The Maid and the Chili

One of the downsides of being stuck in a city that is covered in smog is that you can't walk around, well you could, but in doing so you would lose even more life-years than you already have in your youthish stunts...so now I sit in my semi-windowless room (does a view of a concrete wall count as a window?) and count down the hours until my flight to Bali. Which is 18.24. I'm actually really really good at wasting time, as I have spent the afternoon watching youtube videos about Unicorn Samurais and preparing for the Zombie Apocalypse.

I've decided to stay locked in small windowless room because I am hiding from the housekeeper and because I stole the small fan from the communal bathroom and there is wifi here. There is a promising cafe nearby that is cute and air-conditioned and promises wifi, but it is a trap to lure in expats because i have been there twice and the wifi never works and none of the employees know how to fix it. So you end up with a stale croissant, coffee that is akin to sulfuric acid, short 15,000 rupiah and minus 0.6 life years from all of the diesel exhaust you inhaled on the walk to the cute cafe. and no internet. so i will stay in my prison/dorm room with my stolen fan thank you very much.

The maid does not like me. It has something to do with me giving her clothes to wash that were too "dirty,"according to my friend. Like a dumb foreigner, I didn't realize I was supposed to pre-wash my clothes before actually getting them laundered. My bad. But I've learned sarcasm doesn't translate well, so I didn't waste my time flipping through my dictionary to find a snarky retort to her complaints to my friend. My friend told her she could talk to me in Indonesian and that I might understand what she says, so she likes to babble on and on and on and on and on to me. It's really hard to get out of a conversation where you actually do understand the language, but it's even harder in one that you don't. A sample conversation:

Maid: "alsdkji   dkfja dka alsdjoiaeo adjh cng;ae adjoifoe ckajdj...EEEE adjjoa. adoae...."

Me: "Apa?" (what?)

Maid: "ALSDKJI  DKJFA DKA ALSDJOIAEO!! aldskfoe!!! ajdofjea kjdaout"

Me: "Tidak Mengerti. Maaf" (I don't understand, sorry.)

Maid: "A.L.S.D.K.J.I.  DKJFA aieojla oieaf!!!"

Me (looking at watch): "Look, I really have no idea what you're saying, I'm sorry, ok?" as I retreat into my room

All the while she glares at me like I am some sort of cyclops with a lisp singing the national anthem. But the funny thing is she has this half-smile on her face the whole time, yet I can see the judgement and hatred in her eyes. So as I slink into my room backwards (never turn your back on the enemy) she shakes her head in disgust while still smiling, her one gold-rimmed tooth catching the light somehow because it's super dim, not sure, must be some good gold they have here. I thought that speaking louder and slower when someone doesn't understand you was an inherently American thing. Apparently not-as the more I speak in English and shake my head the slower and louder she gets.

The worst was when I was really sick about two weeks ago. She chose the day I thought I was dying to berate me about leaving the air-conditioner in my room on. Again, like a dumb foreigner, I forgot to turn off my AC that basically is only a fan in between my trips to the bathroom. She scolded me in a long soliloquy and all I understood was "AC" and hand gestures and her half-disgust smile so I thought that probably was a bad thing. "Sorry..." I croaked as I clutched my stomach and ran to my room.

The next day I was fortunate enough to be leaving smog central to travel to Yogyakarta, the "cultural center" of Java (read: tourist destination and hotels with pools). Even if I was sick, I was getting the hell out of Jakarta and the hot windowless room and the maid who may or may not have poisoned me (or at the very least cast a curse on me). I couldn't figure out the cause of my sudden stomach ailment, of course you always go through the list of everything you ate...but I had eaten dinner at my friends house the night before, and none of them were sick...and no street food that day. My friend offered her opinion: "I bet it was the chili. You did eat a lot of chili." Considering I had a fever and explosive diarrhea, I don't think it was reflux due to the "chileee" as it is pronounced here. Indonesians love their chili-they have these little red and green ones that are super hot, and you can eat them whole or ground-up in a paste. I usually dab a little on whatever I eat, and that always earns a patronizing remark from whomever I am eating with: "OOoooo, are you sure you can handle the chili? It's really hot!" Indonesians are proud about a lot of things, but their food and it's spiciness is at the top of the list. "Yeah, I know. We do have spicy food in America, you know." "Yes, but Indonesian food is REALLY spicy. Be careful!" "Ok, thanks for the warning!" as I bite down cheerfully. This has backfired a few times as I have gotten an uber-spicy one that leaves me gasping for air and gulping water without ice :( but usually I can handle my own.

Two days after the dinner and the day after the abdominal misery set in, I had to go back by my friends house to print something. She was not there, but her husband was. He's kind of like the Indonesian version of Kip from Napoleon Dynamite. He gave me a look of pity as I plopped on his couch. "How are you feeeeeeling?" (I wish I coudl do better with the accent, but only can do so much with a keyboard).

"I'm ok, thanks."

"What happened?"

"Just got sick, I really am feeling better though, thank you."

"You know, I bet it was the chileeee. You really shouldn't eat the chileeee if you can't handle it." He stared at me with his little bald head and pencil moustache and 1980s square-rimmed glasses.

He was totally mocking me!

"No, I don't think it was the chili, actually."

