Because I thought it was pretty

My first memorable encounter with hippies was in the sixth grade. 

My parents had taken the family to England for vacation, while my father was teaching abroad in Italy. (My mother was teaching also. I don't know that she would be angry if I didn't include that, but she would be happier if I did. Are you happy, Mom?) While in England, someone decided my father was a reasonable enough man to be allowed to drive on the left side of the road and lent us a car to tour the countryside. 

Two major memories stand out from this journey.

1) We never found Hadrien's Wall. Since, at the time, I thought we were looking for the home of some family friends named Hadrien, with the wall being a key landmark (the Hadriens' wall), I was not disappointed.

2) We visited Stonehenge. 

Deviation: 

As far as tourist sites and destinations go, I put them into three categories: speechless, speaking, and not speaking. 

1. Speechless: either your breath is taken away, or you just cannot find sufficient words to explain how you feel about the marvel beheld. These are the sites that can be ruined by speaking. 

Example: The Grand Canyon, The Prisoners (Accademia Gallery, Florence)

2. Speaking: You repeat phrases like "It's really cool" or "This is so pretty" as if attempting to convince yourself that it is cool. Additionally, these sites - given a little history - become much more interesting or relevant. These are the sites that require speaking to fully appreciate. 

Example: Eiffel Tower, Mount Rushmore

3. Not speaking: There have a been a few times in my life when my (well-meaning) parents dragged me to horrendous places. Places no one can love. Places that inspire hostility. Not speaking to my parents is how I deal with this. 

Example: Maid of the Mist (Niagra Falls), New Orleans at New Years (before the age of 15)

Stonehenge is a Speaking site. It's cool. It's curious. When the anomalies and conspiracies are presented it becomes downright interesting. 

Nowadays, when one visits Stonehenge, even paying the exorbitant entrance fee only gets you within about 100 yards of the actual stone. Back in the day the closest rope was about half that (50 yards). However, back in my day (i.e. the present time of this story) the ropes had been removed. All barriers had been removed. 

"Those are hippies," I heard my sister tell my brother. (She knew a lot about hippies having just been allowed to watch Dazed and Confused.)

"The hippies are sitting on the rocks," my mother told my father. She sounded bemused, but accepting. (She knew a lot about hippies, having grown up with a bunch of them.)

"Go sit with the hippies," my father told us, and then proceeded to walk straight up to the closest monolith and placed his monolithic hand on the smooth stone…with a twinkle of wonder in his eyes. 

We did not waste time. My brothers and I climbed on every stone we could. The hippies helped us up when we couldn't reach.

They tore down barriers, they extended a helping hand to children, they wore wool skirts in the spring - this was my first experience with hippies. 

Since then I have obviously learned a lot more about the hippy movement. Granted, this knowledge is almost exclusively from movies and television (but they should remember best, they have cameras). There have been times in my life when I was called a hippy, either for my political leanings, lack of shoes, love of peace (yes, and flowers), long hair, fondness for headbands, or a mix of the previous. While my current stance on them is somewhat negative (mostly because of the flax seeds), there is still a sentimental longing for the freedom and joy that come from the (televised) lifestyle. I harbor this flirtatious envy in my heart, and cherish the flower power in this world. 

Recently I was making a small road trip - Arkansas to North Carolina. On the way there I was accompanied by a lively three-year-old girl who kept me entertained with songs such as "Car, Car, Car, Car (Truck, Bus, Car)" (conveniently, this title is also the lyrics) and "What's Your Favorite Color?" (in which we listed nearly everyone in my contacts list and decided on their favorite color. Then sang about it. I have almost 500 contacts in my phone.) It is probably because of this lively start to my trip (the first 12 hours) that I became wanting of companionship for my return. (Also, I'm still trying to listen through a series that I started hating months ago, but can't give up after being 4000 pages in.) 

At a rest stop near Cookville, Tenn. I spotted a glimmer of respite from my solitary journey, in the form of a "Going to Nashville" sign. The sign was accompanied by three real-life hippies. 

They were perfect. One had dreads and wore cut-off jean shorts. He was chubby, but probably just full of life. The solitary girl was in a brown flowy skirt and a stained, white peasant top. Her hair was diademically braided on top, and ran down her back in orderly tangles. The third hippy was handsome, but dirty. An old band t-shirt and jeans, while nondescript, still managed to portray the freedom from worldly wants he surely felt. 

We would start the trip casually. Talking about where they were going, and where I was going. First it would be literal - but then the discussion would turn metaphorical. "I mean, where are any of us going?" They would regale me with stories of hippiedom. I would express my distain for an unplanned lifestyle and empathetically lecture them on the value of hard work. They would try to convince me "the man" was keeping me down. And while I would not concede the point, it would certainly give me something to think about later. 

I would humor them with stories of my conservative upbringing. One of them would come from Fortune-100 parents, but left that behind to discover who he really was. The girl ran away from a foster home when she was 10, and has found all the family she needs in the Earth and the friends she makes along the way. Dreadlocks would be jovial, but stoned. Profoundly hilarious, no doubt. 

Instead I got nothing. 

They smelled bad (who knew?) and had a kitten…on a leash…that they found in the woods. They were not interesting. Two of them mostly slept. The fat one talked loudly about the weather, in a very literal way. In the hopes of at least hearing of a great hitchhiking journey, I asked about their travel origin. They were coming from a hippy gathering, (Not one of them could give me a solid answer about what happens at a hippy gathering.) They called marijuana "medicine." While I am certainly not anti-marijuana, I am definitely anti-stupid-terms for it. 

Finally, I just turned on music and drove. 

Eventually (Does 'eventually' indicate a long period of time? If it does, it seemed very eventually) we made it to Nashville. I dropped them at a corner - and drove with my windows down for the next two weeks. 

Maybe I just got the worst of the litter. They said there were over 10-thousand hippies at the gathering, surely they can't all be that bad.

I will still harbor in my heart the dream of dancing amongst the trees with flowers in my hair. I don't think that reverie will ever die. 

Yesterday, outside the grocery store, I saw a boy with tangled and matted hair. He was barefoot and wearing jean shorts, an ill-fitting tank top, and had flowers from the road stuck in his backpack. The hope flared up in me again. I thought of asking him to have a beer on the beach. Maybe he could tell me of his travels through the Grenadines.

