Home is where your heart is, whether you like it or not.

This summer I was lucky enough to spend five weeks back in my home state of Minnesota. It was the first time I had returned since I moved to Amsterdam more than a year ago, and I definitely made the most of it. I spent quality time with my family, many days catching up with friends, and every free minute relaxing on one of the many gorgeous lakes Minnesota is known for. It was great to be back.

Before I left Amsterdam, I was incredibly excited for my return, but also a bit worried. The last time I experienced a big homecoming was after spending 18 months away. During that time I had lived and taught in South Korea, volunteered in Thailand, and traveled extensively throughout Southeast Asia and Europe. I remember how excited I had been to return to the place that had been so comfortable for me for most of my life, and how shocked I was with the reverse culture shock that greeted me. I felt like a foreigner in my own country and, well, I didn't like it.

So this time, I mentally prepared. I anticipated a similar feeling and was ready for it to knock me off my feet. I'm not sure if it was my preparation that worked or the fact that I psyched myself out more than necessary, but that feeling I anxiously awaited never came. On the contrary, it felt great to be back in Minnesota. I was surprised by how natural everything felt and I was elated to surround myself with the people who have played such important roles in my life for as long as I can remember.

Though something did feel different. Each time I would see someone for the first time, they'd ask me how it was to be home. "It's great!" I'd say, but I felt a bit like I was lying. While it was great to be back, it didn't necessarily feel like I was home. Sure Minnesota is a comfortable place for me to be, and I certainly do feel at home in my parents' house, but it's not necessarily my home anymore. No, I thought, my home is my apartment in Amsterdam - that cozy little flat in which I live with my husband and our cute little feline. And as much as I loved every minute of my Minnesotan summer, I often found myself feeling homesick for my life in Amsterdam.

The five weeks passed, simultaneously slowly and quickly as time seems to do, and before I knew it I was on my way back to Amsterdam. I was sad to leave Minnesota, excited to return to Amsterdam, content with all the memories I had made, and completely unprepared for what was to come.

Almost immediately after I returned, I was completely, totally, unbelievably overcome with homesickness (I realize that this sentence is redundant, but that's the only way I can describe just how I felt). What's worse, I was utterly confused as to how I could be so completely, totally, unbelievably overcome with homesickness for a place that didn't even really feel like my home just a few weeks ago. Yes, part of me was glad to be back with my husband and our cute little feline, but I was also beside myself with loneliness for those I had left behind. I was consumed by feelings of sadness, and there was just no consoling me or working through my feelings logically. I spent about two days laying on the couch, trying to distract myself from myself, and suffering from what I can only describe as heartbreak.

And that's when it clicked. Through my jet-lagged fog and tear-bleary eyes, a time old saying popped into my head.

"Home is where your heart is."

Never had words spoken so truly or hurt so deeply. Home is most definitely where your heart is, and in my case (and the case of many expatriates, I'm sure), my heart was split right down the middle between two. I realized then that Minnesota most certainly is, and always will be, my home. Though I may not live there, my heart is there with my dear family and my irreplaceable friends, and that is enough to make it my home. But Amsterdam is also my home, as my heart is present here in this city and in the beautiful life I'm creating with my husband.

So what does that mean for a girl with a heart split down the middle? Well, I can't really say. I usually like to end my posts with a little lesson that I've learned from my experience, but this one isn't so clear yet. I know that I'm lucky to have such a full heart, but when your heart is torn, it's harder to feel the luckiness. I'm sure with time I'll be able to balance the two homes with more grace, but until then, I'm going to have to keep juggling.

An Amsterdamiversary

While tomorrow will be my official Amsterdamiversary (or, in layman's terms, one year since I arrived in Amsterdam), today marks a full year since I hugged my parents goodbye and boarded a plane on a one-way ticket. As often seems the case when I reflect on time, part of me can't believe it was only a year ago that I moved to this foreign land while the other part feels like I've been here forever. This year has been full of ups and downs, exciting developments as well as setbacks, and a whole lot of growth. I surely can't say that I've loved every minute, but I'm learning to be grateful for each one because things are finally starting to feel like they're falling into place.

