Islands

Maybe the daily drudgery of life is a lot like open-water swimming; you fight to stay afloat, move as fast as you can to avoid sinking, and head for the Island after every lap.

If it weren’t for the islands it would be hard to keep on going.

Barbie Doll

Right now my co-workers are having a conversation about Barbie Doll fetishes, electric grinders, and 80-year olds getting manicures.

As for me, my ipod is on full tilt. Trying to tune it all out.

Balance

I have a bit of an issue with balance; it's easy for me to get immersed in something to the point of it being an obsession. If I were a dog, I'd be an Irish Setter: high-strung, tempramental, and teeming with nervous energy. Prone to bouts of anxiety and other irrational behaviour, I am the kind of person that gets struck by some new-fangled idea and within 24 hours has convinced herself to re-organize her life, spend a bunch of money, or what-have-you in order to accomplish said idea...

Usually, these stunning revelations occur at night, right before I should be going to bed. Thus, I hardly ever sleep enough to support the next day's activities. There is always some other procrastination technique I can use to avoid surrender to somnolence on any given evening. I have an aversion to sleep because it means that I will wake up and have to start another day of same 'ol, same 'ol work, cook, eat, sleep, and try to workout if my feet feel up to it... I mean, who'd want to waste 6-8 hours of free time in being unconscious?

Anyway, I've averaged 4h per night this week and it is becoming ridiculous.

This morning I got up at quarter to 6, ate breakfast, packed my swimming bag, put my shoes on, and was so dizzy (seeing stars and half-dreaming in that crazy, sleep-deprived state) that I just lay down on my bed for 5 mins to clear my head and BOOM it was quarter to 8... I threw my swimming stuff out of my bag and got changed and ran to my appointment, then stumbled to work with a HUGE coffee and... ... a chocolate croissant!

I know, how could I? Guess what... I relished every morsel.

But I've heard from many people now, that I need to try to relax, have fun, "chill out", and enjoy life a bit more.. because life is generally good you know... and there is a lot to be thankful for. Heck, I live in Canada, in the beautiful nation's capital, and I have a bike, and I have two legs that still work well enough to take me places :) and I have a job, and a bit of health insurance, and access to a good variety of healthy food, and a nice little apartment in a safe area of town, and a lot of great friends.

And the weather is beautiful, and it's Friday! So if I could just get a bit more sleep...

Manger comme un porc

I ate almost 1/2 a jar of peanut butter last night, among other indiscretions.

1/2 a loaf of sourdough bread dipped in balsamic vinegar and olive oil, black pudding, salmon, milk, grapes & cherries in copious amounts.

Wow. Naughty.

Back up to 142 pounds on my 5'11", still net 8 down but considering the muscle loss... yikes.... the goal was to race in a tankini this year, but at this point I can neither race nor show the abs.

Sigh.

On a more positive note, I was a bit hungry after 3 hours of rowing, 1 hour of running, and 2 hours of cycling.

Eating Frisian

Now that my workout schedule is curtailed, I have had extra time to delve into some cooking, European football, rowing, and socializing.

This life is kind of nice, actually; I don't feel like an extremist anymore. I am able to walk pretty well now, swim and bike for up to 60-90 minutes without too much pain, so I can keep some level of fitness. I haven't gained any weight (in fact, those 10 pounds are staying off... just wait'lll you see my 6-pack!), I've met some great people, and I've learned quite a lot about nutrition.

For the last few weeks, I've been eating a mainly Paleo diet (meat, vegetables and fruit, plus some seeds, nuts & natural fats). While it's tasty and keeps the weight off, it's darn expensive, time-consuming, and leaves me low on energy sometimes. I'm quite a firm believer in the "Whatever works for YOU" theory of nutrition, because once you cut out the obvious stuff (junk food, processed food, refined flour and sugar, excessive alcohol, etc) I believe there are many variants of a successful "diet". People can be healthiest and happiest eating vegetarian or omnivore; low-fat or high-fat; high-carb or low-carb depending on their bodies and genetics. Brendan Brazier does well on his mostly raw vegan Thrive diet, for example, while others subscribe to Paleo or Atkins ideology. Michael Pollan seems to advocate a more environmentally-conscious plan for eating (based on plants and whole grains) which is equally laudable.

To each his own.

With my middling success on Paleo, I've decided to take it as a base and modify my diet to focus more on what my ancestors ate... not in prehistoric, ancient or even medieval times, but rather from about the 15th or 16th century AD.

Why? Well, I am in a somewhat strange position here in North America, in that I am born of two Frisians, whose parents were Frisians, and whose parents, in turn, were Frisian and Dutch. I am able to trace my ancestry back in the Netherlands for many generations. Oh, very probably there is some cross-mixing somewhere, as my name has been traced to South Africa and inevitably, the Frisian communities in Germany, as well as the Polish, co-mingled to some extent. But what I am saying is that, for the most part, my particular set of genes may have developed to thrive on food common to that region of the world.

Thus, I am really very curious to see how well I do on a traditional Frisian/ Dutch/ West German diet. Or maybe I really do have too much time on my hands!

So what are these traditional foods? Well I did some research, and I found a good starting point at www.medievalcooking.com; there is a document specifically outlining Frisian cooking during that time period. As I said, that is a bit too far back in time to be practical for me, but I'll try to start there and add /subtract later as I learn more...

Meat:
We are looking primarily at fish, pork, beef, lamb, and goat... pretty much in that order. I know that fish, fishing, and sailing were the prime focus of the paternal side of my family for generations. Poultry was also available (goose, duck, chicken). I had the idea that cows tended to be used for milk and dairy foods (first?).

Dairy:
In a word: lots. Why do you think they call those dairy cows "Frisians" anyhow? In fact, Northern Europeans are one of the few groups of people who can actually digest milk and milk products into adulthood. This is a notable deviation from the Paleo and Atkins prescriptions.

Vegetables:
Root veggies reigned supreme... potatoes, turnips, beets, onions, parsnips, carrots. Pumpkin, cucumber (lots of pickles!) cabbage, spinach, kale and collards were also used.

Fruits:
Apples, pears, melons, and various berries were predominant.

Grains:
Rye or pumpernickel bread was a staple of the diet for centuries.. and I mean the supremely dense, dark stuff (Westphalian pumpernickel). It is pretty much like the German Volkornbrot or Roggenbrot. I was exposed to it growing up but always hated its bitter, dense texture; now I'm going to give it another go... I found Volkornbrot at Loeb and I'm eating it with raw goat cheese now! Other available grains included (but were not limited to) oats, millet, and barley.

Nuts, seeds & legumes:
Hazelnuts, almonds, walnuts, and some varieties of beans

Wish me luck... I'm going to post pictures if I can...