My father used to tell us to "act better than you feel." When I was feeling particularly angsty as a teenager, or when his chorus was dragging their feet on a strenuous international tour - he would remind us of this appropriate adage. 

He has, at one time or another, explained to me what it means precisely. However, due to the afore mentioned angst, I likely wasn't paying attention. So, I won't attempt to quote him.

In my life I have altered this slightly to say "Look better than you feel." Looking encompasses both appearance and behavior. By strapping on a good attitude, finally getting your roots done, and changing out of the sweatpants, you can successfully trick the world in to thinking you know what's going on. And you are in control.

This fake-it-till-you-make-it attitude has managed to get me pretty far. From making friends to landing jobs, I have been successful in the majority of my worldly endeavors. While this might sound somewhat superficial, it is important to remember - most of this world is superficial. Most of this world is run superficially. And success in this life is often determined by the ability to match (or exceed) the standards of the world. 

This isn't what I want to talk about. I'm digressing. 

One of the areas I have most effectively applied these principles is in my education. I am an excellent student.

Let me clarify: if my life truly is a movie, I am an excellent student. In the real world, I just play the part exceptionally well. 

It took me a long time to realize there was more to school than having a new backpack, high-fiving in the hall, and heading to the mall after class. For years actions like these got me through adequately without the added necessity of the less cinematic aspects - like studying and paying attention. 

High school (when I attended) was a breeze. I don't recall studying once (though the memories are rather dim). Come to find out, that was more about the school and less about my abilities. 

I chose a major in college that catered to my strengths. In public relations I was encouraged to stay very busy, prepare great speeches, and have dramatic montages of overnight paper writing sessions with classmates (including the picturesque mounds of crumpled notebook paper, Red Bull cans, and Twinkie wrappers to indicate hard work, lack of sleep, and lack of time). Most of what I needed to know could be gleaned from class and having above-average retention (which I think I used to have). Towards the end of my senior year I struggled a bit as the classes became bulkier, but managed to get by with an appropriate lack of hard labor. 

Upon my scholastic return, I started to notice a change in the way things were working. For one, the campus was much larger, so high-fiving and shooting my index-thumb pistols at everyone I knew was much less frequent. However, once I locked into a good study group (who had similar theatrical tendencies) I managed to keep active enough with lunches on the quad and dinners from fast food bags in the library, and to pull enough overnighters to forget about the actual work I was having to do. When combined with a group of semi-professional friends (allowing for real business-man talk at the bars), it was a truly inspirational time. 

When I started medical school, things changed. 

For the first time in my life I couldn't learn by sitting in the student center. I didn't improve my GPA with back-to-school clothes. Worse still, even sitting in the library for hours on end, and having my notes piled nose-high around me, with 25 colors of highlighters on my desk, four colors of pens in my hair, and empty coffee cups littering the floor didn't manage to do the trick. Knowing everyone didn't help me know anything. Suddenly - I had to study. 

While I have tried to not let the endless onslaught of information keep me down, it is certainly interfering with my sitcom. I catch myself slowly becoming more of a documentary…a low-budget, college-film-festival documentary. The only people who are watching this movie are film majors. 

Now 'looking better than you feel' means changing out of the clothes I slept in. It means not crying in public places or yelling at people who do. For now, I will play this part of the game. I will endure the monotony and hard work. 

I will push through because I know things get better. I've seen my future.

When you are 6, it is easy to find enjoyment in things that are not particularly interesting. Boxes, fabric swatches, dirt, sticks, and couch cushions are just a few examples of ordinary objects containing a world of possibilities.

Additionally, making messes.

There was a raw, visceral pleasure in smearing, spreading, spilling, piling, unstuffing and demolishing any number of nouns. (I didn’t include this in the first list because the joy of messiness is not limited to the youth.) This was the mindset my cousins and I were in while spending a family weekend at my grandmother’s house on the outskirts of Memphis.

A large, white, Colonial (don’t really know what that means) style mansion (by 6-year-old-standards) – complete with horses, multilevel porches and a rope swing. It was a step up from Liberty Land in our humble opinions. On this fateful day,  however, we were not so concerned with annoying the horses or trying to get up the courage to swing on the upper knot of the rope, our focus was on the giant (I’m objectively estimating it to be 8 gallons) ceramic jar of birdseed kept by the front door…and just how much of that birdseed we could get on the front porch.

The answer is – all of it.

We were not lazy in our distribution. I personally ensured an even spread across the entire porch. Under the furniture, on the table tops, and along the arms and back of the porch swing. If there was a surface on which it was appropriate for birds to  eat (meaning: no fabric), it had a healthy sprinkling of top-grade bird seed.

After spending a solid half hour preparing the feast, we reclined on the stairs of the porch waiting for the flutter of hundreds of pairs of wings as all the birds in the yard came to partake in this most-generous helping of food. But as we sat, we started to contemplate what we had just done – made a huge mess that would inevitably lead to another, post-digestion, huge mess. Suddenly our self-satisfaction started to dwindle, and the preemptive remorse started to settle in. In response, we decided to do the right thing…

…run upstairs and hide in the closets and under the beds.

The solution was merely temporary. Every couple minutes, I would hear someone leave the safety of their hiding spot to go confess. Weaklings.

Maggie and I were the hold outs under the bed. Let them all take the heat for us, that was the plan.

I’m not sure at what point Maggie gave up on the hiding spot, because I fell asleep. By the time I woke up and walked hesitantly downstairs, the porch had been cleaned and I could hear everyone playing in the living room. I wasn’t sure what to expect. Would my cousins be mad I had stayed gone for so long? Would the adults get on to me for messing up the porch, or for not helping out? Would they even know I was in on it? A flurry of emotions swooped through me. First I was angry at my cousins for abandoning me. This turned into a self-consciousness for falling asleep when I was supposed to be actively hiding, which naturally turned into full on embarrassment at the thought of how long I had been gone.

“Everyone must think I’m an idiot,” I told myself. “Who in their right mind gets so worked up about bird seed that they hide for hours at a time?”