"No, I bet it was. You ate too much. You should be more careful from now on."

It wasn't the F*ing chili!!! I wanted to scream, more annoyed than I should have been which I am going to blame on the fact that my abdomen felt like someone had tried to stuff two basketballs into it combined with caffeine-withdrawal headaches from lack of coffee. I would have taken on that battle about whether or not I could handle my chileees but I needed his printer and wanted to save my energy for making it to my flight so I could get the hell out of here, so I just shrugged my shoulders.

Yogya recharged my batteries, though, and I did avoid the chilis for awhile. When I got back to the city today I considered asking him out to lunch so I could prove my chileee-worthiness, but instead I just settled for eating alone in a warung down the street. Sometimes you have to face your demons head on-so I picked the items with the most red and seedy sauce I could find with minimal rice to damper down the taste and sat down to eat. Halfway through the meal I stopped to wipe off my forehead, but I finished all of it! I wondered if taking Zantac would be considered cheating, but decided no that was just smart, so I popped two and headed back out into the frantic Jakarta streets.

Someone once said that "true integrity is doing the right thing, even when no one is looking." I think this same point can be said for proving something to yourself without anyone there to watch.

Especially if it's handling your chileeees.

Are we really all interested in "traveling"?

I saw more white people on my first day in Jogjakarta then I have during my entire 6 weeks in Indonesia. It hit me as I was shoving my way through the crowd on Jalan Malioboro that I was back among the land of tourists; no longer was I the only bule who garnered the "Hello Mister!" attention from shop owners, the requests for photo opps with school kids, and the attempts at broken English that I have grown to love. No, here I was just another tourist. Sigh.

Today it was hot and sunny, and then it rained. I wonder if my fishermen at the lake are feeling sick. Many of the men I interviewed for my thesis attributed their illnesses to changes in weather, especially a rapid change in hot to cold weather. So when I got back to my hotel and immediately jumped in the pool; I was oh so grateful for the clean cool water as I sliced through it...as a Pisces, water is my second home. I didn't even think the muddy rivers I had left behind in Kalimantan as I savored a moment of quiet and bliss that is rare in Java; one of the most crowded islands on earth.

Later as I ate at a renowned backpacker restaurant two doors down from my very nice (but still cheap!) hotel I looked around at all of the other bule as we drank our icy Bintangs and ate organic rice and sauces without MSG--most are definitely European, this place seems to be popular with the French, Danish, and Germans. A few travelers from Argentina and one brave lady from Mexico have also crossed my path, along with a few Aussies and Kiwis. Yet still no Americanos, but I'm sure that won't last long. This restaurant was opened by some Belgian dudes who wanted to create organic sustainable restaurants that benefit the local community...but I couldn't help but wonder how exactly this uber-trendy and doubly expensive restaurant helps benefit the local economy more than what I could buy directly from the local street vendor a few blocks away?

My mind started wandering as it often does, and I wondered...why do most people like to travel? Does everyone like to travel, or it has become something to occupy the spare time of the affluent? Maybe...but then there are the budget travelers, the young hip students who want to show off how cultured and awesome we are. It has become a bragging right, in certain circles; how about this for a mad lib: "Dude, how many (girls have you banged/countries have you traveled to this year)?" "Aw man, its been kind of a dry spell lately. Only two this year, and could only spend about a week in each one. But next year, gonna take a whole month off, hit up Europe, the Mediterranean, maybe Central Asia? It's gonna be epic." 

To travel, according to my favorite online dictionary, means to take a trip, go from one destination to the next, usually abroad. Benign enough. Exciting even. 

Yet, the etymology of the word travel is the Middle English word travail; meaning a work especially of a painful or laborious nature, a physical or mental exertion or piece of work, excessive labor, suffering. If you go even deeper, it is rooted from the Latin word, tripalium, which is a 3-staked instrument of torture. Go ahead, google away. So how did we go from this--->

         to this?

I wonder if the Incas were jumping for joy after they finished hauling

 all those rocks up that freaking mountain

Hmmm. Still like traveling? Yeah, me neither. 

But I wonder-what does traveling mean for most people? Seeing beautiful monuments, meeting new people, going on exciting adventures in exotic places, experiencing new cultures? Yes, all true...but I also feel that a love of "traveling" has become the Y generation's version of "keeping up with the Joneses" as we all try to outdo one another with our stories and experiences. 

A few sample conversations inspired by true events: 

"Oh, when did you last go to Chile? Aren't the people there wonderful? Yeah, I was a nanny there for a year before backpacking across Patagonia and becoming the youngest person to summit Aconcagua..."

"Yeah, I've had malaria SIX times...."

"Well lets see, I speak French, English, German, Italian, and am teaching Spanish this summer to some refugee kids from Sudan.."

"Oh wow, you've been to 10 countries? Gosh, I've lost track of all mine...I think I've been to at least 30...Oooops-I forgot Africa! So it must be closer to 40. Still a long ways to go!"

And as a member of the Global Health crowd, I can say we are perhaps the worst at this...although we like to legitimize our travel by calling it "work" (tongue-in-cheek; we actually do work really hard at helping people around the world; I just think we are very guilty of all that I have named above!)