Oh... beer, wine, coffee and tea were all copiously consumed!

Falling Apart

It can always be worse.

Oh, it can ALWAYS be worse.

Bone scan today. Guess what? No bone issues with my right foot... so whatever is causing the pain, numbness and tingling is NOT a stress fracture.

But.. I do have a stress fracture. And it hurts like a motherf...

In my good foot.

Probably from limping around for a month with this horrible boot cast.

So this morning I set out to the hospital with a boot cast on my right foot. I left the hospital with the same boot cast on the other foot. Don't ask me how I am supposed to get around on two ruined feet.

And before I left the hospital, I locked myself in the restroom and actually sobbed with rage.

Bone Health and F-A-T

I've come into an strange conundrum.

By eating super, super clean for 7 weeks in a way that bordered on obsessive (including charting every item and quantity that went into my mouth in a very detailed Excel spreadsheet!) I managed to lose 10-12 pounds of bodyweight; some of which is associated water, some is fat, and some.. unfortunately.. is muscle.

While I am happy to see my abs again, I have a problem. Most of the last 6 weeks I have been out of commission with my foot, so the calorie deficit came almost all through diet (yay for raw vegetables). And while my maintenance level is still quite high for the average girl, I managed to lose other measures of health too.

So now I am sitting here with broken bones and entering into the zone of what is callled (shudder) the "female athlete triad" - oh, how appropriate the acronym: "F-A-T". Definitely not a harbinger of health, and definitely not the way to go if I want to be cycling again before the end of the summer. 10 times more frustrating because I am definitely not "under-fat" or underweight by any standard measure, even by the seriously flawed BMI.

I ate like a monster yesterday in desperation... hoping to "jump-start" things... but today I'm back to super clean whole foods plus mega amounts of Ca, D, Mg, Zn and multivitamins. If the bone scan shows more than 2 fractures I will need to address this with the doc.

In fact, I might need to address this with the doc anyways...

In this, my last outlet of rage, I let out my most agonized and frustrated scream:

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

The Incredible Edible Beanie

I made flourless brownies from beans yesterday evening, and then I had them for breakfast.

Skeptical?

Don’t be… they are awesome. Fudgy, tasty, nutritious, not too sweet… feel free to improvise, but here’s what I did:

The Incredible Edible “Beanie”

Navy beans (soaked, cooked & rinsed, from 125g dry)
Chickpeas (1/2 can drained & rinsed)
3 eggs
2 tsp vanilla extract
½ cup skim milk
2 tbsp vinegar
4 heaping tsp instant coffee + about 4 tbsp water
2/3 cup unsweetened cocoa powder (Dutch alkali – hence I used the vinegar)
½ cup Splenda-brown sugar blend
4 tbsp ground flax
2 tsp cinnamon
1½ tsp baking powder
½ tsp salt
1½ tsp baking soda
½ cup walnuts

Pam for pan (9” x 12”)

Nutritional Information
Each (makes 16)

133 Calories
6g Protein
5g Fibre
5g fat (1g saturated, 0g trans fat, 1 mono, 2 poly)
10% RDA of Iron
783mg Omega-3 fatty acids

Puree all ingredients – except cocoa, brown sugar & walnuts - in blender (unless you have a super blender or food processor). It is important to puree the beans well.

Pour into mixing bowl and stir in cocoa, brown sugar and nuts by hand.

Bake for 30 mins at 350F but check carefully… it’s better to undercook. Let cool completely on stovetop, then chill in fridge before cutting & eating.

I know it's hard to wait, but these have a better flavour and consistency when chilled.

Enjoy!

June Report on the New Year’s Goals

I think it’s high time to do another one of these. Now that I’m laid up: bad leg bruised from the walking cast, bad foot tingling and shooting pain into my toes, with my “good” foot hurting like a m@#)$(%* from the limping, let’s see how well (or poorly) I am doing.

I was going to do a net worth analysis but I will save that until the halfway point in the year: medical, physio, and other costs are adding up… about $400 so far this month. The walking cast cost me 200 bucks, uninsured.

I did go to Europe - and I got back in one piece - so that goal was accomplished.

My athletic goals are pretty much all forsaken now. I am hoping beyond hope that the pain in my “good” foot in the same area as the “bad” one isn’t indicative of another stress fracture of the 4th metatarsal. If I have to spend the rest of my summer in a g(*@$%& wheelchair I think someone will find me hanging from a noose in my sweltering hot apartment.

If I ever do bike/run/walk again in my cursed life, I may indeed be faster: I am now 12 pounds lighter than when I arrived home from Europe. Sure, the Guinness and “frites” packed on some insulation, but I’ve lost a good 7 more in my quest to heal. Eating three pounds a day of calcium-rich greens will do that to anyone. Now I just don’t feel like eating - as I realized while I force-fed myself a red onion and a bunch of spinach today - so I’m bound to lose more. Actually, I don’t feel like doing much at all.

As for schooling/ CFA: I gave it a good attempt. But one thing I can attest to now: I never want ti have a CFA designation. In fact, I do not want a finance-related career.

Too bad that’s what I spent 5 years of my life working toward. So shoot me.

Haarlem

Monday dawned, and this time we were up in time for breakfast at 9AM. Then it was off to the train station in Leeuwarden, where we bid farewell to my great-uncle and great-aunt and settled down in the station café to enjoy a cappuccino (and the requisite biscuit) while waiting for the train to Haarlem.

About 3.5 hours of south-westerly travel later, we arrived in Haarlem, a pretty little suburban town just west of Amsterdam. We hopped on the bus and were checking into our hostel a mere 20 minutes later. A nice-enough hostel (actually the only hostel in Haarlem!) although filled with clientele considerably older than usually found in hostels… we went back to the city centre to wander around the historic market area and get a bite to eat on an outdoor patio. Another sun-filled and beautiful day…

More walking, more bicycles, and another stop for Heineken and “frites” with that scrumptious mayonnaise-like “fritesaus” that puts ketchup to shame. I wanted to hoard some, but Ang reminded me that Amsterdam would have lots of its own…

Back to the hostel to see what Monday-night fun could be had in the onsite bar… alas… none… at first we were the only people there, and later we were joined by a group of sexagenarians. In despair, we ordered another few (amazingly cheap) pints. And then, a miracle: one fellow our age appeared, ordered a pint, and came to talk to us. Behold, a fellow Canadian! A Montrealer! The night was looking up... He ended up cajoling and/or bribing the bartender to let us buy bottled beer and take it into the front lobby over-night, so that we could watch Canadian hockey on the internet… we had a blast. What else can I say?