I made the decision to be proactive. I entered the living room to the kids playing on the floor and the adults in small groups around the room. I promptly walked up to the first small group (which included at least one of my parents) and explained, “I wasn’t hiding that whole time. I fell asleep. I wasn’t scared of what was going to happen to me, I was just sleepy…that’s all.”

“Sounds like someone has a guilty conscious,” said an Aunt.

“I don’t have a guilty conscious, I just really wanted a nap,” I tried to tell them. I really didn’t feel guilty. It hadn’t occurred to me to feel guilty for this. I was just embarrassed.

But they kept telling me I felt guilty. They tried to reassure me that I wasn’t in any trouble and it was normal to feel guilty about this.

I didn’t feel guilty…I felt embarrassed.

No matter what they said...I certainly didn't feel guilty...

…or maybe I did. Maybe what I was analyzing as embarrassment was actually guilt. I mean, adults should know better than me. Maybe guilt and embarrassment are the same thing?

For the past 20 years, I have been unable to distinguish guilt from embarrassment.

Which is why this ridiculous medical school endeavor has become even more complicated. You see, when one is in medical school they are supposed to study all the time. All the time.

Obviously, I do not study all the time. It is nearly impossible to study all the time and still keep up with all my shows, go to all the birthday parties, take a morning at the beach, do laundry, shower…eat. But I have this feeling when I am not studying. It’s a sinking sort of feeling, but it’s not sadness. It’s not anger or hunger. Early in the semester, I associated it with the guilt/embarrassment I remember from so long ago.

Do I feel guilty for not studying? Am I embarrassed I haven’t been working as hard as everyone else? Is there a difference?

The struggle of emotion continues, even as I spend too long writing this story. Yet another story about how adults screwed me over in my childhood. Yet another example of emotions being more trouble than they’re worth.

I don't like to brag. Typically I don't have to, my abilities speak for themselves. However, to fully explain this post I need to make sure everyone knows one thing:

I am a brilliant procrastinator.

When I have responsibilities I am able to distract myself in all sorts of ways. From the old standards: rearranging furniture, Facebook, catching up with friends, cleaning the kitchen, organizing drawers/bookshelves/computer folders; to the more innovative: the National Anthem in various keys, rehearsing dialogues for future use (a post in itself), playing spontaneous jazz on the piano, softly strumming a guitar to a favorite song (if the speakers are loud enough, and you strum gently...you can convince yourself you are playing chords), I also have a tendency to lock/unlock and slide from one screen to another on my iPhone (not particularly innovative, just wanted to paint a clear picture of how easily I’m entertained when necessary).

Not only do I do the front end of procrastination well, I can also follow through like a champ. When the time comes, I have always been able to kick it into gear and get my work done (to an acceptable level).

When they told me things would change in medical school – they weren’t kidding. Not only has the workload increased 10-fold (I have covered in the past week as much as an entire semester of undergrad), the techniques and strategies for avoiding the workload have also been greatly altered. The newest member of this stalling arsenal is perhaps a scary reflection of my current state of mind.

I find myself learning in order to avoid studying; or perhaps studying to avoid learning.

The process:

Sitting at the table. Studying.

Come across a word I don’t know, or a process I don’t understand.

Open my text book to look up the word or process.

Read definition.

Continue reading.

Continue reading. I somehow convince myself that the information in the book is far more interesting than what I should be studying.

I am persuaded that by fully understanding this (likely) tiny piece of the puzzle, I will be able to more efficiently assemble the puzzle later.

Know way too much about nothing, and nothing about everything else.

Feel guilty about wasting time.

Get dejected about how much time I wasted.

Eat Reese’s Pieces till I feel better again.

Dear Son or Daughter (but who are we kidding? Hopefully son),

In the Summer of 2008 I embarked upon a journey. I had made the (potentially hasty) decision to become a doctor of medicine (if you are reading this and I am not an MD, disregard the rest of the letter). My reason? Well, I'm not gonna put that here - because, by this point, I have likely made up a really awesome story to tell you about why I wanted to be a doctor and I don't want you to think your father a liar. 

For two years I studied night and day towards earning a place in medical school. (You'll recall that's where I met Erin, and Craig and his wife...ha, yeah, that joke will never get old.) I learned about the tiniest parts of the world and the ever expanding universe. I studied the old masters, and the newest science. I left my undergrad ready to conquer the world of medicine single-handedly. 

As I write this, my dear one, I have just finished my first classes as a medical student. I bravely walked in with my laptop (yes, the one I still have) and 137 lb. backpack, sat at the break of the lecture hall (for legroom) and sat tall as class began.

The first lecture went as expected. I recognized the majority of the material, it was fast, but achievable. 

The second lecture...the second lecture was the most impressive display of knowledge, poise, circular breathing, and audience rapture I have ever had (likely to this day) the honor of witnessing. For two straight hours she did not slip nor stutter, she did not pause nor breathe, she delivered an immaculate presentation of every single muscle, nerve, bone, and artery in the back without the slightest interruption. To put it quite clearly...

...holy crap.

Sweet son, I write this to you so that you might understand the reason I am the way I am. I think you likely know exactly what I mean, but I appreciate you not always pointing it out to me. I hope one day you will decide to become an untrained artist, or an unskilled barista. Let this serve as a declaration that I swear to support you.

Sincerely,

Graduate school is a totally different animal from undergrad. If undergrad is dolphin, grad school is an orca. If a bachelors is a labrador, a masters is a small goat. (Don't try to read too much into these analogies, I am just emphasizing the 'different animal' analogy.) In my (most recent) undergraduate classes we never did anything except sit in class and study. So now, being the alternative species that it is, we go on field trips. 

(It should be noted, for full disclosure sake, in my first bachelors we were dragged all over the country by our advisor and teacher. However, I have come to learn this is uncommon.)

Last Friday, a supposedly class-free day, 56ish of us boarded two SGU buses and headed out to experience Public Health in Grenada. ("Public health" is capitalized because in my mind, when that is said, I run my hands (shaped like 'C's) across the sky. Like you would if you were showing someone what their name would look like 'in lights.) We were to stop at the local general hospital, two rural health clinics, a mental hospital and end up with a dinner at the Belmont Cocoa Plantation.