And how much local culture do we experience? Or is it more bringing our culture with us, to these beautiful spots where we want to see these once-in-a-lifetime things (but with a/c and wifi please). As for Indonesia, Jogja is nice, Bali is even nicer, but Jakarta and Kalimantan can be hot and miserable places at times, and life is not easy for many people who live there. I don't think most of us travelers would want to stay much longer than a few days here if we had to live like the average Indonesian...

When I think of a true travailler, I think of my friend Janelle, who lived for 2 years in the Moroccan desert while in Peace Corps. Yikes. Or two of my professional mentors, who were medical missionaries for 20 years in Bangladesh (well, maybe that is more of "huge life change" than traveling. scratch that example.) 

Would we all be so excited about traveling if we had to go about it as our forefathers did? Spending weeks or months at sea getting scurvy, days on foot, carrying heavy packs, not talking to our family for months, and even then only a measly letter? I can honestly say that 16 hours by motor vehicle on bumpy dirt roads, explosive diarrhea, and sleeping on mattresses that may or may not be infested with fleas is not my idea of fun. So is it worth it when I get to see my first orangutan in the wild or get a sweet pic of that temple at sunrise? Yeah after the fact (just make sure to ask after the flea bites have worn off). Or like childbearing, you forget the pain after awhile and only remember the good parts.

Modern technology has made our lives so much easier, that now many people can afford to travel to all the cool places that God gave us on this globe, and that is not a bad thing. But traveling, in my opinion, has now taken on the opposite meaning of travail. Those of us well-off enough to afford that round-trip ticket to Bangkok can live like kings on a few USD a day, but this option is still limited to those of us with both money and power. Not necessarily personal power; but country-level power. Those of us lucky enough to reside in Western countries have a pretty sweet bargain as we are able to gain access to most countries without much hassle or expense. Yet, how easy is it for a Bolivian or Libyan to get a visa to visit the U.S.?  Not very. When I was conducting my interviews in Kalimantan, so many people would tell me how they wanted to visit the U.S. someday, and ask me how much it cost to get there. I didn't have the heart to tell them it would be like me trying to save up enough money to buy a Gulfstream G4. 

The Malay and Dayak of West Kalimantan are some of the most hard-working people I have ever seen in my life; sun up to sun down they toil away in the heat; fishing, weaving, laundry, crops, cooking, cleaning...they live pretty well, by Indonesian standards, although still perhaps monetarily poor they always have enough food, nice houses, some have TVs. Experiencing their life for just a few weeks was really rough for me; more than once I was extremely homesick and longed for the cold wind in my face as I ride my bike down the Embarcadero. They are the ones who travail, and I was the one who traveled; yet they were the ones who were content, and I was the one in agony (well, only sometimes-there were of course high points). How did these two words, rooted in one another, come to mean such opposite things? Somewhere in the midst of Lonely Planet, online forums, cheapflights.com, and digital photography, traveling became a passion, a desire, a fad...someday I want to go somewhere without a guidebook, without a plan or camera, without knowing the language or even anything about the place, and see how I handle things. I sort of tried to do that here, but bought a language book the second I found a bookstore and even though I am sans Lonely Planet, the Thorn Tree forum has provided many recommendations last-minute.

As I sit here typing away on my MacBook enjoying my coffee and the sound of the waterfall splashing into the pool; I look around to see if there is anything even remotely Indonesian around me, and the only thing I spot is the disgusting kerupuk sitting untouched by the bule guests in a glass jar on the extravagant buffet table. 

Do I still like traveling? Sure, kind of. But what I enjoy more is learning, seeing, doing. And how many things have I left undone in my home state of Georgia, or in the U.S. in general? Plenty. At last count I have only visited 18 out of 50 states! Do I like traveling at the expense of missing out on important events, like my best friends graduating from medical school or Bay to Breakers?

Today I was going to go see some more temples outside of Jogja. But I decided I needed a break from traveling. So I will sit, and rest, and work on my presentation I have to give in two days that has been sadly neglected, because of, well, traveling. I have loved my time in Indonesia, but I will be more than happy to unpack my suitcase, grab a cold pint in the Mission, and gossip with my friends about our love lives. So to all of you travelers out there-I propose a challenge; next time you visit Fiji or Tanzania, take a few days away from the fun stuff and try to see the place for what it really is--visit a local hospital or go work in the rice paddies for a day in the full sun and humidity...And try to do it without complaining, without sadness or pity, just as a normal person that lives like this, day after day, and is content with it, happy even.

I think, if you do this, you will fail, like I did. You will be hot and whiny...you will feel slight pity for the barefoot children playing in the dirt, happy as they are, because you know they will probably never go to college or be able to see the things you have been lucky enough to see. But later, when you are removed from the situation, safe in the comfort of familiarity and native speakers, you might realize how vast and complex our world is and how little you actually know after so many years of graduate school. You might also appreciate the difficulties faced, if not at the time, for how they forced you to adapt, how they exposed your true colors and motives that normally you can hide. You might learn a thing or two about how to combat loneliness, when you don't have facebook or text messages as a fallback. And you hope that these lessons aren't akin to your biochemistry course, which you immediately erased from your memory as soon as the course was over. And maybe, like me, you will gain a new appreciation for what it means to call a place "home".

And you might realize that you do love traveling...just not for the reasons you originally thought.

