle and copying carefully I am done.  I pass.  Joy.

Annoyed with the bank, I leave with the thought it's that article that really nags at me.  There is no way loopy handwriting means I'm a sociopath.  I refuse to believe this article which surely was written by the same person who wrote that dream dictionary.  Careful what you read, people.  It might just ruin your mood, and we all know where that leads.

Signed,

Amya

Mad Men Japan Style

Of course there are exceptions.  Don't get all wound up over gross generalizations.  I'm trying to make a point. 

There is a distinct time gap between Tohoku, the northern portion of honshu island, and Tokyo. 
Tokyo sprawls.  It seemingly never ends:  blinking lights, cars, billboards, noise, buildings, trains, people.  Tohoku is quaint, remote, quiet (frogs and crickets at night), at times provincial, small towns dotting coastlines and hills. 

Culturally, also, there are major differences.  Tokyo juxtaposes the old and modern as if it was meant to be a city that eats contradictions in an ice cream sundae.  It's normal.  It's good.  It's no big deal.  Ultra-modern buildings and cutting edge technology give birth to new ideas, art, designs, and landscapes because, these are after all, ingredients for the sundae.  Alongside this metropolis of glass and steel stand the shrines tucked between two mega-, modern buildings.  Temples, rickety homes, gardens, dilapidated wooden structures coexist with the gleaming, shiny post-modern structures.  It works.  This is Tokyo.

Tohoku by contrast is still in the 1960s.  It's Mad Men to today's Manhattan.  Social norms haven't changed with the times.  Time moves on but ideas haven't.

For the most part. 

Something about this hit me today as I rode up the elevator in one of Tokyo's most high-end and modern buildings to attend an meeting.  Fourteen students from Takata High School are in Tokyo this week (spring break) for an internship/home stay experience.  The Canadian Chamber of Commerce in Japan has kindly sponsored students for the second year.  How grateful am I?  Let me count the ways in which this act matters.

First, I rode the elevator wit a girl and her host-grandmother.  The student faced the doors of the elevator.  She looked up at the mirrored ceiling.  She watched the people get off the elevator.  She pressed buttons.  It was when she turned around to face her host during a bilingual announcement, "floor fifteen" in English and Japanese that I truly got it.  Her grin was priceless.  She was giddy.  There are no bilingual elevators I know of in Iwate.  Certainly not in Rikuzentakata.  Here is a first.

Second, as the host companies and host families introduced themselves, half spoke in accented English, half spoke in English and Japanese.  Here are different ethnic groups, languages, nationalities represented in one room, all to host these students.  This is normal here. 

Third, with the announcement of the party that will be held on Thursday night came an expectation.  "You've got four days.  Your English will be good by Thursday night, yes?"  The students' reactions varied. 
"Who, me?"
"What?"
Disbelief.
Pressure.
Panic.

"Oh, come on," I said.  "You've got four days.  Your young.  You'll hear English this whole week.  You'll be surprised what your ears will pick up."  Most are wary.  I smile.  "Trust me."

If Tohoku today is like Mad Men, Japan style, then I've thrown these fourteen students forward by 50 years into a culture familiar enough yet vastly different.  Seeing these same students on Thursday will be the answer on how they fared.

Grow.  Believe.  Try.

On Girls Day: An Apology To My Non-existent Daughter, and Wishes For My "Adopted" Daughter

I was cheated.  All I wanted for girls day in Japan was a set of hina ningyo.  Celebrated on March 3rd with a seven-tier stand of the most beautiful dolls any girl could hope for, I coveted this graceful doll set.  All my girl friends had them.  All of my girl friends had them.  Not me.  I am forever scared.  My parents did me a great disservice.  Send me a box of Band-Aids.

Why wouldn't they buy me these dolls?  Did they not love me?  Did I not deserve to be celebrated along with all the other girls in Japan?  Why not?  Why not?  Pretty please.

