Misery and Illness Love Company

In anticipation of a mini-family vacation ("mini" as in, it's just the two of us, and we will only be gone three days) that Adam and I will be taking this week, I thought I would repost this gem from 2009.  While I love this story, it did need to be taken down a peg from its original version. People don't want to read a novel when they have only subscribed to read a few paragraphs.

Monday, September 14, 2009

It is June of 2002 and I have just graduated college. My parents want to relive their young married days and take another cross country trip, similar to the one they took shortly after they became a family. I had the option to go or not, but I felt that as a big college graduate I should of course, grace them with my presence one last time on vacation.  (By the end of the trip, "grace" will have turned out to be a very misleading description of what I contributed to the family dynamics).

It was an industrious itinerary, one that was intended to be accomplished over two weeks. First stop: Ohio to visit the grandparents. After that, we would then venture from there into Michigan, through the Upper Peninsula, Canada through Manitoba, and back into the states by way of the Dakotas.

All starts out well and good, if a little on the boring side. The cute little family of black bears on the side of the road was probably the highlight of this portion of the trip.

It all went downhill from there.

Somewhere in the Upper Peninsula, I began to feel ill, with what I hoped was not strep throat. However, college dorm life guaranteed not only that I contracted it every year, but that I was fairly well-versed in its symptoms. After a full day of a suspiciously sore throat and aching body, I knew the game was up. I informed the family that I had strep throat,  to which my father responded "Nonsense, it's just a cold."

The man can be heartless sometimes.

And his remedy? Over the counter Tylenol and sleep. Anybody who has ever had strep knows this only prolongs the feeling of imminent death.   For the next few days, while the family explored without me, I stayed in whatever frumpy motel room we had landed in, attempting to nurse myself back to health without the aid of an antibiotic. After two days of this, I started to turn evil. No amount of reasoning would convince him that I needed a doctor, so this went on for a few more days.  So did my grouchiness. Grouchiness and illness do not a happy traveler make.  No fun, no sightseeing, no happiness.

Finally, hours outside of Winnipeg, headed southbound, I could stand it no more. Dear Dad got out to gas up, and I took the opportunity to  inform my mother that my personal next stop would either be a hospital or an airport. My misery had reached the end of its rope.  Surprisingly, she took me seriously, and  announced (rather cheerfully) the ultimatum to my dad. Even more surprisingly, he grudgingly (and this is a kind description of his acquiescence) agreed to stop at the first doctor we found.

As we were in the prarielands of Saskatchewan, Canada at the time, this anticipated visit to a medical facility did not occur until an eternity later when we finally crossed back into the great US of A. First town we came to?  "Murder free for as long as anyone can remember" Crosby, North Dakota. I am not kidding.  There may have been absolutely nothing going on in this bucolic village, but we were certainly safe from any thugs trying to murder us. (Check out Crosby here, to begin planning your next vacation.

Crosby was my personal utopia, regardless of its murder status. Why? Crosby is where the healing began. Since there are approximately only five people that live in Crosby, finding the hospital was relatively easy. The sign tells us that we have arrived in the emergency room, but it was as silent as a cemetery. There was certainly no emergency except my throat and the fire burning inside it. The lights weren't even on.  Our shouts of "Hello? Hello?" went unanswered until we finally stumbled upon the nurse station. After explaining my problem, they then told us we would need to wait a little bit for the doctor to arrive. As in, he had only been in the US about a week, fresh from Pakistan, and today was not one of his days to work.

 Shouldn't there be a doctor at a hospital at all times? And possibly more than one?

*Insert pause here for slight consternation*

Only a slight pause though, because I didn't care; I was not leaving there without drugs. I would have waited if he was still on the plane from Pakistan because that is how miserable I felt. Fortunately, the wait was much shorter than that and when he arrived,  he was quite nice and cheery, ran a strep test, and set me up with an antibiotic. I felt this should have proved to my dad that I did indeed have strep, but to this day, he insists that it was just a cold, and that I was overly dramatic. Seven years later, I have conceded (not to him though!) that I may have been a tad bit overzealous in my demands, but I will never believe that the strep test lied.

Post-doctor visit, my condition vastly improved, but my attitude did not.  Within two days, I was able to regale the family with my snarky comments and demands once again. I was quite miffed over being left in motel rooms, lying in a pool of sweat, yearning for antibiotics. I took each and every opportunity, then and now, to remind him of his cold heart.

I should mention that I love my dear old Dad, and that our personalities are two peas in a pod.

Life lesson learned at age 30: Appreciate it when your parents want to take you on vacation!


 What are your family vacation horrors stories? 