I'm baaaaccckkkkkk!!!!

I'm not really sure the impetus for reinvigorating my blog...perhaps being trapped in a windowless steamy room in the most polluted city on earth while nursing a fever and nausea does weird things to your mind. What do I know, I'm only 3/4 doctor.

Being nauseated sucks. so does itching. And of course Indonesia doesn't sell Phenergan, the best anti-nausea so you can sleep 15 hours straight medicine EVER. So I will rely on these weird stick on heating pads, tylenol, and some sort of cramping medicine to relieve my agony. Doctors are huge babies by the way-because we think of all the possible things that could be wrong with us every time we get sick (My differential includes: SBO, gastritis, ruptured ovarian cyst, the worst PMS ever, shigella, salmonella, rotavirus, and too many others to list...ignorance really is bliss.)

Maybe I'm just lonely....it is way too early to call my amigos, although I was really tempted. Who wouldn't want a wake-up call at 3 am on a weekday from your best friend who wants to whine about her tummy hurting? But for some reason, think this might be one of those put your big girl panties on times.

The one good thing about being sick? Other people taking care of you. I'm totally a sucker for service. I love breakfast in bed, and as a shrewd kindergartner I quickly learned that I could train my mother to serve me Lucky Charms on my favorite My Little Ponies tray in front of the TV as an enticement to actually get out of bed for school. 22 years later, this like, doesn't happen anymore. (Unless I happen to be home on my birthday or christmas. Chocolate Eclair and Coffee? Yes please!)

BUT...one time I can still get my pampering is when I'm sick. One time in med school I was so sick that I literally passed out on my bathroom floor and could not get up the next day because I was so dehydrated. My dear father figure friend Patrick brought me blue gatorade and revived me back to life. Or at least back to bed. That's the first thing you learn as a med student. Gatorade for hangovers, and avoid Mexican food at all costs. So what if I was sick from vodka and not a virus? Same same.

Unfortunately this little bug ain't from alcohol. However, I did still get some care today from a friend I have known about 1 month. My friend Agnes checked on me all day between her work and meetings, took me to the Apotik (pharmacy), brought me warm rice, offered to massage my back, and gave lots of motherly looks of pity. Almost felt like home. And then I looked out the window of our car and realized I was still stuck in the Jakarta smog. I have a love-hate relationship with Indonesia, but I will say that these are among the most generous, welcome people I have ever encountered. Even though most people here won't hesitate to burp in public and shove you out of the way when waiting in line, they will be the first to invite you into their home, feed you 5-course meals, and do anything in their power to anticipate any possible need of their beloved "guest."

Being from the South, we are known for our hospitality. Yet this is an area I am totally lacking in....traveling alone here and barely speaking the language has made me realize the power in kindness to strangers, especially those who are clearly fish out of water, as I have been here for the last month. 

But I think I've come to the conclusion that I would be a lot more hospitable if my house was ever clean (it is, like 15.7% of the time). Do maids count as pampering?

Enough is Enough!

I've had it with these motherf*ing snakes BABIES on this motherf*ing plane!!!

Well said, Samuel Jackson. Let me explain.

You know how people sometimes ask you what your biggest pet peeve is, and you struggle to find an answer? I always have, anyways...I try not to be annoyed by much and am pretty good at letting stuff roll off my shoulders. But I think I have finally found the answer to this simple get-to-know-you question: Babies. On planes.

I recently flew back to Atlanta from San Fran to tie up my loose ends, finish packing, and go to a Ray LaMontagne concert (awesome, btw). As I was waiting at the gate I did my usual routine of scoping out the other passengers for any potential perverts, terrorists, hotties, or babies. I sighed as I spotted a brightly decorated stroller covered in stuffed animals and drool.  The infant stared at me, cooing and chewing on its hand as I tried to convince myself that maybe this would be one time a baby wouldn't cry on a plane. Miracles do occasionally come true. Now I'm not one of those yuppie snobs who insists I'm never having children. Usually, I like babies. They are pretty cute (except newborns. they look like aliens. sorry, but its true), fun to play with, and I really like making faces at them. I prefer older kids, like from 3-11 years, because they actually have sense and reason and can communicate verbally. And while I have yet to determine if my biologic clock is indeed ticking, or if I even have one, lets just say that babies are usually cute and cuddly and all the power to you if you want to have one. 

However. Those capricious little angels can go from this:

to THIS!!

 

 in about 2 seconds flat. I respect the power of free choice in America, I really do. As I stated above, everyone has the freedom to breed if they wish. Whether or not they should...that's another story. Now I'm no history buff, but I'm pretty sure somewhere in the US Constitution it says something about freedom to do what you want, as long as you don't trample on the rights of others. Or something like that. If not, it definitely should. And I think this freedom should extend to airplanes as well. Airplanes are already like the prisons of the sky-stuffed like a sardine next to two strangers in a small confined space, few bathroom breaks allowed, stewardesses barking out orders like prison guards, no food and little water, almost zero mental stimulation or physical movement allowed (well, on the cheap flights I take anyways...). And instead of a rock hard twin bed, you get a seat that forces you to hunch over like Quasimodo and only reclines back one half of an inch. seriously whats the point of that? By the time you get off you feel like your bladder is going to rupture out of your umbilicus, your legs are tingling from several hours of non-circulation and a probable DVT, your head is throbbing from pressure changes and your eyes feel like someone scrubbed them with sandpaper.

