Got kayaking out of my system, thank you

For several years now, I'd had my mind set on going kayaking. "Let's go kayaking up in the Boundary Waters!" I'd tell Delta. Or "let's go kayaking up in the Adirondacks!". So when we finally went to visit Rohinton and Jeet in Bermuda a couple weeks ago, I was determined to not let this kayaking opportunity slip through my fingers.

That Saturday in Bermuda dawned on a beautiful day, golden skies stretching generously over bright blue seas. "Let's go kayaking, let's go kayaking!" I insisted, until Rohinton drove us down to a little cove where we could rent kayaks. Once we'd gotten in, Rohinton pointed out to a little distant island on the horizon.

"Let's go out there, there's a small deserted beach on the back that we can lounge at for a while, before we start paddling back." It looked idyllic. The sea was smooth and a bright turquoise, a cool breeze gently caressed at our backs as we started paddling towards the island, barely a dot in the distance. I couldn't think of a more perfect way to spend a day. This was exactly what my kayaking dream had looked like.

The paddling seemed fairly easy going, and before too long, we were half way across the bay already. But then all of a sudden, just when we were about half way across the bay, a freak storm started blowing in. The sky suddenly darkened, blotted out by rolling thunderclouds. The sea suddenly jolted out of it's pristine blue calm, and large, rough waves started battering against our kayaks. The currents picked up, pushing us in the wrong direction: away from home, away from the island.

Rough waves rocked our kayaks dangerously. I cast around for nearby land, but in any direction, it seemed very very far away. I started panicking. All those years I'd been whinging and whining about going kayaking, I'd never really intended to die this way. Delta, seeing us start to panic, shouted loudly over the wind and waves. "Just keep low and keep paddling! Head towards the island, hopefully we'll find shelter there!"

It seemed an impossible task. The rough waves, the gusty wind, the darkening sky and murky ocean all seemed to be closing in on us. My adrenaline was pumping and hearth pounding, as each wave brought with it the renewed possibility of capsize. But we kept our eyes on the little island, kept our mouths closed against the waves crashing on our faces, and just kept paddling doggedly on. Our kayaks swayed and were pushed off course, but eventually, in a roundabout manner like a drunken swagger, we eventually drew close to the island.

"Let's paddle past that outcrop of rocks," Delta shouted, "and we'll be able to shelter from the current there!"

We paddled around the rocks, and huddling in the shelter of the outcrop, and spent a moment gathering ourselves and just marveling in our survival. Now here, clinging to the rocks for safety, we knew we could shelter until the storm blew over. For the first time since the storm started, we knew we'd be safe.

With nothing to do but wait for the storm to pass, we pulled our kayaks onto the rocks, and dove into the ocean for a swim. The waves were still high, but sheltered here in this little cove, it didn't seem dangerous anymore. And so there we stayed, playing in the relatively shallow water of the ocean cove, revelling in our safety and alive-ness, until eventually, about an hour later, the storm finally blew over. Instantly, just as suddenly as they had arrived, the thunderclouds blew swiftly past. The sky cleared up, the waves flattened out, and the ocean returned once again to it's characteristic turquoise shine.

It was almost as though we had imagined the whole thing, as though perhaps nothing had happened all morning. But as we got back into our kayaks to start the journey back home, we felt the strong currents still pushing our kayaks back, and it brought home how real the whole thing had been. Have you ever tried kayaking against a current? Needless to say, there was a lot of treading water without much actual progress. A seemingly endless treadmill of water. And everytime I paused to rest, the current would push my kayak back 15 feet again.

"Keep paddling!" Delta would urge encouragingly. But that's easier said when you don't have toothpicks for arms, mister. Still - there was no choice but to keep persevering, futile though it seemed. And finally - finally - we drew close to home again, and I gazed at the approaching shoreline with a mixture of exhaustion, gratitude and relief.

Needless to say, spectacular though it was, and grateful though I am for the day, I've got kayaking sufficiently out of my system for now, thank you.

Bladderly Disinclined

Dear Delta sent me the following picture, courtesy of the Huffington Post.

He sent it to me right in the middle of a serious promotion meeting, and let me tell you, an image like this does nothing to help the straight-faced demeanour I like to portray at work.


All the same, the least I could do was share it with everyone else similarly bladderly disinclined.

A perfect Acadia escape

Last weekend, Delta and I took a couple days off and drove down up to Maine. It had long been on my list of things to do to go see the famous Acadia. It was a long drive, and I was Chief Navigator, a role that comes rather effortlessly to me because the vast American countryside offers long stretches of snoozable time.


Maine itself is gorgeous. And Acadia specifically even more so. As it turned out, our campground was ideally situated in prime hiking territory, and afforded us easy access to all the trails.