One very brief night’s sleep later, we stumbled to the kitchen for the hostel’s complimentary breakfast. I was expecting instant coffee and toast; what we got was a virtual feast! Dutch cheese, sliced chicken and ham, hagelslaag, fresh bread, cappuccino from a machine, milk, OJ, and Dutch breakfast cake (yummy stuff!) A good start to the day. We had wanted to visit the Keukenhoff but decided it would be too much of a rush to fit it in our itinerary… so we said goodbye to our new friend and asked him to send us pictures. Off to Amsterdam, the evil city!

Day Trip to Dokkum

I have to finish these instalments before I forget the trip! Heaven forbid!

So the next morning was Sunday; my great-uncle and great-aunt went to church and Ang and I slept in a bit. After breakfast and some laundry (whew, finally clean clothes!) Ang and I decided to go out for a walk, since my uncle and aunt seemed quite tired after yesterday’s excursion.

We wandered out through Veenwouden, passing by numerous sheep and cows, vast expanses of grass, canals and, well, “irrigation ditches” I guess (although there is probably a specific term for them in Dutch). We stopped to get some pictures of the lambs gambolling across the lawn in the neighbouring village. The houses and landscaping were so quaint and so different from what we have in North America; oozing history and culture indeed! It was as if we had stepped into another planet where time went by more slowly, and I noticed each breath of air (damp and smelling vaguely of livestock, but not unpleasant!) Some runners were out, some of the first I’d seen on the trip. In fact, I noticed more fitness-oriented people in Friesland than anywhere else.

We arrived back at the main road in front of the train/bus station. As we were standing there on a gorgeous spring day, contemplating what to do next, I thought perhaps we could go back to Dokkum and peruse the shops and cafés for awhile. A few minutes later, we were trying to decipher the signs at the station and ultimately figured out which bus to take. However, shortly thereafter, when a MINIVAN pulled up at the stop, we doubted ourselves! Using my best sign language and as few words as possible I managed to get things straight. First, a confused look. Then, “Dokkum?” The driver says something which sounds positive. I say “Two euro?” and hold up two fingers. “Ja, dri euro” a woman says. I hand over 3 euro. She gives one back. Ahhh…. “dri” is “two”, not “three”. We clamber into the van and listen as Dutch chitchat ensues. I have no idea where to get off, but I hope the driver will stop in Dokkum. The air is rife with a sense of adventure.

I recognize Dokkum from our trip yesterday… the driver stops regardless. She says something but I don’t understand, so I just say “Dank u” and wave. We disembark and venture into what is now a ghost town… What a difference from yesterday’s carnival atmosphere! Everything is closed except for one café by the canal. The wind has picked up and we’re getting chilly, so the scarves went on and we headed to the café for some coffee and lunch.

Ordering was done by the “point-and-smile” method… I doubt the waitress was impressed. She either spoke no English or decided that we weren’t worth the effort, and we sat for 2 hours to get a sandwich. However, it was still a nice afternoon to get some sun and watch the bicyclists go by on the cobblestone streets. We then headed to a small pub with various international flags hung over the door… a good sign, we thought. To our relief, the friendly couple who ran the place spoke English and let us sip a cheap glass of Heineken in the warmth of the bar while we awaited the bus (van?) back to Veenwouden.

Getting back to town wasn’t that difficult, but after we got off the bus we had quite a time finding my great-uncle’s house again. The streets curved and wound every which way, and we wandered in circles for almost half an hour when Ang suggested we give them a call. I felt kind of embarrassed, but we’d said we’d be back by dinnertime so, as it was 5:15, I gave in.

Well! Lo and behold, my great-uncle was beside himself with worry, and my aunt was close to phoning the police! Apparently there had been a misunderstanding! I felt terrible and apologized profusely… Wondering when my parents would get the phone call complaining about my behaviour! They picked us up (we were actually only about 500m from their house…) and we sat down to a lovely dinner with plenty of wine to soothe the afternoon’s anxiety!

Veenwouden, Kollum & Ternaard

Saturday dawned and I arose to a breakfast of freshly-squeezed orange juice, whole wheat toast, Gouda and Hagelslaag (loosely, “chocolate sprinkles”). This was followed by a beschuit and a slice of suikerbrood (Sûkerbôle in Frisian, but neither word is easy to pronounce!), all washed down with tea. Scrumptious.

Then it was off for the grand tour… my great-uncle was determined to show us all the necessary sights (and sites). First it was the Elfsteden monument in Gytsjerk, commemorating the 200km ice skating race held in Friesland and passing through 11 towns. The first race was held in 1890, and since then it’s been held only 15 times, with the last being in 1997. Now it looks like the Elfstedentocht has become a victim of climate change… while the Dutch winters were never as long or as severe as Canadian winters, it seems unlikely that the canals will ever freeze over again. The monument is a mosaic of individual tiles decorated with the pictures of Elfstedentocht finishers, and the tiles form a larger picture in the traditional blue-and-white of Dutch ceramics. My grandmother’s picture dates from 1942; in it, she’s a demure 22-year-old wearing a light-coloured scarf. Finding her tile on that bridge was unreal. Ang and I, along with my great-uncle and aunt stood on that little pier in the marshland in front of the bridge, smelling the cows and pigs, hearing the reeds rustling and seeing the flat, open land… and it was a moving experience. I can’t really explain why.

Next .. to the pretty, quaint town of Kollum to see the house where my grandmother lived before she was married. It was a stately, square house that had aged gracefully. My grandmother’s father was a burgameister (mayor) and she was thus born into a higher social class than my grandfather. After my determined grandfather wooed her over (via hand-written letters, frequent excursions to the beach, and many long bike rides between villages), she also had to convert to my grandfather’s church. I always liked to hear their courtship story, the old-fashioned “triumph of love” told better than Disney!

Driving off yet again down those narrow roads with perfect pavement (we’re not used to that in Canada!) we passed a few cyclists with racing bikes and matching gear. I had not yet seen any cyclists of this type since arriving in Europe! Ternaard was our next stop; the town my grandparents lived in when my dad was born. It was run-down and abandoned (my dad called it a “dump”), but it was still good to see. First a house and then a shop, the thing was filled with miscellaneous junk and a mannequin dressed in sports gear. Glaring through the window, I initially thought the mannequin was a person and ran back to the car… strangely enough, the second mannequin that I encountered in Europe! I mean, since when do mannequins figure so prominently in my daily life?

The church in Ternaard is special to my family, as it is where my great-grandfather and grandfather played the organ, and where my grandparents attended. In the adjoining cemetery, my great-uncle picked out the gravestones of my great-grandfather and great-great-grandfather, which were in immaculate condition (in surprising contrast to many of the others of similar age), and also the monument dedicated in part to Albertus Nauta, my grandfather’s older brother who died in WWII, and the other fallen soldiers.