My parents answered with a very simple and powerful answer.  "We're not spending thousands of dollars on dolls."

Yes, these dolls really do cost thousands of dollars.  They're just dolls.  Dolls every girl wants, but in the end they're just dolls.  It wasn't about deserving these beauties.  It was simple math.  I get that now.  Many, many years later, I get that now.

I do not have a daughter.  I wanted one, not in place of our son, but in addition to him.  For many reasons we didn't.  I will take this regret to my grave.  Which is why I've placed a very special order with my son.  "Give me a grandbaby girl."  Specifically, a red head.  More specifically, a red haired girl with bouncing ringlets and gray eyes.  I've seen the one I want.  She walks hand-in-hand with her grandfather down the sidewalk in our city outside of Boston. 

"That one," I've said to my son seeing her again as we drive through town one day.  "I want that one."
"I'll see what I can do," he's promised, laughing.  "But, I doubt I can get you that specific girl.  She seems to belong to someone already.  Careful what you say.  You sound like a stalker."
"Please," I say.  "Don't be so dramatic."
I sighed loudly.  Whatever.  My son laughs, again.  I do, too.  Never mind the fact research shows both parents need red haired genes in order to produce a red-haired baby, and neither my side or my husband's family has anyone who matches this requirement.  A girl can dream.  I'm hoping for a miracle.

Had we been blessed with a daughter would I have bought her a set of hina dolls?  No.  I'm firmly in my parents camp.  I would never have spent thousands of dollars on dolls.  Why then do I chide my parents for depriving me?  No good reason, I suppose.  I wasn't then, and am not now very good at taking "NO" for an answer.  I wanted these dolls.  It was as simple as that.

Instead of the beautiful display of real hina dolls we made our own.  This was torture to the seven-year old me as they were in no way a replacement for the real thing.  My mother and I would drain two eggs, let them dry over night, and fold origami kimonos for the eggs that would become the prince and princess.  I would then proceed to paint faces on the eggs.  Every year I would crush one with an, "Oops.  I guess you'll have to buy me the real ones now" line which was never resulted in the purchase I desperately hoped for.  Oh well.  I tried.  I truly did.

While I do not have a daughter, I have informally adopted many.  We have no signed papers but just an understanding.  I had to send a rather terse e-mail to one of my daughters recently.  She botched something and it was my job to inform and guide her through the fix.

This daughter lost her real mother in the tsunami three years ago.  She was 17 at the time.  A nursing student now, she's trying to move on.

She called me 15 minutes after I sent the e-mail.  We talked about its content.  She explained.  I listened.
"I need to tell you something," she said towards the end of our phone call.
"What is it?"
"I've been," and she pauses, "I've been diagnosed with depression."
I don't speak.
"I'm getting treatment."
"I'm glad," I say.
"I'm not excusing what I did, but in hindsight, I realize I should never have done that project.  I wasn't in a good place.  I should have turned it down."

She talks some more, her voice cracking in some spots.  I try to keep mine steady.  I tell her to call me any time she needs to.  I tell her I will always be there for her.  I silently curse the Japanese mental health care system again, the one that keeps people shut up about their trauma lest they become stigmatized as "mentally ill".  I tell her I'm proud of her.  I tell her she's brave.  I ask if I can help.

As a child I prayed my parents would change their minds about purchasing hina dolls.  As an adult I pray for my daughter with depression.  Girls can survive being denied dolls.  I'm proof.  Don't pray for me that magically I'll see dolls on my front door step tomorrow.  I'll be fine living without.  If you do pray, if you believe in asking for help from whatever deity you work with, please pray for my daughter.  Light a candle.  Sing.  Dance.  Send good vibes.

My daughter and I ended our chat with a promise.
"If I'm still living in Japan when I'm old, I want you to take care of me," I say.
She laughs.  "You'll be a handful," she says.
"Of course I will," I say.
"I'll try."
"I don't like needles," I say to her, and laugh.
"We'll figure something out."
"Promise?"
"I promise."