Cocoa, to me, indicates chocolate. I'll do a lot for chocolate. 

One of the really exceptional things about studying public health in Grenada (a developing nation) is ability to really see the effects of what we are discussing in the classroom as they are put into place in the real world. Issues of environmental health, healthcare policy and epidemiology are easy to exemplify in this small, relatively non-industrialized nation. Discussing the need for clean drinking water in Memphis, Tenn. is not nearly as relevant as it is here. Back home a regional clinic might be running on low funds, in Grenada a regional clinic might be a two-hour drive away...and may or may not have what you need. 

The general hospital in St. George, the capital, is a rather nice facility. Despite the lab looking a bit like a condemned building from the outside, we are assured everything is done properly. About 20 years ago Cuba offered to help the hospital expand. They sent a team of engineers and architects down to construct a new outpatient wing - and even started construction. Unfortunately, they did not account for the duct work necessary between the floors and construction halted. It remains halted.

St. George's General Hospital

The 20-year-old New Wing. 

After a brief visit at the central medical supply storage facility (not the official name) we toured Mt. Gay Psychiatric Hospital. This was likely the most interesting part of the trip to me. 

The facility was destroyed in the invasion (?) by the Americans. After everything was said and done, the U.S. felt bad and decided to build Grenada a new one. It was state of the art (back then). Air conditioning, private rooms, high security...the Government couldn't afford to keep it up. So, with a little retrofitting, we have today a very open-air, colorful yet dilapidated mental hospital. There are 80 beds, but the current occupancy is around 120. The majority of the patients are free to wander about the grounds, watch T.V., or hang out by the fence - where they talk to passers by. 

What was at first depressing - seeing a large group of essentially catatonic adults hanging around and mumbling to themselves - later turned into a small insight. These populations are also found in the U.S. However, back home they are forced into small, cramped wards with minimal natural light and rarely any outdoor activity. That said, if I ever lose my mind (completely) - send me here.

We weren't allowed to take pictures there - so here is the rural health clinic:

...Jersey style.

Eventually we ended up at the Belmont Estate. A cocoa plantation and restaurant (my first 'real' restaurant since my arrival). 

Enjoying food besides New York Bagel and Subway

From the outside

After a tour, and explanation (including video) of how chocolate is made (did you know they ferment the cocoa beans?) I finally found what I came for:

Delicious, locally made, 82% Cocoa pure Grenada chocolate!

One of the major benefits of doing a semester of masters courses before starting the M.D. (besides ending up with a masters) is that I have a little time to explore the island and become acclimated to the Caribbean lifestyle before I dive in to the studying-fulltime lifestyle. This means time at the beach, finding the grocery store, a taste of the local culture.

Every Friday in Gouyave (a small town on the east coast of Grenada) street vendors set up tents and serve up some delicious sea-based products. Last week had a Friday, so we decided to take advantage of this rarity and head across the island to Fish Friday. 

The Public Health Student Association arranged for a catamaran to pick us up near campus.

We hopped on board and took a beautiful, hour-and-a-half sunset cruise to Gouyave. 

Once we arrived, Fish Friday was just starting to pick up. Stands were being set up. Oil was being heated. Steel drums were being set up (yep). By the time we were leaving, things were in full swing. Dancing in the streets, music blasting, food being passed around and drinks flowing. 

My favorites of the evening were the tuna-kabobs, the marlin sliders, and fish and potato bakes. Unfortunately, I didn't take pictures of any of them. (In fact, I didn't take any pictures. These were all stolen from friends.)

(The only picture I found of the actual town...right as we arrived.)

The truth is, I don't have a lot to report. I have been here for 2 weeks (tonight) and in many ways it feels like 2 months. Classes are slow and steady, but not too much work (for the time being). Been to and from the beach a few times, played a few games of pick-up basketball (don't laugh) and am currently supposed to be doing some pre-reading (I'll start in 10 minutes, I swear). 

Since I don't want my writing abilities to stagnate and I have nothing in particular to write about, I will share a couple more of my pet peeves. Everybody calm down!

# 909: Hypothetical situations

In life these are fairly difficult to avoid. They are invaluable teaching tools and often necessary for clarification. But isn't "hypothetical" just another word for "pretend?" I don't like it when people try to corner me using pretend situations. 

Interviewer: What would you do if someone you trusted cheated the company out of some money.

Me: I'm not entirely sure, has that happened before?

Interviewer: No, but what would you do if it did?

Me: Hypothetically? I would use my time machine to go back and keep them from making that mistake.

Interviewer: Ok. In this scenario you don't have a time machine.

Me: Then hypothetically I would invent one, and then use it. 

I would much rather "preacher stories." You know, lies. But they aren't really lies because they are being used for teaching purposes. (Note: Even Jesus didn't tell his parables starting with "Once upon a time," he just launched on in.)

Interviewer: Last year we had someone steal money from the company. Another employee was implicated in the situation because it turns out they knew about it and did nothing. What would you have done if you had been that employee?

Me: Do I have a time machine?

Interviewer: No.

Me: I would recommend that the embezzler turn himself in. If that didn't work, I would report him.

In the former scenario I don't get the job because I am not willing to be a team player. In the latter scenario I don't get the job because I assume embezzlers are all men.

In both situations the word embezzler makes me think of a bedazzler...and we all know I lose my train of thought when sparkly objects are around.  

Another thing I don't like: When my friends have adorable babies while I'm not around. 

The first day returning to school is always exciting and scary....unless you have just spent the previous week with absolutely nothing to do except hang out in a tropical paradise. Then it is just annoying. However, with some slight nudging from my suite mates, I was able to drag myself out of the sun and into a classroom.

In the process of becoming a master of public health, I will be learning about epidemiology, biostatistics, environmental health, health policy and management, bioethics, community health, research methods, immunology, preventative medicine, parasitology, microbiology, and nutrition. 

Today, I began the process of learning epidemiology and environmental health. Aside from some relatively interesting discussion about how those from a Judeo-Christian background are more likely to destroy the Earth....it was rather typical of first time classes.

To be honest, the most impressive thing I did today was go - on my own - to get the second round of my Hep B vaccination. I got this close to watching him administer the shot...but at the last second, turned away. Maybe round 3. 