I feel like I may have written something similar to those last two sentences before, and I did mean them at the time, but new developments have me feeling them even stronger now. While I've been substitute teaching for the past five months or so, I haven't been called in very regularly until the last month and a half during which I've been working every day (you may have noticed I've been extra busy by the lack of blog posts, my sincerest apologies for that). Being back in a school has been great, but it's also been very taxing to teach different students every day, and often switching classes once, twice, or even thrice a day. I've learned so much about the students, the curriculum, and gotten to know many of the teachers, but I've lacked any real connection to a specific classroom. Lately, I've felt that every shred of energy I can muster was channeled into teaching, building relationships, and trying to further my position within my school's community. But today, as I signed a contract to be a homeroom teacher of a shared pre-Kindergarten class next year, I can say that my hard work paid off.

The timing of my Amsterdamiversary is actually quite fitting because today also happens to be the last day of school for me. It really felt like I was closing a chapter as I said goodbye to my students and colleagues, walked out of the school as a substitute-only for the last time, and watched the school fade into the background from the train window. And as I reflected back on my first year during the commute home, I felt content about all that has happened, proud of what I've accomplished, yet I also recognized how lost I've felt at times. But mostly, as with the end of any school year, I felt relieved that it was all over.

So tomorrow, as summer break begins, I will enter my second year in Amsterdam with enthusiasm for what lies ahead, gratitude that it begins with more direction than the last, and the motivation to keep making what I want of this life. I hope you'll join me for the ride!

Time to get naked.

There is something magical about those warm weather days that signify the beginning of summer. The sun blazes in the sky, toasting your skin and summoning drops of sweat to the surface. The air is fragrant with scents of flowers and barbecue smoke intermingling ever so deliciously. Parks are full of families laughing over a picnic lunch, lovers tangled on a blanket in the shade, dogs frolicking in the great wide open, and, if you're in Amsterdam or another large northern European city, a whole lot of naked children.

In Amsterdam, summer is a season in which I've come to expect to see the naked bums of children every time I enter a park and bare breasts every time I visit one of Holland's beaches. To which I say,

"I love it all. Bring on the nudity!"

I've come to find that the countries I've lived in outside of the States (alright, there are only two, but I know these two are representative of many more) embrace nudity a hell of a lot more than we do in the good old U S of A. This is not to say that the kind folks in South Korea indulge in nakedness the way people do in the Netherlands, but in both of these countries there exist places where it is widely accepted to take all your clothes off around other people. 

In South Korea they have jimjilbangs. Jimjilbangs are public bath houses where, separated by gender, people go to soak in hot tubs, revitalize in cold baths, and scrub their bodies clean. In the jimjilbang, you can find people of all ages embracing nudity together and doing whatever it is they need to do for hygienic and pampering purposes. 

I'll admit that my first experience at a jimjilbang wasn't comfortable from the get-go. I was still quite new to Korea and, thanks to a weekend trip that included a disgusting guesthouse bathroom and a Buddhist temple with no available shower, found myself in a situation where a jimjilbang was the only chance for a shower. Further, my travel buddies were also my co-workers, which made it just a bit more awkward. So yes, I was a bit apprehensive at first. I mean, I'm pretty sure the last time I had donned my birthday suit in front of a room of people was for middle school swimming. And even then, I didn't. No, at the ripe young age 14, I think just about every one of us changed awkwardly while trying to keep most of our goods hidden under our towels.

But here I was, getting naked with my colleagues, and surprise, surprise! It wasn't that scary. Once we let our guards (and our pants) down and entered the room with all the other naked ladies, all the nervousness slipped away. We were all equally vulnerable, and we were all equally powerful. After that, I made it a point to visit other jimjilbangs during my time in Seoul. First of all, it's quite difficult to say no to a nice hot tub, sauna, cold bath, and scrub down. It's also quite freeing and refreshing to be in a room where everyone feels comfortable in their own skin.

In the Netherlands they take it a step further with co-ed saunas. After becoming accustomed to the jimjilbang, going to a co-ed sauna wasn't too much of a shock. Yes, there are different bits and pieces present, but once again you are all equally vulnerable or equally powerful depending on how you want to look at it. What was a shock, however, was being naked around so many people of the opposite gender and never once feeling like I was being checked-out or sized-up. I have the same experience when I go topless at a beach here. When nudity is the norm, the lingering eyes aren't looking so hard to uncover the forbidden fruit. As refreshing as the jimjilbangs were, this is even better.