I didn’t know if we were going to be able to see the interior, but my great-aunt can work magic, and she found the gentleman with the keys at his house across the road, just on his way out for a bike ride. He let us in and played the Dutch national anthem on the organ, so I could hear the instrument myself! And what a gorgeous old pipe-organ it was.

I climbed the narrow, almost vertical steps to the loft, and Ang took a picture of me standing there. Strangely, I struggled to keep my tears from overflowing as I stood there in that old church and listened to that old organ. It was as if for one instant I felt close to my own heritage and history… for the first time I felt my roots in this country.

Below our feet there were worn, ancient slabs marking tombs of founding church members and royalty. Most of the inscriptions were barely legible, and some were completely erased with time and foot-traffic. I was astonished that in modernity, we can just walk over those pieces of history, slowly erasing vestiges of the past. At St. Patrick’s in Dublin, slabs of similar age were protected, cordoned off and sealed or guarded. But here…we lived, breathed, and trampled it.

Before leaving Ternaard, my great-uncle drove us to the street named after Albertus Nauta. Most of the streets in the Netherlands were named after someone or other; I didn't see many "Main" and "King" signs...

Back to Veenwouden for lunch, and then a drive around the dunes, eyes open wide at the vast and flat expanse of grass, sky and water. We stopped at the seaside and climbed up onto the dijk. My great-uncle pointed at the stretch of sandy soil in front of us... Over time, the sea washes soil up to the land… and after 100 years or so, the Dutch will build another dijk to keep the water out. Amazing to see.

Next, the town of Dokkum! On this, a Saturday, it was positively buzzing with tourists, lovers and weekenders. The atmosphere was set by the organ-grinder in the centre of the square, and Ang captured it all with a video from her camera. Just lovely, even without the monkeys. Cobblestone streets, 400-year old houses in the traditional Dutch style, and several restored windmills made this a very picturesque little place. We walked around for a bit and took pictures.

Dinner time… and my great-uncle drove us to Lauwersoog to sample some Frisian fish and watch the sea. We ate at a cute little restaurant called “Pierenend” (Pier’s End) where almost nobody spoke English. (Ang and I had fun trying to decipher the menu, but for the most part, we let my great-uncle choose for us). The fish was good, and I personally devoured every morsel of every vegetable abandoned by Ang and my great-uncle and aunt. (Hey, as every Dutch girl knows… you just can’t waste it!) Dessert was spectacular enough to merit its own set of photos: roomijs = ice cream, or “cream ice” as our friendly waitress tried to explain to us, topped with a Dutch biscuit, slagrom (whipped cream) and various syrup flavourings.

All four of us were tired out by the day in the sun… but my great-aunt still had enough energy to whip up a great cappuccino, accompanied by a stropwafel, those sweet flat waffle-cookies which I fondly remember from my childhood. Some more Dutch TV, where I tried in vain to decipher news about the Amstel Gold race, and then Ang and I watched the tail-end of Spiderman 1 (with Dutch subtitles, of course).

On to Friesland...

Paranoid for pickpockets, I put on my most aggressive face and we got on the train to Leeuwarden. Several English-speaking folks were quite helpful as we tried to navigate the dizzying train system and use the automatic ticket machines which didn’t accept our PIN-less North American cards. I felt proud that we actually made it to Leeuwarden in one piece.

Ok, my first experience with being the obvious foreigner. I look like everyone in that station, but I can’t understand a word of the language (either Dutch or Frisian). Many times while in the Netherlands, I had to stop a person after several moments of Dutch came careening my way, saying I didn’t understand. I felt kind of ashamed; I didn’t feel like this was my homeland... in fact, standing in the station at Leeuwarden, I’ve never felt so alone and far from home.

Also my first experience with having to pay to use the toilet. Something I definitely don’t miss now that I’m back in Ottawa. Cripes. 0.60 EUR (almost $1.00) to use the toilet... makes you think twice about staying hydrated.

My great-uncle and aunt picked us up, and after my initial nervousness re: not being able to recognize them! we got along famously. This was helped along by a generous serving of red wine and some home-made Dutch soup, baguette and various cheeses… the first home-cooked and non-processed dinner we’d had in some time. My eyelids were drooping by 10pm, and after a struggle to understand Dutch television, it was early to bed for all of us.

Dublin

Our first day in Dublin dawned with clear and cool weather. We stopped at a nearby restaurant to sample the traditional Irish breakfast… delicious, but something you definitely can’t do every day! By now I’d accepted that I wouldn’t be drinking a “real” coffee until I got home; instead, there were two coffee-like beverages you could order: Espresso, watered-down espresso (Americano), and watered-down espresso with milk and mocha flavouring (cappuccino). On top of that, the minimum cost for any of these atrocities in miniscule cups was 1.70 EUR. Seriously.

Next, a walk around the city centre with stops at St. Stephen’s Green, the poet’s walk, and Trinity College to see the Book of Kells and the Long Room (the old library). I should mention that the Irish have it right… instead of towing your car away for illegal parking, they “clamp” it, and you have to pay a fee to have it removed: how sensible! At St. Patrick’s Cathedral, we chanced upon a free Handel recital, and it was absolutely lovely to sit there in that huge, historic church and listen to some pretty darn good singing. We were approached partway through by an English gentleman who asked: “Are you girls from America?” Surprised, we corrected him, and asked what gave us away. “Oh, you’re both chewing gum in church,” he replied, and we both blushed bright red and started for the garbage bin. However, the man laughed and said he didn’t mean it that way; it was just a decidedly non-euro thing to do!

Back to the hostel to shower and clean up, and a chat with the cute French guys who liked to walk around our room clad only in boxers. They were aware of Canada’s French-speaking regions and asked if we could understand them. “Oh, but, can you understand me, that is the question”, I thought to myself. From northern France, their English was almost as broken as my French. Made for an interesting attempt at communication. I invited them out for drinks, but they were going to rest up for a long night of partying. Such is life in Dublin’s Temple Bar… a perpetual party for all of Europe.

For dinner, a stop at the Bad Ass Café for some pre-beer grease. Well, not exactly... Just a good pizza and a pint of Murphy’s. I never eat like this at home so it was stellar. It also cost me $37 bucks CDN for a modest dinner. Geez.