I learn efficient showering: There were public hot showers nearby, allowing us 4 minutes of shower time for $2 worth of quarters.
"Four minutes isn't a lot," one of the women cautioned me kindly, "so plan your washing strategy before you go in." I don't do well under such kind of pressure, and she brought out in me a mild sense of panic. So when I jumped in the shower, I immediately launched into a frenzied series of movements, hair - soap - shampoo - knees - ears - ankles - face, scrubbing away and forgetting even to breathe, and then I realised I'd done everything in about 45 seconds. The second day, I got a bit better at pacing myself, and realised a 4 minute shower is absolutely fine after all.


A renewed faith in humanity: There were firewood stands every mile or so along the road. Each one had a little sign above piles of firewood: $2.50 per bundle.
"There's so many of these firewood stands," I asked Delta, "but are they all closed? I don't see anyone manning any of them!".
So we approached one of the stands, and incredibly, it turns out they're not manned at all. Just a little tin box next to the stand, where you're supposed to put your money as you help yourself to firewood. A real, true, trust system. I gawked at Delta - I'd never seen anything like this.
"Do you think people really put money in there?!" I asked incredulously, ever the city person. I couldn't believe that people could actually be trusted to put money there if they weren't monitored.
But as we picked up the tin to put our own $5 in, we noticed it was absolutely crammed full with everyone's money - we could barely fit ours in. It renewed my faith in peoples again.


I have to confess, in the run-up to our trip, I had worked myself up to the level of disproportionate excitement where the reality could only disappoint.

And yet, incredibly, it didn't.

A mini-reunion

It's time to dust off the cobwebs, and reopen this pandora's box of jumbled anecdotes.

It's been a crazy month. Delta and I have been away every weekend, indulging in little forays outside the bustling anthill of our city.

A couple weeks ago, we went to Milwaukee to have a little reunion with our family. Not everyone could be there unfortunately, but we still got to meet my aunt and uncle, Rohinton and Jeet, my cousins, their spouses and their kinder. All in all, enough people to cause the commotion that any self-respecting family reunion should have.

Every time I rounded a corner, I was accosted by a whirlwind of chaos.
"Mum, where's my markers!!"
"What's the sleeping arrangements tonight, who's sleeping where?!"
"What's to eat, I'm hungry!"
"Where's my towel gone?!!"
And every once in a while, it was the more inarticulate "WAAAAAAAHHH!!"

It was the quintessential confluence of chaos to make for a fun reunion. We ate (lots), we played tennis, we swam. It was perfect, simply perfect. I hope we do it again next year!

Before the downhill, there was a peak

Luckily, before I launched a personal assault on my feet, Delta and I snuck off with a few friends for a weekend of camping in the Catskills. Unbelievably, it didn't rain. Infact, though I'm hesitant to say it out loud, it was perfect. Absolutely perfect.


A long, golden day hiking in the mountains, two lovely evenings sipping wine by a campfire, and bowlfuls of Delta's famous chilli. Absolutely perfect.

My feet must hate me

My feet have been through a bit of an emotional roller coaster this week, the poor chicas.

It all started last weekend, when Delta and I decided to head to Paragon to pick up a new pair of hiking boots. Nothing wrong with the ones I currently own, of course, except they just aren't cut out for the heavy backpacking thing, so I have to take it up a notch. And let's face it, the truth is we just love getting sucked into the heaven which is Paragon.

So I tried on a few pairs, but none of them felt right. They just all seemed a little bit narrow. Are hiking boots getting narrower?! So I asked the sales guy. "What's up with these boots, I swear I'm a size 6 but they don't seem to fit?!"
He glanced at my foot. "Oh! With a bunion like that, you're going to need Wide boots. I'll go get you some."
"Oh, ok, show me what you -
- Wait a minute. BUNION???"
He squirmed.
"I mean, erm, bump," he said softly.
I looked at him stonily till he bowed off to get the wide boots.
I turned to Delta in horror.
"I have a bunion??! And what the hell is a bunion anyway?!" It sounded like a disease. Like a third arm or fifteenth finger - just something that I definitely didn't want.

Delta looked down at my foot.
"Well, there is something crooked about your big toe," he said sheepishly.
That was it. The nail in my coffin. I had a bunion on my foot, whatever it was, and I had to get rid of it at all cost.

So I rushed home (with wide hiking boots), and immersed myself in a feverish bout of googling. Bunions. Bunion cures. Bunion treatments. Bunion surgery. And I found out everything there is to know about this evil infliction. And I saw pictures (damn you, google images) that quite convinced me I had to do an emergency correction to my anatomy.