Now, I know you're thinking: "Really, that's it? That's your whole post?"

The answer is yes.

To spice things up a bit, I will include picture:

This is my side of the room. As you can see, it still needs some work. Any pictures of postcards you would like to send, will happily be hung!

The decision to become a doctor is not one that should be taken lightly. It is a lifelong process that begins even before the application starts and ends as a colleague calls your TOD. (Wow, that's a depressing thought.)

Anyway - things are rarely so weighty for me. So, when I casually decided I would like to spend the next 10 - 40 years of my life practicing medicine there a few very difficult questions I had to process before I could fully commit to this (potentially) lifetime endeavor. 

1. Could I really see myself wearing scrubs for the rest of my life? They aren't flattering on anyone...and you hate to spend money getting them tailored when they are just going to be bled and snotted on. 

2. Where is the coolest place to spend the most difficult time of your life?

I initially applied to University of Hawaii. They sent me a response that said:

Ha! Good try.

(This is school is just for Hawaiians, stay on your side of the water.) 

Aloha, Hawaii

Well, I showed them. I applied (and was eventually accepted) to St. George's University in Grenada, West Indies. 

Here:

My campus looks like this:

(Screw you Hawaii.)

I've been on the island almost a week now, and things are going really well. I live in a suite with five other guys. They are all doing the same thing I am (a dual degree MPH/MD). Three of them are from New Jersey, one from Connecticut and one from New York. (They are all quite unique individuals, I am hoping they will consent to let me do an individual post on each one of them.)

Classes start Monday, so until then I am trying to soak in the Caribbean life (and do some of the required reading).

I am unaware of a particularly Grenadian way to say goodbye, so for now, I'll just say...

I knew all of this would happen. I knew that if I tried to surprise my family I wouldn't be able to post about all the great things that were happening my last week in Seoul. I knew that if I didn't post about them immediately, I would never get around to it. I knew that despite my avid attempts to take pictures of everything (even though I couldn't upload them immediately to Facebook), I would forget major events and would end up forgetting everything. I also knew this was going to be a very busy month and I would likely think I was entirely too busy to post.

On the positive side: I know myself really well.

Just a (very) quick overview of the past month:

My family (mother + extended) thought I was arriving on July 9. My actual ticket was for July 3. (While I hate being surprised (no seriously, don't do it), I like surprising people.) Plans started to go awry when American Airlines called my home phone (a.k.a. my parents' house) to inform them that my connection from Chicago had been cancelled and I wouldn't be able to leave Chicago until 10:20 p.m. on Sunday, July 3. My mother answered. She began asking questions. My sister played stupid and said I must be trying to surprise everyone. Mom was willing to play along.

To compensate (and throw mom off the scent), my father created a fake itinerary for me...and sent a fake email from me to him including the fake itinerary...which he then secretly passed along to my mom and siblings. He BCCd me on it. It was so convincing, I had to call him from a park in Sinchon to ask if he had really changed my flight to the ninth. 

Honest people make the best liars.

Side story:

My sister was going to surprise me by meeting me in Chicago (with AL, the niece) and fly the final leg of my journey with me. When that flight was cancelled I rerouted myself through Dallas... This threw a kink in her plans. She immediately got on the phone with AA, explained the situation and asked if the two of them could also be rerouted through Dallas. The AA rep was very helpful and said, "I'd love to help you darling, but that flight is all booked up." 

Sister: "When is the next flight from Dallas to Little Rock?"

AA: "One hour later."

Sister: "Are there still seats available?"

AA: "Plenty."

Sister: "Great. Go ahead and put us on that flight....and move my brother as well."

AA: "Are you sure he won't mind?"

Sister: "He won't even notice."

...I didn't notice.

What I did notice was that my brother became very interested in me getting my cell phone fully functional once I returned to the States, and he was awfully curious about my exact location in the Dallas/Fort Worth Airport. 

I did notice when a lady who looked a considerable amount like my sister came around the corner...however, at this point, all white people looked the same to me. 

I did notice when AL walked up to me and hugged my leg. I noticed enough that I stood up and caused the whole restaurant to fear a stick up when I yelled, "OH MY GOODNESS! ....Sherrill's here."

Since then it's been a lot of visiting, a little packing, a lot of lake, a lot of making plans to move. So many people, so little time.

From what I have read on Wikipedia, the term “bucket list” might have actually originated with the movie, “The Bucket List.” I have not seen this movie (nor will I). However, the concept is a good one. (For those of you who don’t know: a bucket list is a list of things you would like to do before you ‘kick the bucket.’ I am not dying.)

As my time in Seoul draws to a close, I realize there are a few things I have consistently said I would like to do while here, but have never actually done. Last weekend it was time to remedy this lack of action. I called a few friends together and was able to cross 3 of 5 items off the list. For me, this is a victory.

1. Korean Casino

It might seem odd when I tell you that, despite the presence of a half-dozen casinos in Seoul, it is illegal to gamble…if you are Korean. For foreigners, it is permitted. (Yet another example of the reverse discrimination of Koreans in Korea. A subject I have never mentioned here.)

Before I make a blanket statement, it should be noted, there is a casino that was built in an abandoned mine in the Gangwon province that allows Korean citizens to gamble. It is a part of the Assistance to the Development of Abandoned Mine Areas act (in fact, it is the only part of that act).

When I have been to casinos in the past (a couple times in Vegas and few in Tunica) the general aura of the place is one of excitement. The slot machines are clinging, the dealers are calling, the gamblers are chatting, the drinks are moving – all in all, there is a hustle and bustle about the room that lends itself to a (potentially false) sense of excitement and opportunity. Sitting at a roulette table becomes a team sport as you rally with the other players against the dealer (who slyly pretends to be on your side while you donate your life savings to his child’s college fund…though I do normally get a free buffet out of it).

Inside the Millennium 7 Luck Casino in the Seoul Hilton, this camaraderie does not exist. All the appropriate decorations are in place – gaudy light fixtures, overly-ornate cashier stands, colorful slot machines, crowded tables, dizzingly-busy industrial-strength carpeting – yet the pizzazz is absent. The players are not conversing. The dealers are moving slowly and silently. The slot machines, though occupied, are silent. No one cries out in joy when they win. No one curses loudly when they lose. It is a congregation of foreign nationals who have come together, not to have fun, but to blow money in the fastest way they can think of.