But that night, Wednesday, was the craziest night yet (aside from my birthday). The front desk person at our hostel was kind enough to provide some recommendations for good music and good beer, so we started off at the infamous Temple Bar, Temple Bar. Of course it was full of tourists. We could barely move, but somehow that was fun… we were starting to get used to watching European football instead of hockey, and pretended to be right in there with the lingo. Go Liverpool! When the band came out, it was great. Just so many smiling, happy faces nodding along, and the odd person doing an Irish jig right in the middle of the floor. No-one was especially rowdy or intoxicated, no fights, no shouting, just a bunch of people having fun. That’s what it was like at every pub we went to in Ireland.

Then we crossed the street and went to The Quays, were I was AGAIN asked my age. Geez, on my 27th birthday trip, nobody believes I’m 18! I thanked the bouncer heartily.

The Quays… Fresh and tasty Guinness and 6 EUR a pint, with Ang drinking Bulmer’s like it was going out of style. Good times! The hot blond bartender had a tie full of national flag pins, and he picked us out right away: “I’ve got one for you girls,” he said, pointing to the Canadian flag. We were stunned. How did he know? “I just know these things”, he replied, “and I could tell by your accent”. No way… we didn’t believe it! “Fine,” he admitted, “I saw your Canadian flag keychain”. We ordered all our pints from him. He even walked out into the crowd to give me mine when I forgot it on the bar.

Music was traditional Irish, mostly drinking songs. It was awesome. The old dude with his guitar was just perfect. The atmosphere was friendly and again, full of happy faces. Ang and I met two friends from England. The first guy was a Hungarian with an English accent, who artificially inseminated cows and other livestock, and his friend was a headstrong gal who spoke “the Queen’s English”, whatever that meant. Lovely people, and we had a lovely time.

The Quays closed its doors around 1:30, and I’m not sure exactly how it came about, but Ang asked the bartender where else we could go, and then it was off to Gogarty’s for the late-night crowd. The bartender joined us shortly thereafter, chugging Miller’s through a straw to reach an intoxicated state all the quicker. And so the 5 of us joined the party across the street… and what a party it was. I can’t remember when I actually started liking songs such as “Clementine”, but for some reason it was the cat’s meow to sing along at the top of my lungs with a few hundred inebriated Irish souls. I just stuck to Guinness and had a blast with my new English friends and the cute bartender from the Quays, who somehow decided to hang with the 4 of us all night.

Around 3AM, Gogarty’s closed its doors too, and the bartender shooed us to the next haunt. This appeared to be a type of nightclub in the old-school Toronto fashion, and I balked. There was a cheerful, portly middle-aged guy from Scotland who was trailing me and I really wanted to lose him. Plus, I thought I had reached my alcohol saturation point, and the Quays bartender (no one’s fool, a total player) looked almost dangerously hammered. There was no way I was going in there… I dug in my heels. Dig dig dig… Scottish dude went in. Phew! Ang and the bartender went in, but Pete and Christine stayed behind with me, probably feeling almost as tired as I was. Moments later, Ang emerged, followed reluctantly by the bartender. The 4 of us agreed to call it a night, but the bartender would have none of it. He put the moves on Christine, but she laughed him away, then pointed to me and said something. Next thing I know, he calls me over. “ You playing hard to get?” His lids are drooping, he’s totally smashed. “Uh, no.” Without warning, he’s kissing me, ashtray mouth and all. Christ, why do people smoke!? And so that was unprovoked kiss number 2. I only learned his name afterwards.

The bartender, shot down by all three of us girls in turn, headed back into the nightclub: "I'll see ya when I see ya," he said to me, dejectedly (so I thought!). Ang and I walked Pete and Chris back to their hostel and we ended up taking a cab back to ours. Who knows why this made sense at the time?

We got back just after 3:30AM, detoxed with 2L of water, and got ready for bed. Ang went right to sleep, but I was sitting up on the top bunk when the French guys arrived. The tall one stripped down to his boxers right in front of me, and proceeded to ask me, in his sexy France French accent, how my night went. “Um, it was great of course, didn’t expect much else from Dublin!” I listed our plan of attack for the evening. He smiled. He didn’t seem drunk at all.

4 hours later, we awoke to yet another beautiful day. Ang and I abandoned our illicit cans of beer in the room, needing to jettison them for weight restrictions on the plane. I hope the French guys like Heineken. After a small breakfast at a nearby café, and a quick stop at a souvenir shop to pick up a Temple Bar T-Shirt (I mean, c’mon!), we headed to the Guinness factory. Nothing like more Guinness and the smell of hops to cure a hangover. The factory was great fun; I actually learned something… The tour ended with a fresh pint of Guinness at the “Sky Café” overlooking the city of Dublin. Sure beats the CN Tower…

We ran like mad to make it back to the hostel, grab our bags and head to the airport. However, for a multitude of reasons… we didn’t make it in time to catch our flight to Amsterdam. Much hand-wringing ensued at the airport. This was my nightmare come true… the next flight would cost $350 CDN each. So much for a budget holiday… we looked at other options, but the best was to continue with our original plans. So we took the bus back to Temple Bar, got another room in the Barnacles hostel, and proceeded to drown our sorrows with yet more pizza and Guinness.

We went straight to the Quays that night, where the bartender spotted us, and, in a surprising fit of annoyance, slammed his fist right down on the bar. All eyes turned to us… the other staff stared at us, and at him, quizzically. We confessed that we had missed our flight to Amsterdam. “Oh, I have a feeling that you’ll miss the next one too,” he said, both peeved and mysterious at once. He didn’t speak to us the rest of the night, and left before closing time.

Things perked up at Gogarty’s, where we met a nice fellow named Tom from Northern Ireland, and his boss. They work in the bottled water industry, with a small brand named “Classic”. That’s pretty much all I remember about that, except that Tom felt sorry for us having lost all that money on the flight, and he bought us each a few rounds. Perhaps it was because of that, I incurred my second hangover of the trip… yes, really, no kidding.

So the next day, definitely NOT wide-eyed and bushy-tailed, we make it to Dublin airport alive and on time. The flight was, er, “bouncy?” and the landing in Amsterdam was positively frightening. The lady next to me had her seat in a death-grip, knuckles white and all. I was glad to be over with that one.

Aran Island

To get to Aran Island, we had to take a bus for 30 minutes and a ferry for an hour. I was practically starving on the ferry (not used to those “continental breakfasts” of OJ and toast) and thrashed back my raging appetite with an instant coffee (*grimace*) and another made-in-Europe chocolate bar that you just can’t get here. As soon as we disembarked, we were accosted by taxi drivers/ tour operators who were vying for our tourist euros… kind of funny actually. You basically make a living on the Island with fishing or tourism. The first guy who approached us was the guy we went with (the other option was to rent a bike, but A) it would be hard to cover the Island in 4 hours and B) the bikes were pretty much spoken for by the absolute HOARDES of French students! Must have been school trip season in Europe). It all worked out though in the end. Our tour guide spoke Gaelic (Irish) and English with a wonderful accent. Easy to tell he did this same tour twice a day and has done so for years, because he talked so fast it was hard to take it all in! His modus operandi was to talk like mad, drop us off periodically to see the sights, hike, etc and then pick us up again. Total price? 10 euros.

