I don't know what that is, but take my picture by it!

There are lots of unknown, unfamiliar things here. For example, lunch today was a global smorgasbord. I had lots of things on my plate that were unrecognizable, but when sampled, were pretty tasty fare.

One of the restaurants down stairs is called Satoo. It seats over 400 people. It has has a buffet that winds all around and through the restaurant. If that isn't enough for you, you can order from a menu. There is a proverbial United Nations of food within its walls. Thai, Vietnamese, Chinese, Japanese, Indian, Indonesian, and European dishes to choose from. There is a salad station, a fruit station (with a juice bar), and a beautiful dessert station.

The sushi bar always has a long line. The Asian soup station is fun. You get a bowl, spoon in fixins' like, glass noodles, bits of chicken, various veggies, and sprouts. You then hand it over to a large Asian man who dumps it into a deep strainer type basket and places it into a vat of hot water. After warming and poaching your goodies a bit, he will then ask you what kind of stock you would like - chicken or fish. He then dumps all of the warmed-up bits back into your bowl and ladles the stock on top of it. If you want to jazz it up, there are all kinds of sauces to add. Some hot, some very hot and some "wholly cow, where is the milk?"

We have made friends with Herwig who is the Belgian pastry chef in Satoo. He is a really friendly guy and always stops by to chat with us when we are eating in the restaurant. Can't wait to meet his wife and experience where the chefs like to eat in Jakarta. He has a staff of 36 under his command. They produce yummy and beautiful hip expanding items. Thanks a lot Herwig.

Earlier in the week we reported to Immigration. Thursday was our let's go get our official papers day. We had some confusion about things and wound up at the wrong immigration office to begin with. Should have know in a country where the population fluctuates from 10 to 13 million, based on the number of immigrates coming in and out, one office would not work. On Thursday, we made the population 13million and 2.

The first office we reported to was most likely a satellite. Our driver, Nurdin, dropped us off and went to park the van. We entered the office and wandered around a bit. After not having a clue what to do and phoning the contact, Mr. Tono (who speaks only about 2 or 3 words of English) that we were supposed to meet at immigration, we knew there was a problem. We showed a guardish looking man sitting at a metal desk by the front door our email. He kept saying something to us and I think was trying to tell us to which office we needed to go.

We called Nurdin and told him we were coming out of the building and to start looking for us. We stepped out onto the sidewalk and began desperately looking for the van. One cannot fully appreciate Jakarta from a hotel room or the confines of a vehicle. Standing on a small patch of concrete, that was kind of like a sidewalk, while seemingly hundreds and hundreds of cars, motorcycles and motorized carts fly by and an endless flow of people coming and going around you, one gets kind of dizzy. The exhaust, grime, grit and sweat are clinging to you within seconds while you stand on the side of the road.

After I know what was only a 10 minute wait tops, but seemed about 10 times longer, we see Nurdin. Unfortunately, he is on the OTHER side of the road. Hmmmm. This is a problem. But he uses what my friend Laura calls "the magic hand" and makes his way across traffic. The magic hand is kind of a very low profile signal to the drivers that " I am a thrill seeker and I am going to cross the street no matter how many of you there are." He retrieves us and we make our way safely to the other side and hop in the van. After a brief discussion, and looking at our email, we are on our way.

I'll pause here and say that Nurdin is our temporary driver. He is small of stature and large of ear. My mother would say he looks as if someone left the cab doors open. He is a very sweet fellow and I am enjoying getting to know him as he negotiates us through the unbelievable traffic with patients and skill. He doesn't speak a lot of English, but then I don't speak much Bahasa Indonesia so we are evenly matched.

The second Immigration Office is much, much larger. We get out of the van and meet Mr. Tono. He is a young man who looks pretty annoyed that we have missed our scheduled time. And even though he doesn't speak a lot of English, we get the message. Up 4 flights of stairs we climb. We are deposited into hard plastic chairs and Mr. Tono goes and stands by a door that leads to our ticket to long term residency in Indonesia. As he stands and peeks in the room behind the door every time it opens, we are stuck in front of a television. I would say that TV advertisements must be pretty cheap here. Lucky Indonesians are bombarded with at least twice what we get during a show back in the US. They get increased volume and frequency to boot.

To one side of us is a plate glass window and a counter that are part of the room we will go into to get our papers. Typical government office stuff. Notices stuck on the glass. Most likely telling you what you can and cannot do, what they will and won't take. All of it is in Bahasa Indonesia, so I only get to speculate. The only sign in English is a large "NO SMOKING" sign. Too bad that isn't in Bahasa Indonesia because the guy sitting inside the room, right next to the sign, must have Phillip Morris stock.

At long last it is our turn. Mr. Tono signals us forward and we slip past the door. He disappears and we are left with a couple of Indonesian guys at two different desks. One at a time we are seated at the first desk and we scoot our chairs back and forth so the guy can get our picture. Next, we are electronically finger printed. Weird how it makes you feel guilty and all you are doing is sitting there sweating. You then have to sign an electronic pad with your name as it appears on your passport. Unlike at Walmart, the pad doesn't have a line, is not lit and there is no X to tell you where to begin writing. After making an attempt and then being told you guessed wrong, you try again. Two or three tries later they send you to the next desk. This is done with a head shake and a muttering of the word bule. Bule (pronounced Bu-lay) is the word for foreigner. That indeed is correct.

The second desk is where you get to take pen to paper. Five or six sheets to sign. What is on them, I don't know. Yep, you guessed it...not in English. I hope I did not sign away my son upon his future arrival for a visit. We are at long last finished and told that in about 3 working days we will have our passport with a shiny new KITAS and a multiple entry visa back into our hot little hands. Or at least I think that is what they were trying to convey to us.

Upon our arrival back to our own little Shangri-La, we go to lunch. I highly recommend making friends with a pastry chef. Mango creme brulee is an outstanding salve to immigrating almost anywhere.