The more I find myself in situations where nudity is accepted, the more I wish I had grown up with this as the norm. Take, for example, the time my sister and I were in Iceland visiting a hot-spring pool. As we entered the changing room, I once again found myself surrounded by nude females of all ages. I couldn't help but notice the teenagers in this locker room, chatting it up comfortably while they stood around nude, and compare it to the very opposite experience of my middle school swimming days. It made me wonder how differently I would perceive my body had I grown up in a place where seeing other people naked - young, old and every age in between - was a frequent occurrence. Would I feel more beautiful? Would I be less critical?

How would I feel about my body if, instead of being taught to hide it out of modesty, it was commonplace to bare it in front of others? Would I feel more confident? Would I feel more powerful?

How different would my body image be if what I saw daily were the nude bodies of real women in addition to (because I'm afraid we just can't get away from them) the air-brushed-within-an-inch-of-their-lives super models that dominate advertisements and magazines?

What if this openness to nudity started when I was no older than a toddler running in the park?

So this, my readers, is why I'm all for nude saunas, topless beaches and naked baby bums in the park. Not because it's eye candy (though who doesn't love a cute baby's bottom?), but because I believe embracing the body in its natural form can only be a step in the right direction.

...

Photo credits:
Naked Hula Hoop by Todd Morris (CC-BY-20)

March Grateful & A Guide To Starting Your Own Gratitude Project

"Every day, think as you wake up, today I am fortunate to be alive, I have precious human life, I am not going to waste it. I am going to use all my energies to develop myself, to expand my heart out to others; to achieve enlightenment for the benefit of all beings. I am going to have kind thoughts towards others, I am not going to get angry or think badly about others. I am going to benefit others as much as I can."

-Dalai Lama XIV

The first part of this quote from His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama has guided my grateful project. Each morning for the past three months, I've woken up feeling fortunate to be alive and filled with purpose to express my gratitude throughout the day. This month, as I compile my graphic calendar for the month of March, I can't believe that I'm already and only a quarter of the way through my project. I say already because it amazes me how fast the time has gone and how habitual this project has become. I say only because I am humbled when I think of how much I have benefitted from this project in such a short amount of time, and can't help but anticipate what the future holds.

The end of this quote, paired with the thrill I feel from this project, inspires me to pay it forward by encouraging others to participate in their own gratitude project. To do so, I've come up with six steps that I believe will act as a guide. I hope you'll read them and consider starting a project of your own, for as I've experienced firsthand, the more you give gratitude, the more the universe will send good things your way. So, without further ado, I give you:

A Guide To Starting Your Own Gratitude Project

1.) Make a plan. Make a commitment.

While documenting gratitude through daily photographs works wonders for me, maybe you'd rather make a weekly phone call to tell someone you're grateful for them or write a few sentences in a journal three days a week. However you decide to express your gratitude, take the time to make a clear plan. Equally as important, take a moment to make a commitment to yourself and your project. You may also want to mark your calendar, ask a friend or partner to hold you accountable, or set a reminder on your phone to be sure to carry out your actions. A little outside help never hurts.

2.) Begin.

This step, though seemingly obvious, may just be the most difficult. No more "I'll start eating healthy tomorrow" or "I'll put money into the savings account next month" excuses. As soon as you finish your plan and make the commitment, start your project. And start right away! Let the gratitude begin.

3.) Be present. Be aware. Be open.

Once you've started your gratitude project, you'll probably notice that you don't feel gratitude only on the days or times your plan dictates. Instead, the feeling of gratitude will strike when the bus pulls up right as you get to the stop, when the earthy scent of fresh vegetables overwhelms you at the market, or as you're drying off with a clean, warm towel. Be aware of these moments. Be present in these moments. The more you acknowledge gratitude, the more the universe gives you things to be grateful for. Open yourself up to the possibilities.

4.) Stick with it.

I guarantee that, especially at the beginning of your project, there will be days you don't want to do it and moments you feel like you're forcing it. Do it anyways. Maybe you're feeling crabby (you are human after all). That's fine. Give yourself time to pout, and then move on and give some gratitude. You'll find that you're glad you did it, and it will probably lift your spirits as well.

Also important is to not give up once you start seeing and feeling results. Instead of stopping when the going gets good, keep pushing forward and let it get better.

5.) Share your gratitude.