The fort (Dun Aengus) was, of course, the highlight. Built on a cliff with a great vantage point over the sea and the Island, it was begun in the middle ages. I was pretty much in awe to see the sky and sea meet in an incredible shade of blue, stretching as far as the eye could see. Indescribable, really.

All of Aran Island, and indeed most of Ireland, is covered with low-lying, hand-built stone walls. They stretch on and on, curving and snaking through the sand, rock and grass, a testament to the industry of the Irish in making arable land from the rock. The walls served both to demonstrate ownership of property, and to clear land for farming and raising livestock.

After the tour, we picked up lunch at the local Spar store, where I tried again to tell the difference between 20 and 50-cent euro pieces. Delicious baguette sandwiches and fruit were enjoyed in the sun… alongside the healthiest and largest seagulls I’ve ever seen. We browsed the gift shops, full of clothes and crafts made by the locals, and then caught the ferry back to Galway. A bit tired and sun-kissed (the trek to Dun Aengus was quite a climb!) but it was definitely worth it.

We had a 20-minute turnover to catch the next bus to Dublin… and we just made it. I tried to stay awake as we passed through Limerick and Athlone, but to no avail. We were checked in to Barnacles in Temple Bar just after 11pm. The front desk guy working the night shift was Canadian – from Hamilton! – one of the many reasons we enjoyed staying at this hostel. We didn’t bother going out that night, although we hit up another Spar for some food. A good sleep was in order.

Galway

Monday dawned with a raging appetite, and it was off to Galway for us. Brunch was purchased at a nearby Dunn’s store, where I also picked up an Irish newspaper and a couple of the famous European chocolate bars… the chocolate there is amazing (Galaxy bars!) and makes our junk food seem like… well… junk in comparison. We took a cushy bus to the city centre and dropped our stuff off at the hostel, literally 5 steps away. Kinlay House… it’s a pretty decent place, friendly staff, but oh the showers are hot!! I think it’s a good way to save on water bills, because you couldn’t possibly stand under that water for more than a second or two… you literally need to scald yourself clean.

The rest of the day was spent traipsing around Galway, mostly the historic part by the harbour. We walked the long pier out to the lighthouse and took some photos of the palm trees… a strange sight in Ireland. We made our way past the cathedral and the University of Galway… a pretty campus, but nothing we saw during the trip could beat the University of Cork City. I don’t have many pictures because I was getting disappointed with my camera, so I just asked Ang to take pictures on my behalf!

For dinner, we picked a tiny restaurant on the main strip that advertised “real Irish” fare, and we filled up on seafood chowder and shepherd’s pie (with cabbage, not corn). Then off to a pub in search of some Monday night nightlife… well, we were still recovering from Cork so we ended up nursing a few pints and discussing what had happened so far!

Next: off to Aran Island for a day trip.

Blarney Castle

Bam! I couldn’t sleep the night of the 12^th, so Sunday dawned with a raging hangover AND an all-nighter. I’ve rarely felt worse. I was counselled to drink lots of water and eat greasy food, but even the thought of food made me feel nauseated. It was a good day for Blarney Castle and the crisp fresh air that came with a day in the sun/ rain/ cold/ hot/ windiness that is Irish weather. Seriously, one minute it rains, the next it’s sunny, and the next, it’s sunny and raining at the same time. I wonder why anyone even bothers to read the weather forecast in Ireland. I sure wouldn't.

So Ang, Emilie, David and I wander around the grounds of Blarney Castle and make the trek up to the Blarney stone. No, I didn’t kiss it… partly because I was supremely nauseated and the thought of hanging backwards over a wall with my head upside down really wasn’t appealing, and partly because no miracle on this earth could possibly give me the gift of gab. I mean, sorry, but it’s true. I stood on the edge and took pictures of the Irish countryside instead.

I spent the latter part of the evening running around trying to find a payphone and thinking Ang had been kidnapped.... but it turned out to be a false alarm... Note: there are very FEW public phones in Ireland. Then I sprawled over the air mattress and got a much-needed sleep….

The Trip Begins... In Cork

The flight to London was uneventful, except that the flight attendants forgot which plane they were on (hint: not an airbus). I had fun poking at the airplane food and chatting with the amiable Brit beside me. Things got off to a great start when I dropped my passport in the aisle, 2 hours in. I’ll never live that down. Ang and I arrived in London around 5AM local time, and thus began the longest day of our lives…

6 hours to wander through Heathrow with our backpacks, brush our teeth in the airport restrooms, and chase garbage cans around (there are no standing garbage cans in Heathrow). We caught a flight with Aer Lingus to Cork later in the afternoon, and settled in at Emilie & Leo’s place (friends of Ang). That was April 10^th-11^th, and I don’t think much else happened except for some housekeeping items (euro cel phone setup, groceries, dinner, walking around downtown a bit), and my first taste of a *real* Irish pub. There is nothing as genuine as drinking a pint of Beamish stout (brewed across the road) in a real Irish pub (in Ireland) filled with local residents. We met up with some of Leo & Emilie’s friends and I officially celebrated the first hour of my 27^th year at this pub (which had an Irish name which I couldn’t remember or pronounce). Jetlag caught up quick, so I bid everyone goodnight and retired relatively early.. at 1AM.. after being awake for 37 hours straight.

My birthday started out with an Irish breakfast cooked by Leo… the best pork sausages I’ve ever had, with eggs, toast, coffee & OJ. Then I went for a jog/walk along the river in Cork… or, I attempted to, but soon realized it was futile. The cobblestone roads and sidewalks were so narrow and crowded, and the stoplights so numerous, that running was impossible. I just strolled along the streets, taking in the sights and sounds. Couldn’t tell you where I went, it was just “right, left, right, straight, turn around and do the reverse”. Got back to the apartment and headed out with the girls for some shopping/ browsing downtown, then to the University of Cork with Ang to get some photos. The history of the place was of course, astounding. Nothing in Canada is that old… for the duration of the trip I never really could grasp what it would be like to build a shopping centre inside an old jail, or attend a church that was built in the middle ages, or to walk by rows of houses 400 years old. I was also surprised (and dismayed) by the lack of respect that kids and teens had for this kind of history. That is… once it’s gone, destroyed… we can never get it back.