So that is my opinion on flying. But, it is a necessary evil to go cool places and move across the country. As I settled into my window seat I was relieved to find that I was sharing a row with two thin normal appearing women and that I was about 10 rows back from the baby. I was delirious from staying up the night before, and although I never really successfully sleep on planes, I always delude myself to thinking maybe this flight I will actually be successful in catching a few Zzz's. Still hasn't happened. As I chatted with the girl on the aisle about moving to SF (she was new here too) the girl between us asked if either of us would switch seats with her fiancee behind her, so they could sit together. I glanced behind us and saw that he was sandwiched between two larger, older, and gruff appearing older men. I told her, sorry, I really liked the window seat and would consider it if it was a shorter flight...I tried to cheer her up by saying, hey, you guys have the rest of your lives to be together, so you should be grateful for a few hours of freedom! She didn't think that was very funny.

Anyways...As we reached cruising altitude and I settled in for a pseudo-nap, I swear I was almost successful at reaching stage III sleep when a piercing sound almost shattered my eardrums. 

WWWHHHHAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!

The baby was apparently unhappy. As 90+ persons tried to drown out the ear-splitting sounds as best they could, whether by cranking up their ipods, escaping to the bathroom, or covering their head in a blanket, the baby just got louder. Since I was too delirious to read my novel and my iPod was dead, I thumbed through the SkyMall magazine pondering why a parent would subject themselves and others to such torture by bringing their baby on a plane.

Studies have shown that sleep deprivation is akin to drunkenness...so in my sleep-starved state I started laughing out loud at the SkyMall gift ideas, and things that may have only been slightly amusing before became hilarious. From crazy spy gadgets to downright silly "laser hair regrowth" kits, SkyMall makes claims that are sometimes false advertising, but always good for entertainment. As the kid wailed on, I started daydreaming about ways to solve this whole unhappy infant on plane situation. They could have a "baby limit" on planes like they do for pets-only 2 babies allowed per flight. Or, some flights could be "baby-free" and some "baby-friendly." Parents should have to pay an extra fee if they want to bring an infant-that might inspire some calling to the in-laws instead of dragging Jr. along after all. Or, if you want to risk bringing baby on board, then be prepared to buy the rest of the passengers those crazy expensive Bose noise-canceling headphones.

Then it hit me. Skymall has the answer to the baby problem! All they have to do is make a few tweaks to some of the products they already have....and Voila!! Problem Solved :)

Pilots and Stewardesses, is your plane out of control?? Well we have the answer to any difficult passenger problem!!! A REAL ZOMBIE! This living dead blood-thirsty savage has been trained to only attack loud and noisy passengers and is controlled specifically by YOU. Leaves little traces of blood on the seats and can be stowed safely for take-off and landing.

Especially good for LOUD BABIES and RUDE YANKEES!!

That's right! Following in the footsteps of Baby Aspirin, we now have Baby Valium! Babies can now benefit from the drug-induced coma that helps millions of Americans conquer their fear of flying. No prescription needed, just mail-order from Mexico!

(True story: I had to stitch this one year-old's face up in the ER. I was so scared I almost peed myself. Giving a kid a shot is one thing, but needles in their face? Quite another...anyways, I can personally attest to the miracle of anesthetic drugs on a child-as I sutured the child's cheek with her anxious mother watching, she cooed and laughed and even smiled at me! Now that's good medicine.)

 Ya know those ginormous Cadillac strollers with all the fancy gadgets and clip in and out carriers? Well now we've made one with an invisible soundproof shield! When you're in a public place and your child decides it's time to throw a tantrum, simply push the button and the shield will come down, covering your child and completely silencing it's screams! Do your part in protecting the eardrums of your fellow citizens....

     

Look at this little angel.....Never wake a sleeping baby, right? Well if it's not a real baby, you don't have to worry about it! If you are one of those mothers who refuses to leave home without your baby, never fear, Surrogate Baby is here! We can create a lifelike model of your own child to take with you on your travels so you can pretend your own child is with you yet spare yourself and everyone around you the headache of dealing with a crying fussy infant!

In case that lifelike little darling isn't enough to squelch your maternal instinct for a long romantic weekend in an attempt to save your marriage, you can now monitor your baby's every move from anywhere on the planet with our new satellite baby monitor! From Aruba to Azerbaijan, you can make sure Grandma or the Nanny is doing everything up to par.

Now I just need to sell my ideas to SkyMall I could put this whole Med School thing behind me and live off royalties.
 
First thing I would do with my millions? Buy my own airplane. No babies allowed.

Do it Yourself Part 2

I am naive about a lot of things. Like actually thinking my bicycle cared about me and wanted to be my urban chariot on fun adventures around the city. So I'm officially changing the name of this post to "My bicycle hates me and wants me to die." Or maybe it's homesick? 