One of the many rewarding aspects of my project is all the positive feedback I receive from sharing it. I can't imagine that any harm will come from connecting with others over gratitude, so give it a try and spread the gratitude. If your plan is to personally express your gratitude for others, well then you have the opportunity to share built right into your project. If your plan is to write in a gratitude journal, you could read it aloud to a friend or partner. Or if you're sitting next to a stranger on a park bench when you find yourself overcome with gratitude for the beautiful day you're enjoying, take a minute to connect with them and comment on how grateful you are for the wonderful weather. I suppose there's a chance they'll think you're crazy, but my guess is that they'll agree and smile along with you. You'll feel even more gratitude for having made them smile, and there's a chance you just spread gratitude to someone who really needs the reminder.

6.) Reflect

Once you've gotten into a rhythm, add a little reflection to the mix. I know you're already reflecting each time you give gratitude, but also take the time to look back on your project as a whole. I do this by compiling my calendar graphic at the end of each month. In doing so, I once again give gratitude for all the wonderful things that happened that month. And on days when I'm feeling down, I look back through my photos to remind myself just how many things I have to be grateful for. So, after you've made your gratitude phone call, take a minute to think about it, write about it, or just soak it up. If you're keeping a journal, flip back through the pages and re-read your entries. Giving gratitude is a process, and the more time you devote to your project, the more benefits you will receive.

Good luck, and keep giving!

Previous installments:

January Grateful

February Grateful

The Stolen Bike: A Rite of Passage

The expatriate life can be a tricky, emotional journey. If you're like me, with strong family and friend ties to the land from which you came, it often feels as if you're caught between two worlds. I seem to go back and forth between being ecstatic to live in Amsterdam and missing Minnesota to the point where my heart aches.

You see, on one hand, Amsterdam is most certainly my home. In late August 2013, I became an registered Amsterdammer (you may recall the post written excitedly after mijn verblijfsvergunning is ingewilligd). I've since planted roots by personalizing our flat, starting a job, and paying taxes here among other things. All the signs point to the fact that Amsterdam is my home, and most days I feel this way too.

On the other hand, I have moments when I wonder what exactly I'm doing here, and why I chose to move an ocean away from so many that I love (I'm pretty sure that just returning from a week in Florida with my family has something to do with these feelings rising to the surface). While I have become accustomed to the many differences between my old home and my new home, I don't necessarily feel that I fit in with Dutch culture and have realized that I'll never fully feel like a Dutch woman. 

Yes, being an expatriate has its ups and downs. And yesterday, I experienced a combination of both feelings in the event I'm now referring to as "The Stolen Bike: A Rite of Passage." As I'm sure you know, Amsterdam is full of bicycles. In fact, the data I find tells me that there are as many bikes as people, if not more, in Amsterdam proper. That said, I'm not sure why bicycle theft is such a problem since the research indicates everyone already has a bike, but unfortunately it is, and unfortunately I'm not immune to it.

My first bike in Amsterdam got me safely to my first wedding,
but ended up costing more money and causing more trouble than it was worth.

About two months ago, I purchased a brand new, shiny bike to replace the used bike that was starting to give me more trouble than it was worth. My goodness, how I loved my new ride. It was an omafiets (direct translation: grandma bicycle) which means that it had pedal brakes and no gears ... just an average yet beautiful street bike like the one your grandmother rode when she was young (or something like that). 

This empty space on the sidewalk is where my bike should be.

Imagine my disappointment when the husband and I walked down the stairs with a picnic in tow to find an empty sidewalk where my bike should have been. I was incredibly bummed. Not only were we no longer going to be able to ride to the Amstelpark and enjoy a picnic in the sun surrounded by budding flowers, but my beloved bicycle was gone. And probably forever.

It was then, well actually it was after a few tears were shed, that the husband tried to spin the event in a positive light (I think my gratitude project is having an effect on him as well). He shared the story of when his bike was stolen a few years back, he reminded me of our other friend's bike that was stolen a few months ago, and both stories then caused me to remember another friend who had her bike stolen this week. He helped me realize that as much as a stolen bike really, truly sucks, I have now gone through the Amsterdam rite of passage to become a true Amsterdammer. It's just too bad that I'm now an Amsterdammer without a bicycle.