My birthday dinner was at a disappointing place called “Curran’s”, frequented mostly by tourists now I believe… the group of us washed away our food with some good red wine, the European way. And then, Ang had the whole night planned out. I have beer mats to prove it, but it went this way: cool Irish micro-brewery with good beer, everyone buying me drinks, then to another pub/bar with more people and more beer, everyone buying me drinks. What did I learn? Not to mix cider with stout. It bears repeating: Do NOT mix cider with stout. Had a few Baby Guinness’ too...

Ach, we stumble back to Emilie’s apartment and when we get back, there is a mannequin standing there in his birthday suit, except for a garbage bag falling from his waist. Nobody seems to know how he got there. Someone throws a jersey and cap on him and names him Morris. I remember that I was disturbed by his disrobement and kept trying to get him to cover up, since unfortunately he was loosely anatomically correct. To no avail. Everyone laughed and I received no help for my troubles.

I’m not a big drinker by any means – averaging one beer every second weekend – but in Ireland, with great beer, no work, and surrounded by good friends and good people, I let loose. I had a couple of goals for my vacation, and although they’d be amusing to most readers I really can’t mention them… except that I’m working on being less anxious and shy about everything and just having more fun. But I need to be pushed outside of my usual comfort range and sometimes “liquid courage” helps. (Yes, *blink blink*... I did just write that). Oh and on my birthday… the first unprovoked kiss from a stranger. Either due to drunkenness or my innate charm... I’d like to think the latter. What a crazy birthday… maybe the best I’ve ever had… and the worst hangover I’ve ever had…

The Last will be First

“I’m looking forward to going home to Ottawa, where I can understand the language(s) most of the time, never have to buy a coffee for 2 pound 20, and hardly ever get lost. Not that I don’t enjoy vacations, of course… Wait, that’s pathetic isn’t it?”

That’s what I told the guy sitting next to me on the plane from London on Friday afternoon. And what luck to get him as a seatmate, because I had given up my assigned seat to a young couple who wanted to sit together. The crew was short on tea, coffee, and other beverages, and despite my best attempts I could only manage to wheedle from the stewardess a Coor’s Light that tasted exactly like cardboard. My well-traveled companion, however, shook his head at my complaints and, with a twinkle in his eye, made haste for the back of the plane. Moments later he arrived with a Heineken in one hand and a rye & Coke in the other. “I know how these things work,” he said mysteriously. Cheers to that! 4 beers later, the world was looking decidedly brighter, and our conversation was taking a lively turn.

I think I managed to convince him to try the Carleton triathlon in May, and also that I really wasn’t engaged, or a basketball player, and he tried to convince me that A) I wasn’t that “old”; B) I don’t need to wait until my 30th birthday to travel again; C) It’s important to work at something you enjoy; and D) Academia is over-rated. I countered by trying to convince him that he didn’t look 34 (which he didn’t). I’m going grey and his hair is thinning. We commiserated.

At the baggage check he hauled a monster of a suitcase onto the trolley. I saw him grimace and I said: “Geez, would you like a hand with that?” Ang jabbed me in the ribs: “April, don’t be so rude!” and I saw him look sideways at my unfortunate smirk. But I doubt that either of us felt like being serious after the booze and the long air journey… he stood up, laughed (oh yes) and gave me a big smack on the cheek before speeding away. Ang was astonished. So was I. Now I’ve collected kisses from 3 strangers in 2 weeks. Unprovoked for the most part.

On to the beginning of the story! I didn’t take notes, so I have to write in instalments.

Jitters

Ok I lied... I'm still in Ottawa, with a gigantic headache and bloodshot eyes, and my sleep-deprived self is still hung up on all the potential things that could go wrong, and I'm still paranoid about missing my flight or being swarmed by groups of kids, but the end is near!

Hopefully, hoping beyond hope that about 5 hours from now I'll be sound asleep on that plane. A co-worker just shared a tale of camera-snatching and swarming in Italy... but Rome, isn't that the worst place for such things? Regardless, it's the last thing I need to hear!

But I've got plans for safeguarding, and, like I've said before, I'd love to put my elbow in some thug's face.

Preparations

Spring has finally decided to show up! And what a lovely weekend for running it was! My chest/lungs are recovering steadily but of course, I overdid it and aggravated my ITB at the hip… guess it serves me right, but disappointing nonetheless because I’ll need my wheels in good condition for the trip. I picked up a pair of hybrid trail runners yesterday, and they’ll be my one and only pair of footwear for the next 2+ weeks…might have to chain them to the bed. Not so sure about the 30-person co-ed hostel experience; I don’t really expect to sleep much while I share a room with those party-going young’uns.

My apartment is totally a disaster area, with clothes, luggage, and sundries strewn about haphazardly. I spent hours going over air security regulations last night, in the attempt to pack a tiny carry-on that I could live from if the airline lost my checked bag (I half expect it to). Be prepared: Scout’s motto? I’ve learned that the lighter and smaller you want your pack, the longer it takes and the more creativity you must employ.

Ready? No. Nervous? Yes. I’m always the kind of person who needs to have a contingency plan… “If it can go wrong, it will”. Keeping in mind that we’ll be travelling to G8 countries (!) the cost of necessities will be much higher than here, where we tend to take things like clean, cheap drinking water for granted (and long, hot showers!). The stress of spending so much money on even the basics--food, travel and lodging--is making me feel kind of guilty! I have to stop myself from thinking of the alternative uses of these funds. Then there is sickness, injury, and all that jazz. Now add some worry about theft and personal safety into the mix and you’ve got a recipe for traveller’s anxiety!

I probably won’t be posting again until after I get back…. so long for now.

Fun with LRAS

Last night I got into a heated discussion over the slope of the LRAS curve. The shocking thing was that it was the most excitement I’ve had all week.

Now, before my dear readers haze me for inappropriate acronym usage: Long Run Aggregate Supply.

The key to understanding some of the practice questions in the CFA curriculum is the assumption that the LRAS curve is vertical (slope is infinite). I’m game for that. Long-term growth in real GDP would then be represented by parallel shifts to the right, by some amount equal to increased worker productivity (increase in technology, skills), mobility, and population. Oversimplified… but intuitive, right? To take it a step further…. in equity valuation exercises, finance geeks often use 3% for ‘g’: the rate of long-term growth in the economy, and this rate is used in the perpetuity calculations. In the long run, it is difficult to make a case for any firm’s revenue growth to exceed ‘g’.

Complete flexibility in prices (factor prices, price levels) and the notion that there is a finite limit to the aggregate supply of an economy (in the long run, at full employment) are concepts that contribute to the infinite slope theory. But you might argue some other possibilities, namely the Keynesian view.