Fine Wines and Blogs Get Better With Age

*This post has absolutely nothing to do with wine.*

I Packed My Sense of Humor and Not Much Else just turned three. I meant to write a dramatic post on its birthday that celebrated the day this blog was born, that detailed how I have persevered through the peaks and valleys of online writing, and that expressed to all 29 readers how much I treasure your input.

Bleeecch. None of that happened, although I DO in fact, treasure your input. (No really, I do. I get so excited when I see I have new comments. It's like a little party in my inbox once or twice every hour week).

Really, the reason that post never happened because I was much too busy surviving things, climbing things, and being horrified at things. I'm sure you understand.

And since I am horrible at being mushy, I figured that I should just skip all of that and just repost my very first entry instead. Some of my early stuff is actually quite entertaining, so you may be seeing more of it over the next few weeks. Side note: As I have been reading through the first year or so, I realize that apparently I thought it was acceptable to fling words out to the world without spell checking or proofreading. I have fixed those mistakes in the reprint, but everything else is the same. Oh, and I added  pictures. Not sure why I wouldn't have just done that the first time around.   No wonder it's taken me three years to find 29 people who willingly and faithfully wade through each post.

I trust that things have improved since 2008. Enjoy.

 

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

Fun at the Dhaka Airport

It's my first time in Asia and I have chosen a "doozy" of a country in which to start my journey. I have arrived in the chaotic capital of Bangladesh, Dhaka. Isn't that where all the glossy travel magazines are headquartered? On the top 10 list of honeymoon destinations? NO? Right, well anyway, I am here now and ready to start getting adventurous.


I really had to look no further than the customs line at the airport though. (And by "line" here, I mean that everyone seems to think that pressing closer together and pushing will magically make them next ). I happen to be in front of the only other two white English-speakers in the room and I cannot help but overhear their conversation, as they are discussing the most recent detonated bombs and bouts of violence. I think that they cannot possibly be discussing Bangladesh, the country I just arrived in only twenty minutes ago. My curiosity overwhelms me and I turn and ask them where said bombs are being planted? They assured me that it was taking place right there in Dhaka! Wonderful! I will leave that part out when I call home.
When I finally push my way to the front, the customs officer decides is it not my day to enter Bangladesh. Why? I do not have an address at which I will be staying. He refuses to take pity on me, to feel sorry for the clueless American girl who has clearly not yet become familiarized in the art of bullying a Bangladeshi customs officer.


I am definitely going to start crying in the airport.


This is my where my fellow English speaker friends swoop in, proceed to curse the officer in Bengali (I do not speak Bengali, but I am pretty sure that is what was going on) and before I know it, the nice man shrugs his shoulder, stamps my passport and waves me through. I decided not to stick around in case he changes his mind (he seemed a bit fickle).
When I finally get out of the airport, the scene that awaits me assures me that the little airport drama will only be the beginning of my other side of the world adventure.

The Traveler Me vs. The Safely at Home Me

Have you ever noticed that you do (or don't do) things while traveling that you never would (or always would) at home?

Here are my Traveler Me revelations, gathered from the past five weeks. Some I probably should not admit, one might get me in trouble, and a few could leave me ill.  

Beverage in a bag

1. I drink water from questionable sources. But this delightful little bag of pitahaya juice was calling my name. Plus, it was 200 degrees. And my stomach only hurt for a few minutes afterwards. 

2. I don't wear a seatbelt. Why bother? My taxi drivers are skilled in the art of texting AND weaving around large trucks, livestock, giant potholes, children, and other cars. And anyway, even if the crash doesn't kill me, the pothole will swallow me whole.

3. I have become an avid meteorologist. I am continually scanning the sky, looking for those dark clouds that are either going to ruin my beach day, prevent me from doing laundry, or more happily, cool things down here in Granada. 

4. Sometimes I don´t wash my hands before eating. Now, I don´t always do this at home either, but at home I am not riding chicken buses, sweating profusely 24/7, or living with 15 other people. There is a perpetual lack of soap in Nicaragua's restrooms and if my little handy dandy bottle of sanitizer is not nearby, that means I will be enjoying a few extra germs with my meal. And not eating because my hands aren't clean is simply not an option. I turn into the Wicked Witch of the West without food.

5. Sometimes I don´t wash my hands after using the restroom. Which makes my previous admission even more gross. 

Rice, beans, tostones, avocado, salad. What more can I ask for?

6. I eat out every single day. And I love it. Why not? The best lunch ever costs about $1. I could cook all day and it wouldn´t be as delicious as this. At home eating out every day is gross and doesn´t fit the budget.