So here I am, about to spend my afternoon looking for a new bike and reflecting to see if there is a lesson I can take away from this (a lesson besides the fact that it's probably a good idea to lock my bike to a rack instead of just to itself). What I'm finding is that no matter how comfortable I may feel some days, there are bound to be other days when I feel out of place. As happy as I am to be starting a marriage with the love of my life, there will always be part of me that misses my other loves across the ocean. The lows will continue to accompany the highs, but what matters most is how I choose to view the events that happen to me. So today, I choose to feel like a true Amsterdammer, to find a new set of wheels to take me where I need to go, and to enjoy my life as an expatriate.

Shopping in Amsterdam: A Love / Hate Relationship

I have a love / hate relationship with shopping in the Netherlands. I definitely love the abundance of flower stands and open air markets, but unfortunately the shopping is not all sunshine and tulips. Growing up in the States, I've been pretty spoiled by the convenience of American shopping. Shopping in Amsterdam, however, is a completely different story, and I attribute this to three main reasons:

1.) The hours and days of operation
2.) The store-specific availability of products
3.) The reality that I have to carry all purchases on my bike

In Amsterdam, most shops are open Monday through Saturday, from 9 or 10 am until about 6 pm. Grocery stores are an exception, opening for limited hours on Sundays, and often staying open until 10 pm every other day of the week. Another exception is Thursday, when stores will stay open until 9 pm to accommodate shoppers who work during normal shopping hours. Shops in Amsterdam's center are also open on Sundays, but believe me that unless you can navigate through crowds of tourists or fully embrace the virtue of patience, you'll want to stay far away.

At first, I perceived these limitations as inconveniences ... and I hated them. But then I changed my mind. I realized that they aren't necessarily inconvenient, they just mean that shopping has to be more of a planned activity. It also means that people are spending their time doing things other than working or shopping on evenings and Sundays. And I think we can all agree to love that, right?

Another thing that took some getting used to was going to many stores to acquire everything on my shopping list. Very often, my shopping list looks something like this:



In the States, this is a one-stop shopping list. In Amsterdam, however, I have to go to at least three stores to make these purchases ... possibly four if the grocery store doesn't have the specific light bulb I'm looking for. It's making these multiple stops to cross everything off my simple list (this is a pretty simple list, right?) that I like least about Amsterdam shopping.

I'm getting used to it though. And I'm actually starting to love the fact that Amsterdam doesn't have the one-stop everything stores so commonly found in the States. Instead, the city has a whole slew of neighborhood shops that specialize in specific items and offer a huge variety. While it takes a bit more effort, I never have to bike more than 1 km (or just over half a mile) to find all the items on my list. Plus, my neighborhood's butcher shop, seafood shop, cheese shop, flower shop, and pet shop (to name just a few) easily allow me to shop local and interact with store owners who are (usually) more than happy to help me make the best selection for my needs.

Lastly, there's the bike situation. This one is mostly love. I love being able to hop on my bike to go shopping. I love relying on my own legs to get me where I need to go, and I love getting exercise and fresh air while doing so. I also love that only being able to carry so much means that the husband and I buy groceries more frequently, and that this results in us buying more fresh foods.

There are times, of course, when I hate it. This mostly happens when it's raining, my bike decides to give me troubles, or I have a long list of items to buy resulting in multiple trips back to the flat. Like that one time I was planning a wedding and had to get ten vases back to our flat without breaking them. In the rain. Uphill both ways. Ok, maybe that last part wasn't true, but at that moment I was in the thick of my hate relationship with Amsterdam shopping. Thankfully, these times are few and far between. Usually, I'm the girl with my tote full of goods, slightly annoyed from going to a variety of stores, but mostly just happy to biking home in my new neighborhood.

One tiny, seemingly insignificant, life-changing decision.

It's incredible to look back at your life and trace the steps it took to get you to a specific moment. Most often there is a chain of events that led you in a certain direction; a multitude of intertwined decisions that, when all working together, brought you to where you are today. But every once in a while, you can pinpoint one tiny, seemingly insignificant thing you did that made a huge difference. For me, that tiny, seemingly insignificant thing was bringing earplugs to a handsome, sleepy traveler as he relaxed in a hammock.

Let me back up a bit.

This is me at Erawan Falls, three years ago today.