In this model, LRAS starts out horizontal, curves and ends up vertical at maximum full-employment output. The idea here is that, when we’re below the maximum full-employment level of output, an increase in demand will not cause inflationary pressure. Hey, that sounds reasonable too, doesn’t it?

But we’re splitting hairs. In my opinion, the argument centres on the time period considered. What if there is a “medium-run”? We could have a “medium-run” supply curve with a Keynesian shape, and argue that in the long run, in a free market by definition, equilibrium is reached at the maximum output at full employment.

I’ll stop while I’m ahead.

Minimum Wage

As it turns out, Milton Friedman and I agree about at least one thing: economic problems occur when you f*** around with the monetary supply (layman’s terms, of course). As for that pesky hyper-inflation thing, just stop printing money already. Honestly, some governments are just like children: “What do you mean, money doesn’t grow on trees?”

In the news today: Ontario’s minimum wage rises to $8.75 per hour. This is great news for the people who are working for the minimum and manage to keep their jobs (but let’s hope that their health benefits and training allotments aren’t reduced); stimulating news for discouraged workers who may now decide to enter the labour force (as the supply of labour increases); and definitely not so great news for those who will become unemployed as the demand for labour decreases.

Specifically, won’t this wage increase spur growth in the population of “idle teenagers”? Heavens… we can’t have that. Maybe it’s good news for the federal government: finally a way to be rid of all those controversial EI surpluses! But definitely bad for society as a whole due to upward pressure on the price level, more incentive for people to drop out of school and look for work, more actual unemployment, and more barriers to entry for start-up firms due to higher factor costs (less market competition).

Is THIS the way to combat poverty? Sure, the wage floor strategy wins the average vote… because, arguably, the average voter doesn’t know or care about economics. Intuitively, you’d think: “I want a higher wage for what I do because then I could afford to pay rent and feed my family”. It’s hard not to find that idea appealing; it’s hard to realize that it’s just a cycle of pain for the working poor.

There’s just something about free-wheeling political glitz destined to capitalize on the ignorance of voters that is shameless and repulsive…

With Democracy as with Capitalism: it’s not a great system, but it’s the best we’ve got.

Stella

I walked by the Waldorf school this morning, on the way back from my French placement test. There was something comforting about hearing a couple of girls singing the same clapping game in the schoolyard that I'd known in my childhood. .. Just to know that 20 years later kids can still be kids, that some things don't change all that much, and that there is actually some innocence left in the world.

Kind of makes me feel that bringing a child into this screwed-up world isn't such a horrible idea after all.

Breathing Easy

Alright… just to tell the story because several of you folks have expressed concern… I’m alive, no worries.

I spent most of the long weekend studying (and took two days off), so when Sunday rolled around I was ready for a good workout. I didn’t go crazy, just about 20km’s easy running and then a tough indoor bike workout. I was hitting zone 5 repeatedly on the intervals, but actually was somewhat happy that I could even reach that intensity indoors. Took a walk to loosen up in the evening and felt great.

Monday, did an easy 13km’s. Felt some resistance in my lungs when I tried to push the pace, so kept it nice and slow. Finished the day with about 10km’s of walking, and felt fine.

Tuesday evening I went to swim practice. Felt a bit tired beforehand, but that’s not surprising (I hardly slept Monday night). Started swimming and felt really slow… pushed harder but didn’t feel any faster. When we started the main set I self-placed halfway down the lane… but after some good-natured jesting it was agreed that I should have to lead at least once. I tried. I was doing ok for the first 50m but then I just couldn’t ignore the stabbing pain I felt when trying to breathe. I slowed down but my breathing didn’t get any easier… I briefly thought of how disruptive it would be for me to pass out in the water, swallow gallons of chlorine and have to have one of the lifeguards save me from my own stupidity. My coach would think I'm an idiot and the lifeguard would curse me for having had to get wet. So I stood up. It felt like I had cramps in my lungs…strange. Kind of scary too.

When I got out of the pool, my chest hurt and it was hard to breathe even while resting. I was doing this mixture of huffing and wheezing… not asthma, and not infection-related or I would’ve coughed. I walked around a bit with a friend in the evening and tried to relax… when you can’t breathe, it’s hard to stop the panic!

The next morning, the stabbing points had morphed into a generalized ache and tightness. I could only say a few words at a time before having to gasp for air. I went to work, but by the end of the day I was practically crazy with anxiety and couldn’t think of anything else. Even though I am grateful beyond words (and lucky!) to have a great medical/ family history, low BP etc, there is just something about having chest pain that freaks me out: it’s not like a pulled hamstring or something.

6PM Wednesday: I drag myself to the Urgent Care clinic and hunker down in a corner, trying to fend off the virtual army of germs being spewed out by, oh, about 20 very virus-infested persons. I’m sorry, but the last thing I need right now is the flu.

Much to her credit, the triage nurse was excellent, efficient and sympathetic. I saw the doctor less than an hour after I checked in.

The doctor was also very efficient. This is basically how it went:

“Where’s the pain?”
I pointed.
“Tell me when it hurts.”
She presses down on my sternum with what? 700psi of pressure.

Let’s just say I didn’t need to tell her... she could pretty much guess. The painful area stretched about 6 inches: she seemed a bit surprised at that.

“What were you doing when the pain started?”
“Swimming”
“Do you exercise a lot?”
“Yes.” I shrug. “15 hours a week?”
“15 hours?”
“Yeah”
“Every week?”
“Yup”
“Doing what?”
“Swim, bike, run”

She is typing furiously on her laptop. “Ok you have costochondritis, caused by exercise. I’ll give you some anti-inflammatories, but you’ll have to take them for some time before you notice any improvement. It could even get worse at first.” She said it was an inflammation of the cartilage between my ribs.

I’m still smarting from the pain she’s caused me, and panting out these tiny pathetic breaths, but I manage to say: “Do I have to take some time off?”

Now she looks at me like I just stepped off a spaceship and asked her to kill the Big Bad Wolf.

She shakes her head, probably thinking “WTF is wrong with these friggin’ triathletes?” and tells me that the longer I aggravate it, the longer it will take to heal. She tells me I will probably need all 3 refills for Naproxen (well I guess that would make it 60 days, not 45…) but I already know I will not be taking it that long.

You see, I’ve grown rather fond of my stomach lining.

I’ll try to get a second opinion before Europe, just to be safe. But for now… I’m overflowing in free time. Maybe I'll finally get to clean up my inbox, or get my hair cut, or have my monthly pint of beer & rant session, or, wait… UPS came by with my lovely CFA curriculum, neatly packaged and brand spanking new. It was heavy enough that even the UPS guy said: “Wow, you’ve got a lot of studying to do.”

Thanks, UPS guy.