The Ad in the Train

Tokyo subways are covered with ads.  Look up and one will see hanging from the ceiling on colorful sheets of paper the latest articles touting the truth through propaganda, cheap journalism, paparazzi photos, and tabloid gossip.  Look on the walls of the trains and one will see everything from beer to insurance to waxing services to festivals highlighted for sale and to inform.  I don't mind these much.  I find it a good way to keep up with pop culture in Japan, trends, and whatever passes for news.  Most days my eyes glaze over what's on the walls of steel tubes running underground in Tokyo.  Today, well today I stand in awe of people who connect dots not meant to be connected.

I swear I am not making this up.  I feel that must be stated front and center because while I pride myself in an active and adventurous imagination, today I must concede.  Evidently, I would have failed miserably had I gone into marketing or advertising.  This ad ... this ad takes the cake. 

Above the automatic doors of each train car are two screens.  The one on the right shows the name of the station, how far we are from the next several stations, and whether the doors on the left or right will open.  This screen is informative.  It pays to read this if sleeping, or reading a smart phone display or a book is how one usually passes the time on a train.  Stops are easy to miss. 

The other screen displays more ads.  Today on the way to my lunch meeting I glanced up and didn't pay attention to the girl selling cosmetics while she sat at a white desk.  I didn't pay attention to which coffee brand was introducing a new flavor.  What caught my attention was the two-part question, one line in red and another in blue under the heading, "If a foreigner stopped you on the street and asked for directions in their language what would you do?"  The red option was, A: say you don't understand them and walk away.  The blue option was, B: show them using gestures and explain the best you could.

Flash to a screen shot of a man with the red answer.  I can't hear him but the line he's evidently giving the mic is, "I'd walk away if I don't understand them."  The woman with the blue answer is indeed gesturing wildly, and while I still can't hear the answer, the line reads, "Surely if I point enough they'll understand."

Then comes the bar graph.  Ask 100 Japanese the same question and how many offer the red "I'd walk away" answer and how many would give the blue "I'd gesture" answer.  I hold my breath.  I prepare.  This can't be good.

And, I'm wrong.  Of the 100, 81 would gesture and try to help while 19 would shake their heads and walk away.  Nice job, 81 people.  That's kind of you to try.  Thanks.

I assume this is the end.  I am wrong again.  (Surely, a record.  Twice in one day?)  This is the part I can't make up. 

So far this is not an advertisement but a public service announcement about helpful Japanese assisting lost foreigners.  We all feel good watching this, the Japanese satisfied with their kindness and foreigners touched by the ever-polite Japanese sense of hospitality.  Why not end it there?  This is where my imagination fails me.  I would have left it at a feel-good group hug message.  Sell something after this?  Why?  Why ruin a good thing?

What comes next stumped me.  The fuzzy warm feeling story turns into a psychological analysis of the red-answer people and blue-answer people.  A perky young woman shows up on the screen and asks, "If the people answering in red were a type of ramen, what flavor would they be?"

What?  Ramen?  We're determining personality types now by associating them with ramen?  Why?

She asks the same question about the blue-answers.  What flavor would they be?

For the record, the red people were soy sauce flavored, and the blue people were salt flavored.  Soy sauce because they don't like change (I'm quoting here) and they don't take risks, and salt for the blue answers because they like adventure and will try new things.  I am not making this up. 

There's more.  (Because, why end here?) 

Now comes the advertisement.  Enter a new app developed by one of Japan's largest telephone companies offering instant verbal translation.  Want to ask, "How do I get to the train station?"  There's an app for that.  Download it and speak your question into your phone and up pops both the written and spoken phrase you are to ask.  It also translates the answer back to you, presumably, if the person speaks their answer into your phone.

So, there you have it.  Helpful Japanese get classified into a ramen flavor to sell an app. 

I feel some how entitled to take a bow after sharing this with you.  You're welcome.