7. I hitchhike. This is one that could land me in trouble with loved ones. You already know the rules my mother kindly gave me prior to departure. While she didn't verbalize it, I am pretty sure she would have frowned upon catching a ride with strangers on the side of a road in a foreign country. Same goes for the husband.  Sometimes though, you really just need a ride, and the most convenient thing to do is hop in the back of a truck with a bunch of people heading the same place you're headed. (I suppose I could just tell the aforementioned loved ones that I was running away from robbers or something and hitchhiking was the fastest way.) Let me assure you,  I would never, ever hitchhike at home, having seen one-too-many death by hitchhiking movies. Thumbing a ride wouldn't even be my last resort if I was broke and bleeding.  (Ok, maybe I haven't actually watched this movie, but I'm sure it's out there.)

8. Finally, and probably the most important one of all. I force myself to meet people, get to know them and develop a connection. If you know me, you know this is not typical. Rumor has it that my soul is clad in iron. (Someone actually insinuated this about me once upon a time). I realize this is not exactly an award winning quality, but I just don´t like to extend myself, endure the forced chatter of small talk, or find myself in that awkward phase of getting to know someone. At home, I have all the friends I need. (That last statement probably does nothing to detract from the soul of  iron rumor). Here, I have to force myself to do these things or I will miss out. Just the other day, I met Oscar David, who sells CD´s to tourists, loves baseball, has a one year old little boy, loves his country, and who wants to visit America some day. Later, I met Juan Nicaragua, an older gentleman who was weaving baskets out of bamboo and  is very vocal about the upcoming election in his country. Not to mention the other volunteers with whom I have laughed, carried on, shared meals with, and had adventures.

I would say that's the best part of traveling. 

Do you identify with any of these? Or better yet, got any of your own admissions to add?

Friends and the sunset in San Juan del Sur

Volcano Boarding in Leon: The Most Fun I Never Had

Let's just be honest. This is not going to be a glowing report of how much fun my volcano boarding experience was. It's just not. I hate roller coasters and with the exception of volleyball, I don't care much for activities that cause me to break any sort of sweat. I also value my life.

So what on earth was I thinking?

First, some basic information:

Location-Cerro Negro, just outside of Leon, 728 meters tall, and the youngest volcano in Nicaragua.

Cost-$28 US dollars. A cheap price to possibly shorten my life.

State of mind: Panic mixed with resignation. The pictures you see in this post belie the fear within.

My state of mind was not improved when my first encounter of the day was with a girl who had just an accident the day prior, involving the very same volcano. Hmm. She had a rather scary looking bandage wrapped aroud her head, a very large black eye, and blood in her retina.

Wonderful.

I was considering giving it up, but I didn't want to be a quitter and supposedly volcano boarding was the thrill of a lifetime. I also need good stories to tell my students and my future children, so I determined to tough it out. Upon arriving at Cerro Negro however, I began to reevaluate my life. Although not the steepest volcano I have ever seen, it is nevertheless, a giant volcano. And I wanted to sled down it? Right.

So began the trek up the incline. As I am not in shape whatsoever, and I am also lugging a giant board,  I quickly fell to the back of the pack. The rest of the group trotted merrily on past me, not breathing hard at all. I considered hating them. Then I spotted my new best friend, a fellow climber who just so happened to have asthma. If she can do it, I can do it. She stopped every 10 steps or so to breathe, and so I gladly waited behind her. She kept apologizing to me, and I assured her that I was completely fine. Then when our guide realized he was missing two climbers, he came back for us, took our boards and carried them for us to the next resting spot.

Not what I had intentionally planned, but perfect nonetheless.

Upon arriving at the top, I was completely pleased that I had made it, and resigned myself to the task of getting down in one complete piece. The company (Tierra Tours) provides a hot looking jumpsuit, elbow, knee, and wrist protection, and goggles. No helmet. Siiiiigh. As if heading to my execution, I slowly don each piece, biding my time until the last minute. When I can wait no more, I get on my board and proceed to..........

Inch down the volcano. Yes! Just the speed I like. I literally dug my heels in to the volcanic rocks the entire way down. At two points, I came to a complete stop as I felt myself hurtling out of control. I should probably clarify "hurtling." By this, I just mean that I was going approximately 3 mph, instead of 2 mph.

As I am inching my way down, the thought crosses my mind that this is probably not how it's supposed to be done. If I could compare, it would be like a grandmother driving to Sunday church in a nice big Buick.

But I don't care. I arrived alive and unscathed.

And I will never do it again,. Once was enough! I do wish I had enjoyed it more, because it certainly looks like tons of fun. I just didn't have any.

If you have been volcano boarding, what was your experience? If you haven't, would you do it?