After teaching in South Korea for a year, I decided to take the long way home by spending nearly six months winding my way through Southeast Asia and Europe. My first stop was Thailand, and by March 5, 2011, I had been in the country for about six weeks. The first two weeks were spent traveling with my parents. We visited temples and got daily massages in Bangkok, zip-lined in the jungle and visited the night market in Chiang Mai, and soaked up the sun and relaxed on the beaches of Phuket. The next four weeks were spent volunteering at the Gibbon Rehabilitation Project (GRP) in the tiny village of Bang Rong in Phuket. Here, I woke up early to feed small apes and clean their cages, learned and taught others about wildlife conservation, and camped in the wilderness with minimal supplies. The experiences I had in Thailand were exciting to say the least, and transformative if we're being completely honest. Yet little did I know that the most life-changing moment of all was yet to come.

Exactly three years ago today, I was traveling with a girl I barely knew. She was the childhood friend of a mutual friend who was supposed to be traveling with us, but who was stuck in Korea because of a broken leg. This situation left me in charge of planning the rest of our Thailand trip, and because I had been to a handful of Thailand's must-see places with my parents, I decided we should go to Kanchanaburi, a destination a little more off the beaten track, and recommended to me by one of the Thai employees at the GRP.

We stayed in Kanchaburi for only two nights, signing up for an excursion to visit Erawan Falls and the bridge over the River Kwai on our only full day. There were a handful of other travelers on this excursion, and throughout the day we mingled with them as we walked along and swam in the waterfalls, enjoyed a lunch of Thai noodles, and visited the Burma Railway, learning about the 100,000 Asian civilian workers and prisoners of war that died during its construction. At the end of the excursion, a few of us decided to take the train the whole way back to the city. A handsome French/Dutch traveler and I were two of those people, so we, along with an Italian couple and a Japanese girl, talked away the afternoon as we admired Thailand's lush scenery from the train's hard, wooden benches and reveled in the warm breeze floating through the open windows.

This is the husband sitting on the Burma Railway, three years ago today.

The handsome traveler and I were staying at the same guesthouse, so our conversation continued as we walked back from the train station. When we arrived, we were invited to a dinner planned by some of the other travelers on the excursion. We both accepted the invitation, and so our conversation continued into the evening, through dinner, down the street to a bar, and finishing with a walk back to the guesthouse.

As the night came to an end we said our goodbyes, wishing each other good luck for our travels. We were both leaving Kanchanaburi the next day to head to Thailand's southern islands. I returned to my room, feeling very content after a day full of exploration and good conversation. But then, just as I was about to put in the earplugs that I rely on for a good night's sleep, I remembered that the handsome traveler had complained about being kept up the night before by his noisy neighbors. Looking out the window, I saw him relaxing in a hammock, and decided to go out and give him a pair of earplugs to ensure that he would get a good night's sleep as well.

And that was it. That was it! That tiny, seemingly insignificant decision I made to bring earplugs to a handsome, sleepy traveler ended up being the most important, life-changing moment of my life. For as I approached the hammock, the handsome traveler reached out his hand, placed it on the back of my head, and kissed me. And from that kiss stemmed emails, a few days on the Thai island of Ko Tao, a week in Bali, a weekend in France, two years of trips to Minnesota and Amsterdam, emails and video calls, a wedding, and now a life together. I never could've imagined that this tiny decision would be the best one I ever made ... but it was!

Now as I mentioned before, there is often a chain of events that create your life's path, and this is certainly true for this story as well. My dad, for example, likes to take credit for getting me to Asia in the first place. You see, he was the one who showed me the link to a job opportunity and encouraged me to act on it. Also, had it not been for my parents' trip to Thailand, I probably wouldn't have ended up in Kanchanaburi at all. In fact, had I not volunteered at the GRP and acted on the recommendation from an employee there, I wouldn't have gone to Kanchanaburi either. And then, of course, there is my friend who broke her leg. Had she not injured herself on a pre-school sledding field trip (true story), thus leaving me in charge of our itinerary and also encouraging me to go to Bali for a week while she recovered on a beach in Cambodia, well, who knows how things would've played out.

But, in the end, regardless of how I got there in the first place, it all comes down to the earplugs. For had I not decided to give them to the handsome, sleepy traveler as he relaxed in the hammock, I wouldn't be living in Amsterdam today, celebrating my three happiest years with the love of my life.