While Tunica has its depressing moments – seeing people throw the last of their meager paycheck onto the table in hopes of winning big – nothing is as depressing as a massive gathering of people, who only the have ‘not having anywhere else to be’ in common.

Fortunately, a friend was unable to get in (lack of proper ID) and a short stay was decided for me.

I left drained.

(The night was later revived with a 6-hour stay at my favorite Korean barbecue restaurant with 10 good friends from 6 different countries…but since that wasn’t on my list, I won’t elaborate.)

2. Horse tracks

As with casinos, and perhaps many forms of betting, I have a fanciful fantasy of all what horse races should be like.

I expect My Fair Lady...

I get Slumdog Millionaire.

I expect Disney World...

I get Dickens World.

The racetrack in Seoul Racecourse Park is no exception. It is crowded, gnat infested, confusing and slightly gloomy. One must wait an hour between each race, and when you are not researching horses to bet on or figuring out odds (or whatever it is that people do for that hour without being completely miserable) you are completely miserable. During the 10-seconds the horses are actually running, things are quite exciting. People are yelling and jumping up and down. The horses look beautiful, muscles tensing in perfect rhythm, running their hearts out as they are mercilessly beaten by their passenger.

Then, along with the gnats, the dreariness returns. It’s a local epidemic of cylothymia.

I lost 5 bucks and then moved on to the most controversial item on the list. 

3. Eat dog

There were two things that were constantly said by anyone I told about my plans to move to Korea. The first, “I hope you mean South Korea.” The second, “I hope you like dog.”

While selling dishes containing dog is technically illegal, it is not a strictly enforced law. Those of you who have ethical concerns with the practice of eating dog can a) get your own blog and b) google the regulations and restrictions yourself. As for myself, I consider it an interesting and unique part of a continually interesting and unique culture.

It is recommended that you go with a Korean to eat this dish. I am not sure why, but every time I have brought it up someone reminds me. So, partially because he is Korean and partially because I just enjoy spending time with him, I asked one of my native-Korean friends to introduce me to this culinary oddity. While he does not personally enjoy eating dog, he was more than happy to take me and a couple friends.

To be honest, it wasn’t that good. It is a rather fatty meat which is steamed (so the fat, instead of being roasted away or fried off, is further congealed). The pieces are chewy and tough. There are lean portions, which are exponentially more delicious…but still just taste like overcooked pork.

The restaurant itself was wonderful. The weather was perfect (we sat outside). The staff was friendly and excited we had decided to take part in this experimental process. My friend also ordered some duck, which was excellent. (I think he had a premonition we weren’t going to enjoy our meal.)

Steamed dog on the right. Roasted duck on the left.

Writing about the past is so much less fun than writing about the present. By present, I merely mean a more recent past. Even if I write about what I am doing at this exact moment (I am typing), by the time I have finished writing – the moment has past. Blows my mind.

For this reason I am combining the final two installments of a three part series, into one.

Sokcho:

…was awesome. Imagine a weekend in small fishing village. Perfect warm weather every day, which dropped to light jacket weather at night as you sat on the bay or the beach, watching the boats come in with their catch of the day. Picture a place where you can go to the beach one day, take a bike ride around a lake the next, and visit the second largest mountain in Korea on the third day. Set yourself in a room with 2 friends in a hotel run by a very nice couple who understand that sometimes you can’t be up in time for your room to be cleaned at noon…so they do it when you leave for lunch at 3.

Days consisted of waking up late, going out for lunch and the daily activity (the afore mentioned beach, hiking or biking), returning to the room several hours later in time to catch the last half of a terrible action movie on TV while showering and preparing for dinner. Dinner was always eaten outside, surrounded by friendly locals or fellow travelers. The nights were typically ended on the shore somewhere – complete with snacks and fireworks.

I have sighed 3 times while writing these paragraphs. Perhaps I should go back to Sokcho.

(Also, one night we were potentially threatened by the Korean mafia. However, that story doesn't fit in with the serenity I have set in my mind. They did end up paying for dinner (we think), so I guess even that story has a happy ending.)

Busan:

The Beach in Korea. “Hey, you guys wanna go to the beach this weekend?” Typically means Busan.

The second largest city in South Korea, but all most people know about it are the few miles of sandy beaches. (Sorry to the other 3 million people in the city, I’m sure you’re interesting too.)

We took the midnight bus, arriving at 4 a.m. Things weren’t going too well from the start. The bus driver started yelling at everyone to get off the bus (even though it wasn’t the correct place to get off). No one likes being yelled at, especially at 4 a.m. When we disembarked, we were accosted by meter-free cab drivers who demanded to know where we were going and offered us outrageous prices to take us there. The other cabbies were apparently scared of these brigands and refused to accept our patronage. (After these two turn offs, everything turned around.) We finally found someone to take us to a recommended temple sight. The plan was a little morning hike…it turned out to be a lot of morning hike.

The 4+ hours of hiking actually had two different high points. One, was the high point:

View from the peak. One of the most stunning I've seen in Korea.

Craig scaring me by walking out on the ledge.

The other high point:

In our attempt to finish the journey (approximately 8:30) we stumbled upon, what the sign said was, a “Boy’s Training Facility.” The billboard down the road, which was in Korean, had a picture of a sniper…we hoped the two were not related. This facility was set in high and deep in the mountains with only one road coming in and out. The buildings were large and well kept. At the center of the compound was a large, boot camp style obstacle course.

As we entered the site, we saw a large group of boys going for a walk with some (presumably) staff. They said nothing to us beyond a casual hello. We wandered through the grounds for a bit and eventually came to a continuation of the hiking trail that had been interrupted by this massive complex. However, as we started to head down the trail we heard a man shouting at us from above. While my first instinct was to run…Josh kept his senses about him and went to find out what the yelling was about.

He never came back.