As I left off in my last post, I had been blissfully cruising down to the ocean when-FLAT. Boo. A string of curse words and another doleful trudge up that blasted hill later-I was back at my friends place. Since it was getting dark, I brought Bike inside to inspect tire. No obvious holes, didn't seem like I ran over anything. I called my avid biker expert friends to see if they had any tools I could borrow-they did, of course. I contemplated taking my tire off that night and checking the tube, but decided I had done enough manual labor for one day and would work on it tomorrow.

Two days later....and I still hadn't touched it. I was sort of busy with things like procuring a bed and shopping. This town seriously has the best clothes. But I also have a lazy streak, and procrastinate on everything in life...so why should changing my bike tire be any different? My friends got back in town Friday and asked if I wanted to go for a ride tomorrow. I had to admit that, in fact, I had just been too busy having fun to change my tire...they laughed and said they would help me tomorrow.

Which brings up a good point-so, when you don't know how to do something, do you admit it and ask for help, or do you try to figure it out on your own? I used to think that I was never too prideful to ask for help, yet lately I've noticed that I feel like I am admitting a weakness if I need assistance from someone. Even mundane things, like a stranger holding a door for me, seem to invoke my inner five-year old, who used to declare "I can do it myself!!" about any and everything with a fierce scowl and a lower lip that could rival Bubba Gump.

So Saturday AM rolls around. Sunny. Beautiful. Perfect day for a ride. After a leisurely, perfect breakfast we set about getting our bikes in gear. Stefanie and I removed my tire and after some major maneuvering with the tire levers to pry the tire off (if you've never changed a bike tire, trust me, it's a pain in the ass!) and patching the leak in my tube...which coincidentally, was a pinch flat...probably from not filling my tires up with enough air...Oops. We pry it back on (an even bigger pain in the ass), pump that sucker up, and get ready to go. Hissssss. I glare at my tire as it again, deflates. Well, at least this time we hadn't actually left the yard. After finding the second hole we decided to replace the tube altogether and FINALLY got it back on. Two hours later.

I'm usually pretty good about picking up on signs, omens, etc. I'm not sure why it escaped me that day. I should have just hopped in the saddle and gone on a ride. But nooooo....I was elated from my "success" with "doing it myself" and decided today would be the day I would try out my clip-in bike shoes! 

If you're unfamiliar with clip-ins, they are basically special bike shoes with cleats on the bottom. As the name sounds, they clip in to special pedals so your feet are anchored to the pedal while riding. Yes, it sounds a bit like madness. However, it does improve the mechanics of your stroke, gives you more efficiency, is better for going up hills, etc. Or maybe it was just another one of those things designed to separate the amateurs from the pros, like bumpers on a bowling lane. Because clip-ins are hard to get used to. It's not really second nature when you're stopping your bike to go "Oh, guess I should unclip my foot from the pedal now so I can put it down!" No, what happens is, you go to stop, realize your foot is glued to the pedal, have a momentary freak-out, lose your balance, and topple over like a domino. At least that's what happened to me. 

So back to my personal version of how to be a Crash Test Dummy. My friend Stefanie is the most patient person ever, and offered to teach me how to ride with my clip-ins. We cruised up and down her street, with me practicing clipping in and out as I was moving. Not to brag, but I was doing pretty well for a first-timer! This wasn't so bad...well, until I fell right in front of her driveway as I was going to stop. We laughed about it and how practicing with your clip-ins is a rite of passage for all bikers, and how everyone falls, you just gotta get used to it, etc. Again, I should have paid attention to my signs, but I was not about to be a sissy and call it quits after one little fall.

So off we go, down the hill to the ocean. Doing well, until we got to our first major intersection. As I went to stop I again panicked when I couldn't get my foot out and lost my balance, falling over right in front of a busy restaurant, a lot of cars, and a couple that was crossing the street. "Are you ok?" they asked in pity, as I untangled myself from bike and pedals. "Yeah, I'm fine..." I decided to run my bike across the street to where Stef was waiting rather than risk falling down in front of a car. Her sincere, friendly eyes looked at me with concern and asked if I was okay, we really didn't have to keep going? No, I'm fine, I replied with "I can do it myself!!" echoing in my head. We took off, and this time I didn't make it another block without falling again. This one hurt. Like really hurt. I somehow twisted my body as I fell and landed right on my coccyx

 As I scraped my bruised ass and pride off the pavement, I started to cry. Yeah, I really started to cry. No, not from pain, it was like a reflex cry. Like when you're a kid, fall down and scrape your knee, knowing it doesn't really hurt, but tears well up anyway and mom comes and wipes them away? It was like that. But instead of my mom, I had Stef, and she did a pretty good job of wiping away those tears. She is going to be an awesome pediatrician :) 

We realized that perhaps I had taken it a bit too fast, and spent the rest of the afternoon with me doing stopping drills while she ran alongside me to catch me if I fell. Which I did, several more times, as perplexed pedestrians wandered by. But this time, we had moved to the sidewalk, so at least we didn't have to worry about getting run over. I finally learned to stop properly without losing my balance, and as me, my bruises, and my wonderful friend walked our bikes back up the hill we laughed about the day and how clumsy I was. I really hope someone was hiding in a bush somewhere with a camcorder, because those falls were definite YouTube material.