The next morning, I rushed to the local pharmacy, and stocked myself with every kind of bunion-combatting accessory they had, and assaulted my poor foot in an assortment of toe separating devices. I splayed my toes in a way that would make a duck envious.

"Buy shoes with substantial arch support," every website had read. So I rushed to the shoe stores and equipped myself with three new pairs of shoes. All of them had arch support. But the first pair, on the first day, inflicted upon me a plague of blisters.

So yesterday, my feet which had been perfectly fine till that fateful day in Paragon a week ago, now limped home with separated toes and stinging blisters.

Blisters which, by the way, Delta had to burst this afternoon with a needle heated on our gas flame. Yes, I was horrified. I thought I might almost pass out from the concept, but as it turned out, I couldn't feel a thing. I guess they aren't as sensitive as, say, the eyeballs or something.

All the same, covered as they are in bandaids today, my heart goes out to their little feelings. It might be a while yet before they forgive me.

Hitting a milestone

Last weekend, despite all my efforts to the contrary, I was dragged kicking and fighting into the decade of the thirties.

I have to say, given how frequently it's referred to as such a milestone event, I was rather expecting a bit more, well, oomff. But in the end the darned day snuck up on me in a somewhat anti-climactic manner, squeezing itself almost unnoticed between an afternoon of tennis and a day of telly-watching. The Vish made a comment about my multiplying grey hairs, and I retorted with a comment about his belly (because that is exactly how low I would stoop), but other than that, growing older turned out to be somewhat of a non-event.

We did make it down to our new favoured bar in the East Village, however, so I could prove to everyone that this ol' geriatric can still down a glass of wine or two.

Pork chops, please

Dear Spain,

This morning, as in every morning, they brought two boxes of food into my tank and asked me to choose one for lunch. One had the Netherlands flag on it, and the other had Spain.

All year, I've been listening to people talking about Spain and the PIGS, and instantly assumed the Spain box would hold some delicious roast pork. What else could they have been possibly talking about?! Or maybe there'd even be some pork chops or bratwurst. I smacked my lips greedily and rushed over and opened the box with the Spain flag. But it was just the normal food I get everyday! I felt so cheated. What a waste.

But apparently my choice helped you win the World Cup. So some good came of it somewhere. Congratulations, I'm glad to have been of help.

Best,
Paul the Octopus

p.s. - please don't let Germany make calamari out of me.

For those of you who need some context to understand what this is about.

Just like Tuscany

Last weekend, Delta and I headed to Rochester to spend time with the fam. It was a warm and sunny weekend, a pleasant change from our previous wintry trips up north. It was lovely as ever to see his mum, sis and her hubby again.

We headed over to the local Wegmans, where I got to wheel around a cart the size of truck through huge suburban food aisles with fifty types of toilet paper. We waded through unending aisles of food, with me randomly reaching out and pulling things into the cart in my excitement. And we headed home and built ourselves one of the largest lunches I've ever eaten. As Delta heated up the barbecue, the rest of us set up everything outside in the backyard.

As we poured ourselves glasses of wine and settled into our leisurely lunch, the sun dappled lazily through the trees, gently touching everything with a golden caress.

"It's just like Tuscany!" I exclaimed happily, taking a picture of everyone at the table.
And then I paused, and reached over to move the little bowl of mac 'n' cheese out of the view of the picture. "Now let's try that again. Yep. Just like Tuscany."

Just for jury duty

A week ago, the timing oddly appropriate just before US Independence Day, I went over to City Hall and finally got my US Citizenship.


After the year-long process of getting my background check, my eyeballs scanned and my fingers printed, I had approached the appointment like any administrative process, just like getting my drivers license from the DMV. But as it turns out, I had vastly underestimated the capacity for American sentimentalism. In fact, everyone involved in the 'swearing in ceremony', from the judge and clerks to the security personnel, took pains to make the event as meaningful as possible.


The morning I got my citizenship, some two hundred other aspirings were also in the hall with me, receiving theirs. I glanced around the room in awe. It represents people from countries and continents all over the world. Everyone had come with excited families and friends in support. Likewise for me, Delta had accompanied me cheerily, sitting in the back of the room, where I could turn around and give him a small excited wave from time to time.


The ceremony itself was brief, but meaningful. After a short talk about the values of citizenship, the judge handed us each our "naturalization certificates", and off we could go. As soon as I got mine, Delta and I hugged eachother in glee, and scuttled off to find an American flag to use as a backdrop for the stereotypical photo.


Finally! After all the waiting, and all the bureaucracy, the day had finally arrived. I applied for my passport straight away. After all, the flexibility to travel was a driving reason behind my application in the first place.

Well, travel and, erm, jury duty, of course.