Just kidding. He tried to ask the man where we were and how to get down. The conversation was not going very well. The yelling man asked a woman who had just pulled up to give us directions – instead she herded us into the backseat of her car. We then picked up her husband (who was thoroughly confused about the 3 foreign boys with backpacks in their backseat) and she drove us 25 minutes, down the winding mountain road, into a small suburb of Busan, which we would have never found on our own, and dropped us off at the subway stop.

Thanks really sweet woman who we will never see again!

From there it was just the beaches and babes. We spent a night at the club and a night on the beach. I rode some carnival rides – and destroyed the local record on the mechanical bull. (Granted, I had just watched 8 Seconds…my love for Luke Perry probably gave me an unfair advantage.)

A very enjoyable weekend. Monday morning, bright and early, we packed up and head to the KTX (high-speed, cross-country train).

The mime festival.

That's right, I went to a mime festival.

Picture with me, a vast open field. No structures, no sound. Just thousands of androgynous, bowler-hatted, white-faced, black-teared performers wandering around wordlessly - simulating all the necessities of a festival. Whisping the perfect (imaginary) cotton candy cone; blowing the extra froth off an particularly heady pour of non-existent beer, and demonstrating the chill of the mug and condensation on the glass by shaking their hand out after passing it off to you. Hundreds of invisible boxes containing hundreds of trapped Marcel Marceau's, who aren't really trying to get out so much as just feeling the walls. In reverence of the silence, none of the spectators speak either. It is one giant silent film.

That is not what happened. 

Ctfo, mime basically just means 'non-verbal performance.' While I was treated to a couple of stereotypical mimes - including one who could seemingly use a rope as a cane (try it, it's harder than you would think) as well as jumping rope while lying on his back - the majority of the performances were some form of acrobatics or fire twirling...which is cool enough in itself. 

In the course of the evening (it was a long evening, the shows continued until 4 a.m.) I also saw the worst performance of anything I have ever seen, anywhere. Two French men (I know, because these 'mimes' occasionally talked) demonstrated how to thoroughly scar a crowd full of Korean school-children by farting confetti, playing with dead pigeons, and simulating lewd self-loving acts...which culminated in the explosion of yogurt packages onto the stage. Yes, seriously. There was also a point that one man stripped on stage in order to don a wedding dress, and the other ran into the audience and required students to eat honey off his finger. It took a long time before the front six rows figured out the best thing to do is just run. It also took a long time for my jaw to stop hurting after being on the ground for so long. 

The french. Not a great picture, but you can see it happened.

The final shocking selection of the festivities come in the form of a giant uterus. (To be honest, I think it was a vagina, but I felt uncomfortable leading a paragraph with that.) At the top of one of the hills was an area called the "Sexuality Zone." At a festival dedicated to miming, you might think it was some sort of Gay Pride arena...but it was, in fact, a sex education and awareness display. 

A small, covered walkway was transformed into - what I can only figure out to be - a vagina. You entered through some red streamers and it ended with a tube through with you could crawl to get to the...uterus?

Inside there were displays of the development of embryos. One could also experience what it was like to 'be pregnant.' (No, they didn't turn up the heat a hundred degrees and make you constantly hungry and cranky.)

Craig tried to put his on like a backpack until he was laughed at and corrected.

The most shocking part of this area was the throng of children that were to be found playing games and doing crafts. Such as this one...

Yep, they were decorating blown-up condoms with faces and pictures. Condom art everywhere. Nothing encourages prophylactic use like teaching children they are toys. (Brings an entirely new meaning to 'sex toys.')

The next reason I like Korea has been spoiled by the title. It's kind of a torn subject for me (the title, not the food. The food I will get to later. Be patient.) 

The majority of my writing was done in the final few years of college (round one). During that time I wrote primarily in AP (Associated Press) style. The mass of my work was writing articles, always articles. These articles were inverted pyramids. These pyramids lead with the most important information. The title was, essentially, the first line of this article. 

Since then my primary source of literary output has been a blog - either this one or it's predecessor. When using this format I have a tendency to ramble for a while before I get to the point. (present company example) Why shouldn't I? It's my blog. However, sometimes I just get that crazy craving. That desire to let people know what they're in for right up front. When that happens - it all starts with the title. (Lucky for you, after blowing the build-up with the headline I regained my sanity and was able to ramble before I get to the actual grit.)

Grit:

My father eats the worst foods. I don't mean that in the good way - like, he is particularly fond of foie gras or dog meat (two culinary delights of which I am not a particular fan) - but in the way where he just eats things. (Ok, come to think of it, the things that have disgusted me the most - sauerkraut, onions - have become things I now enjoy.) Mostly though - the spice of his dishes has always been the most offensive. This is the man who adds hot sauce to hot dogs and haute cuisine alike. Anytime he cooked I had to beg him to avoid the excess spice. Even then...things were too spicy. This was how I grew up.

...and then Korea happened.

I was warned early on that the food would be spicy, but unavoidable. The nationally ubiquitous kimchi, when made correctly, brings a sparkle to the eye as it sizzles on the back of your tongue. The soups come in stone bowls, still boiling as they arrive at your table, and the boiling continues in your mouth as the sweat drips over your eyebrows. This is what I was in for.

At first I steered clear. I stuck with Korean barbecue and bland noodles. I leaned towards the fish and Western foods. Then slowly, I noticed it happening. With each piece of kimchi I required myself to eat, I saw the subtle changes in my palette. I no longer screamed in pain when I tasted an unknown red soup. I didn't spend 20 minutes drinking water after each mouthful of jeyuk....and that's when a whole new world was opened to me. 

Everywhere I looked doors were flung wide to my newly found appreciation, tolerance and - dare I say it - enjoyment of the spicier variety of ethnic foods. Now, I can't imagine living without it. That burning sensation on the lips as you return to class. The necessity of a napkin, not for your mouth, but for your forehead. 

I sometimes wonder if this is just a ruby mouth guard I have acquired while in Oz. Much like Dorthy's ruby slippers, which protected her as long as she wore them. Once I return home, will the glistening red spices just be a distant memory while I wake up to the familiarity of hamburgers sans jalapeños and mild barbecue sauce?

While I was standing naked in my kitchen this morning (at 2:30 p.m.) dunking Oreos in a measuring cup for breakfast, it occurred to me, there are some things I am really going to miss about this place. 