 We went out that night to celebrate life, and as I sipped my sangria in an impossibly loud jam-packed trendy tapas restaurant I looked at my friends and realized that as asinine as I felt that day, I was not the only one to ever experience public humiliation. For there is nothing that bruises the ego more than taking your falls out in the open, for everyone to see. But part of growing up is being able to fall and help yourself back up and dry your own tears...yet having the wisdom to ask a friend when you truly do need help. I had a lot to be grateful for that day. A good friend to pick me up, dust me off, and encourage me to keep going. The courage to try something new even if it hurt like hell and made me feel like an idiot. And for once, I was glad to have enough padding on my ass to soften the blow of my falls. Because thanks to my booty, my coccyx is only bruised instead of broken.

The Grass Isn't Always Greener

Searching for the right apartment in this city is a lot like dating. Blind dating. It's awkward, full of hurried conversations, over and under-exaggerations to make said apartment and roommates more desirable, lots of open-ended questions, and the ambiguous ending of who is supposed to call who and when.

But this dating game is a bit more high stakes than finding the perfect mate (well, in my opinion). At any given moment in this city there are hundreds of young broke singles looking for the perfect apartment in the best location possible. ASAP. The competition is fierce.

My own search started with Craigslist. In the city of its birthplace (the original office is in Sunset!), Craigslist is the modern-day equivalent of a market. Who needs to have garage sales or pay Ebay's listing fee? Not necessary on Craigslist! You can everything from no strings-attached oral sex to a car. The caveat is the time required to sift through all the junk before you find what you're looking for. I probably emailed over 50 people and was kind of bummed that I only got around 15 or so replies. I learned from seasoned CL veterans that you have to pepper your email Subject line with all caps and convey that you are the coolest, most laid-back, ready to sign a lease at any moment person in this city.

So I set up several "dates" (I think that sounds better than appointment, don't you?) over about a 5 day span to check out these places. My search took me all over the city, and actually proved to be a very good way to get to know it better.

My first date was in Seacliff, by the ocean. Sounds cool huh? however, the beach here isn't the greatest, it's like 45 mins from the center of the city, is extremely cold a lot of the year, and I would be living with a couple....Next! Onto a 4-bedroom in Inner Sunset, right by the park. Fabulous location, however, one of the dirtiest apartments I've ever seen. As in dating, if your potential roommates or suitors don't attempt to impress on your first date, then they sure as hell won't later on in the relationship...Next. A very different scene- a smoky, shabby 2-bedroom in the Mission. The Mission is predominantly populated with Hipsters and Hispanics. My roommate would be a late 30s Cuban DJ and Salsa instructor, and yes, that was a perk. He was precious, the apartment was not, but it was cheap, had a yard, and was less than a block from an ice cream shoppe. Tempted....but he smoked. And loved incense. My lungs started constricting the second I walked through the door (I have a touch of asthma). So....Next. But he promised to cook me cuban food, and go dancing anytime. Sweet.

My last two places were a tough call. I suffer from indecision with most things in life, and this was no exception. The first place, in Hayes Valley, was a beautiful large room with a bay window opening onto the back patio, cool roommates, decent rent. My last place was in Nob Hill, a very residential community, I would be living with 2 guys and 2 girls, with sweeping views of the city and a very large, very nice, and very affordable apartment. People were also really cool. Yet, something about this side of town made me not love it so much...perhaps it was the fact that I had walked about 2 miles uphill in the freezing cold wind in sandals that gave me bleeding blisters. And I was late for my date, so I didn't get to eat dinner. Try to avoid me if at all possible if I've missed a meal. I tend to be grumpy. But although I loved the place and the people, it wasn't quite urban enough for me. I love being outdoors, but if I'm going to live in the city, I want to be in the city. I've had enough suburbia for awhile. Or forever.

Part of me wanted to keep looking. There were pros and cons to each place....I wanted to find the perfect, cheap apartment, with perfect roommates who would be my best friends for life...but, like most things in life, you can't wait around forever.

In the end, I went with my gut, and location-I chose the Hayes Valley apartment. It's a little cold, no common area but the kitchen, not next door to an ice cream parlor, but I am happy with my decision.  253 Laguna is between Haight and Page st. between a hair salon and a swanky tea lounge. My building is surrounded by old Victorian homes, and is 9 blocks from Golden Gate Park, and a quick bike-ride away from my classes. Oh and there's a bar on the next block with a fabulous happy hour. I love the city!

My apartment search reiterated a lesson I had forgotten. In a world of uncertainties and second-guessing your choices in life, one thing is very clear. You may not always find the perfect man, the perfect shade of nail polish, or the perfect apartment...but, rest assured, you can always find the perfect pair of boots ;)

Do it Yourself...?

My bike got here on Tuesday. I was beyond excited. I think of my bike kind of as my kid, or a pet. A very expensive pet. I certainly don’t cuddle with it and it doesn’t wag it’s tail when I come home, but it’s beautiful and smooth to ride, and it is definitely the most expensive thing I own (because, technically, my dad owns my car). I love it as you love a cherished possession, and I think if my bike could talk it would say for sure it's fond of me too. There are few things in life I'm actually paranoid about and actually take precautions to prevent, these things being getting eaten by a shark, having a root canal, giving birth (trust me, don't do it), and getting my bike stolen. So, as you can see, my bike and I have a special relationship that will be cemented once I pay off my credit card bill.