Best Day Ever

There were two instructions my mother gave me prior to leaving on this trip. She still likes to instruct me on things, despite the fact that I am married, have traveled to many countries without her, hold a full-time job, and no longer live with her. The instructions were:

1) Make sure I do not show any unnecessary skin, so as not to solicit disaster, and 2) Never ever travel alone.

Rule 1 is no problem. I don't care to attract attention in my own country, let alone foreign countries. Rule 2 is more difficult. I came here alone, I will leave alone, so somewhere in there I will have to travel alone. Truthfully though, there are plenty of other volunteers to bounce around with and so there has been no need to travel solo. But I can't just sit around and wait for someone else to decide to go with me. So just the other day,  for the true first time, I ventured off on a chicken bus to a destination about 30 minutes from Granada. 

Best day ever.

Ehh....only bad thing is having other people take your pictures for you. 

I went to Caterina because it was easy to get to, and the view of Laguna de Apoyo from the crater rim was supposedly not to be missed.  I decided that was  a good place for me to spend a few hours. I arrived without incident, I found the mirador, I relaxed, and I chatted with whomever I pleased. I met Oscar David and Juan Nicaragua, two locals who have made Los Pueblos Blancos (the province) their home. 

And after a delicious meal, I decided it was time to head out. 

So I did. Because there was nobody else to consult with and I was the boss of me. Good feeling.  


That little adventure was a preview of this weekend, where I will head off to Leon (solo, but will meet up with friends in case you are reading this Mom), a city a bit north of here. I am currently trying to sum up the courage to hurl myself down a volcano wearing an orange jumpsuit, goggles, and riding on some sort of board. I have heard about these activities for a while now.


I should mention I am somewhat terrified.  

It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time

The following took place last weekend in Playa Maderas in San Juan del Sur. It was an otherwise lovely weekend, minus the bloody part and the fact that I still cannot sleep or sit on my left cheek. Enjoy.

What a nice rock, perfect to pose for a picture. Side note: notice all the smaller rocks around the one I have my eye on.

Notice the fairly large wave creeping up behind me. Also notice how oblivious I appear to be.

The dot in the middle of all the foam is my head after I have been unceremoniously swept off my serene pose. My friend Anneriet so nicely captured all of this on film for the world to enjoy. 

I will leave to your imagination the bloody trail that ensued. Picture were taken, but they are hardly flattering. Thank goodness it was just my rear and not my head-a head injury could have really put a damper on things around here.

When Did I Walk Into A Strip Club?

So the last two days have been a holiday here in Nicaragua. It just so happened to be Day of the Teachers, so I felt as if it was quite acceptable for me to enjoy it to is full and maximum extent (which I did with various activities including a boat ride to an island, a relaxing swim in a lovely pool, and a ride on the back of a motorcycle driven by a man toting a pistol in his waistband. More on that later).  After all, Teacher Appreciation Week at home was full of free food, nice gifts, and general appreciation for my profession. I was sure it would be just as nice here.

Boy, was I wrong. In fact, any answers or insight to what I am about to describe is welcomed.

It started off well enough. We got to school early and Karla and I got to work hanging streamers and generally making the place look festive. This took approximately two hours and as soon as the last streamer was hung, as if on cue, everybody swarmed in and took their seats. The ceremony began first with the national anthem, and a poem, followed by a few speeches from the students. 

That´s when the dancing began. 

The announcement was made that a trio of first graders would be doing a dance, and they materialized out of the crowd, wearing matching outfits and the cutest little smiles. I thought,  "Oh how cute!" and reached for my camera.

Then the heavy beat of reggaeton thudded like a hammer and before I knew it, these sweet angelic five year olds were droppin´it like it was hott. I mean, HOTT. They got low with moves befitting any stripper on my home town´s seedy Rt. 11. My mouth dropped. I looked around to see if anyone was concerned. 

Nope, just me. In fact, a few of the teachers were smiling happily at me, and checking to see if I was happy as well. I was certainly not.

I wish I could say it stopped there, but in fact, it did not. We moved right up through the grade levels, with each dance getting progressively more suggestive and me becoming more horrified. I took a picture at one point and then immediately felt like a pedophile, so you will not be seeing it. 

I don´t know which was worse-the blatantly sexual dancing of these young girls, or the crowd of adults, including teachers, who cheered, whistled and carried on with each flip of the hair and thrust of the pelvis. 

Apparently, I did not even see the worst of it. After talking with the other volunteers, it seems there have been other dances where boys and girls will simulate sexual moves and positions together, again, all while the crowd cheers them on. 

I do not have facts or statistics to back this up, but after a few conversations in the last two weeks, it seems that Nicaragua has an elevated rate of teen pregnancy. I am not surprised. Of course, my own country has its own alarming rate of teen pregnancies. Judging, I am not. Looking for insight, I am. 

Thoughts?