During my final 6ish weeks in Seoul I am hoping to find the time to document those things. Today, however, I will just share one.

Thing I will miss #1 (this is not necessarily the number-one thing I'll miss, it's just the first thing I am listing)

People are so damn nice. 

I am constantly reminded of this as I go about my casual life. Today we went to the new pizza place near work. As we were eating our giant pizza, the workers all stood around to make sure we liked it. In America this would feel like a lot of pressure, here, they are just showing they care. 

I went to pick up my tickets for Cirque last Sunday. The lady at the booth was so pleased when I gave her my ID. It's as if she really wanted me to enjoy the show, and was so glad I was able to attend.

I also notice it on the airlines. Flight attendants are pleased to help you, and glad you decided to fly Asiana (or Korean Air). My experience in domestic flights in the U.S. generally consists of attendants who think you owe them your life for allowing you to fly on their aircraft.  (Get off my back, let me generalize.)

Even when the waitress is busy, she never gets bitchy. If there is a language barrier at the grocery, they just laugh and try to resolve the problem. When I can't find my bus people apologize if they can't help me. I always want to scream, "Don't apologize! It's my fault I can't speak Korean!" 

My neighbor stopped by last night when a coworker and I were hanging out on the roof. When I apologized for how loud my apartment probably was post arrival of Czerny (my piano) he said, "You're not too loud. Even if you were, it's your apartment, you can do what you want!"

Dear America,

(Caution: Awake My Soul by Mumford and Sons just came on shuffle and my body has collapsed into a phonotonic (musical catharsis) state. I'll try to keep from getting too sappy, but it's a warning.)

Thanks to the Korean obsession with their children, we were graced with a national holiday on May 5 - Children's Day. Additionally, since Buddhism is the #2 religion in the ROK and Buddha was (is?) an all around awesome guy, we celebrated his birthday on May 10 with another day off work. If you don't have the calendar memorized, that means I had off a Thursday and the subsequent Tuesday. The only option in this scenario is to take off the sandwiched Friday and Monday and make it one big ole holiday. 

So that's what I did. 

I had grand plans. Travel the world: maybe go down to Bali or take a few days to see the Philippines. Perhaps spend a little time travelling the country and catch a few more sites in Korea - I've yet to go to either of the two highly acclaimed beaches on the peninsula. 

Of course none of that happened.

I spent the majority of the vacation being sick in my apartment, or feeling sick outside of my apartment and returning home to be sick. It's not as bad as it sounds - I did manage to complete 3 seasons of my second-least-favorite show on television. 

Notably, two things went down:

Friday, May 6 - Dialogues of the Carmelites 

A twentieth-century opera by the French composer Francis Poulenc. It is the story of a convent set during the French Revolution. The nuns are told they have to...well, to be honest, I'm not entirely sure. The opera itself is in French...and the super-titles were in Korean. For me, it was a lot of time to really immerse myself in the music. I got to focus on the orchestration and vocalization and wasn't bogged down by the actual words...I could have used a little more bogging. None the less, it was a beautiful and heart-wrenching opera. Not to ruin it for you, but at the end all the nuns are sent to the guillotine. As they sing a haunting rendition of Salve Regina, one by one they collapse as the guillotine sounds. 

What really struck me about the performance was how many nuns were at the show. I mean, I don't want to go see a musical about good-looking English teachers in Korea being murdered.

They seem happy enough though.  

Tuesday, May 10

After a lazy day of sleeping in - my window open, welcoming the soothing sounds of the rain and the chanting from the nearby temple in honor of Buddha's birthday - my friend, Craig (it's funny to continue to link to his blog, no?), suggested an activity, to which I had been previously oblivious. 

The plan, indoor fishing.

After a bit of online reading, I decided this could be a wonderful activity (despite my aversion to touching living fish) - and if nothing else, could be considered a cultural experience. (I did have a Culture Sunday, but due to the sickness, it was cut short.)

The only directions we had to the location were "near the subway." This being Seoul, the second largest metropolitan area itw, that could mean any hundreds of businesses. After a bit of unsuccessful wandering, Craig thought he had found a worker at the 7-11 who knew of the establishment...come to find out, he was trying to direct us to a video golfing place. I was on my phone trying to track down more specific readings when, about 5 minutes later, the same 7-11 employee came out and asked me, "is this the number for the place you are going?" 

Apparently he had done some research of his own, called the fishing place and asked for directions. (Reason #289 to love Korea)

Gold's Indoor Fishing was not quite what I was expecting. I had in my head a Bass Pro-esque sort of situation. Very rustic, with quiet running water where I would sit lazily by and catch the occasional passing carp (that's a fish, right?) What I received instead was a small, basement room that seemed a bit more like a sleezy roller rink than anything. It took several minutes for my eyes to adjust to the dark.

The man working gave us our Snoppy-ish poles (sans reel), and a bowl of dog food for bait. We were then guided to our seats, given non-specific instruction (in Korean) and a delicious cup of instant coffee. 

I was floundering. While the man across the pool from me rose higher and higher on my hate list as he caught fish after fish, my glow-in-the-dark bobber sat unmoving. Yet, every time I brought it up, the bait had been taken. Finally, I did what I have always been best at when fishing and asked for more specific instructions (a.k.a., the proprietor took my pole and caught a fish for me. It was rather reminiscent of the deep-sea fishing with my Paw Paw when I made friends with the deck hand, Robert, who graciously cast and caught fish after fish for me - but allowed me to pull the halibut the last 10 feet onto the deck of the boat. I have never seen my Grandfather so proud...and I have never again caught so many fish.)

After that, my luck didn't get much better. I ended up catching one more fish. Craig seemed to finally catch on a snag a few of his own. In the end, it was well worth the experience - if the angling was a bit disappointing. 

(For anyone who stumbles upon this and is interested in indoor fishing in Korea. Go to Seokchon (line 8), exit 3. Walk straight approximately 30 meters and it's on your right. 10,000 won.)

Here's a picture of Craig fishing:

(I told you it was dark)

Also...Saturday I caught a bit of the Lantern Parade. This seems like as good a place as any to toss in some pictures.