I had been eagerly awaiting my bike’s arrival for several days. I don’t mind public transportation or walking, but I love my freedom more than anything and since I was going to be car-less for a year I was eager to get my wheels and go exploring.

So when the UPS man pulled up mid-morning I rushed to the door to greet him and my bike, which was mercifully undamaged in its cross-country journey. I quickly got dressed and called a cab to take me to the nearest bike shop in Berkeley, the Missing Links Co-op (yeah, I didn’t know bike co-ops existed either…apparently in Cali anything can be a co-op!) My bike is pretty light, but the box was super bulky, and as I learned several days ago, carrying large heavy things over long distances=not a good idea.

One quick cab ride later and I was there-I was all smiles as I came in the door to the repair shop and announced that I had my bike shipped here and would need it put together, how long would it take them?

The 3 mechanics stared at me blankly. “Well, do you have an appointment?” one asked.

“Um, no….sorry, I didn’t know I needed to…so what’s the wait time?”

“At least a week.”

I made a mental note to once again practice my poker face as my jaw fell open and my eyes widened. “A week?? Wow…um….ok, well are there any other shops around?” I stammered, embarrassed as I realized I had forgotten to take into account that this is Berkeley and there are more bikes here than people and obviously the shop would be busy

“Well, we do have our co-op space across the street with tools you can use to do yourself.”

Do it myself???

I’ve always wanted to be a “do-it-yourself” type person…when I got my first car I read the manual cover to cover and vowed I was going to be that girl who changed her own oil and tires and stuff….when I moved into my apartment in Augusta I bought all this tile and materials that I was going to make into a mosaic tray for my living room…I’ve sewn on buttons that fell off shirts…I really enjoy putting together my cheap target or Ikea furniture (as long as there is an instruction manual). But, try as I might, I never seem to have the time, patience, or common sense to do most things “myself.” Oh sure with many hours of frustration and curse words I feel that I can figure things out without assistance…but my time is precious to me, I am busy like most people, and I would way rather pay the $20 for an oil change or whatever by experienced quick professionals who won’t like accidentally put oil in the coolant container or something that my flighty self would inevitably do…besides, I like to support the economy. If we all changed our own oil, what would all the Jiffylube guys do? :-(

Ok, back to bike…as I trudged across the street to the co-op, I gave myself a pep talk. I know how to work a screwdriver. I’m sort of strong for a girl. I took physics like 5 years ago. How hard can this be?

A stern-faced gentleman pointed me to the workspace in the back of the store, told me I had one hour, and pointed at the “rules” posted on the wall, the most obvious of which said in all caps and bold: “NO ASKING FOR HELP!” What kind of co-op is this? I thought they were all full of happy hippies who liked spreading love, food, knowledge and the occasional joint. Apparently not.

As I opened my giant box I was relieved to see that my bike shop at home had left my bike mostly intact. All I had to do was put on the handlebars, front wheel, front brake, pedals and seat. Totally doable.

I started easy, with the seat post. It slid in easily. YES!! Ok, this was gonna be fine. Next-Handlebars. Took awhile to get them aligned right, but pretty easy too. SWEET!! Ok, now for the front brake. Like a glove!!! Ok, front wheel, check. Pedals, check. I was on a roll!! A very “slow” roll though, as it took me a good 2 ½ hours instead of my allotted 1. It turned out to be one of the easier things I’ve put together…My boyfriend was actually right for once, it was mostly common sense! The bike shop people checked in on me occasionally, but I pretended not to see their glares as I cheerfully made some of the final adjustments on my beautiful bike. I’m not gonna lie, I was super proud of myself. I noticed my back tire was a little low on air, I guess they had just let some out when they packed it for shipping. I hate to admit, I hardly ever checked my tire air pressure…I didn’t even own a pump yet…I had only had my bike a few months and kept meaning to buy one, but just didn’t have time. As I went to blow it up with the shop pump, I could tell I was doing like, nada. In fact I was letting air out of the tire. I checked the pump and the valve several times. Looked okay, obviously I was doing something wrong. I broke yet another rule as I went and asked one of five employees (who were like, not busy at all…so why couldn’t they help me again?) for a second opinion. He took one look at my tire and informed me that I needed to unscrew the valve. Apparently, there are 2 types of bike valves. Presta and Schrader. The Schrader is like your typical valve, like on a car tire. The kind on my bike was a presta, long and thin and you had to unscrew a piece before you could inflate it. I sheepishly shrugged and smiled at the irony of the fact that I put my whole bike together yet had difficulty inflating the tire, and hastily exited the shop before I embarrassed myself further.

I may have lost that battle, but I had won the war! I refused to let my small embarrassment ruin my DIY empowerment day. I decided to ride down to the ocean to celebrate, since it was too far of a walk from the house I was staying and my Piscean self had not seen a body of water in at least a month.

I cruised down the hill toward the water as the sun peeked through the clouds and a strong breeze whipped my hair back from my face. I had noticed how rough the roads were here compared to Georgia, so I was expecting a bit of a rough ride. But then, I sensed that something was up with my rear wheel, because this ride was way rougher than I was expecting. As I slowed down to check everything out I could hear a faint thunk thunk thunk…the telltale sound of a flat tire.

F Bomb.



To be continued.