Fishing Boy

The simple are always true

2012-02-10T20:20:00.000Z

Were I to tell you there would be no one to blame, I wonderif you’d bring your arms down, or if you’d embrace it all anyway.

I remember those days, with a mind as clouded as that of anearly morning, still covered by the night skies. I remember you in blue,wearing thick glasses, and much like me, being a fish out of water. I can’tremember what drove us together.

I would always take longer to finish homework, and I’dsometimes lie about not having any more to work on, just to get a chance tojoin the others, and you’d be among them. Time was short, but eventually therewas no separating us.

I remember telling you absolutely everything. I remember nothaving the burden of mistrust, of fear, of judgement - and I remember youfeeling the same.

I think we were each other’s mirrors in many ways, and atleast I know I’d try hard to be like you. I think those who watched us tookadvantage of that, to the point where it became somewhat of a game, somewhat ofa competition.

Maybe that was it, maybe that’s what eventually made yourvisits less frequent. Or maybe I was simply poisoned by those who’d tell methat the invitation always came from me, and never the other way around. Theywould tell me it was unfair, and that it meant you didn’t want to be aroundwith me.

That made me think, it made me hesitate, and I followed thattrail of thought. And eventually, we stopped talking. And I never saw youagain.

Could I go back to that awkward self, I would tell him tocall you as many times as it would please me, and invite you over as many timesas allowed. And to maybe question my selfishness during our time together.

Because if you didn’t want to be there with me, you’d makeup some excuse, and I wouldn’t think about it – afterall, we were kids then.And eventually, us being apart, would have made sense.

But you never gave any excuse I can remember. And you’dnever deliberately say no either. I can’t say the same about anyone else I’vemet up until this day. And that’s why it never made any sense to me.

Sometimes I still look for you; I saw your mother once, butcouldn’t bring myself to talk to her. I think she didn’t even recognize me. Ishould have asked her, but I guess I was afraid I’d find you were no longer thesame. So I backed off. I wonder if you do the same, and if not, why you don’tbother or try. I can’t remember what drove us apart.

Even if you don't drop the soap, it gets awkward.

2012-01-17T10:49:00.002Z

Credit: © Image Source/Corbis

I joined the gym last year – I couldn’t handle the idea ofjogging in the snow again without eventually falling down and break something.And in my current condition, I can’t really afford a fracture.

Last time I fell on the snow, I ripped my favourite joggingpants near the left pocket, and my hoodie. I was in pain, a lot of pain, as Iboarded the metro. The people in it saw a guy, all sweaty, curled up, shaking alittle, in pain, as I returned home. You can see where I’m getting at – I couldgo without broadcasting that image.

As I joined the gym, I saw this huge dude that would becomemy instructor. He got all scared when I told him I had a disease that mightlimit me from being as sporty as he was, for example. But I was stilldetermined to break through that and get myself in good shape. I was willing andready to run as fast and hard as any other person would, and lift as manyweights as I could. And so I did.

What I wasn’t willing or ready to do however, was to standthe freaky, disturbing nature of a gym locker room.

It starts with those awkward moments where you’re all alonein the room, and the next guy who comes in has the locker right next to yours,and suddenly the room feels cramped. It’s one of those ironies that make youlaugh when you look back to it, but are simply bothersome as you live them.

Others though, are traumatizing. So when you arrive and see asweaty fat guy, rubbing his naked belly on your locker door, you hesitate. Youhesitate between ignoring and moving on, or throwing up and fainting.

But you hold it in, and open your locker as if nothinghappened. But then, you notice all the naked guys, walking around with theirjunk on display. Some of them looking too proud.

But If you think others showing off their junk is as awkwardas it gets, you’re wrong. You might just get to a day when you walk in thelocker room, see your instructor, butt naked, holding a towel over his junkwith one hand, extending the other to greet you.

I ask you, internet, would you shake his hand? WOULD YOU?

The Recreation

2012-01-16T12:42:00.000Z

So it’s been a while (again) since I’ve updated this blog,but here it goes, finally.

The design’s quite different from what I had imagined atfirst, but I’m unable to really customize blogger’s “dynamic” theme.

Though I was willing to leave the fish in orange, I didn’treally like any adaptations I could make to the theme to blend it all. So I switchedit to light blue, and made it the least distracting I could.

In the meantime, I decided to ditch what was my old logo, abutterfly, and switch to the wave design you see at the head of this post.

The butterfly logo was created with the monarch butterflies’migration cycle in mind – that an insect with such apparent fragility would beable to do such a demanding thing. And that’s mostly what I wanted to express –that my style, as immature and simplistic as it may be, still holds a lot ofpotential.

And so I’d change the butterfly logo to relate it todifferent things and events. One of the most popular transformations I’ve madewas one related to the Euro 2004. Personally, I always thought that thatability to adapt was what made a good logo great. If you can change colours,slightly change the shape, and still maintain the core identity it’s supposedto embody, then you’ve got a successful design.

If your logo is rigid and adopts a select group of coloursto be recognizable, then you might find yourself limited. In other words, sayyou’ve got a logo with a complex dark texture and put it against a darkbackground, you lose some visibility. In contrast, if you could simplify thattexture and easily switch it to white, or another contrasting colour, you couldkeep the same visibility.

The new logo, the wave, is probably more limiting than thebutterfly, but only time will really tell. I can’t say that I’ve designed itfrom the ground up with the idea of manipulating it the same way I did thebutterfly, but I certainly kept possibility in mind while I was designing it.So I’m confident the underpinnings are there. There are some things I need toiron out first, but I can pretty much convert it to any colour too, but I won’tbe able to do as many fun things around it. In that sense, the new logo is “rigid”.

On the other hand, the logo finally links my nickname with myidentity as an “artist” (which I’m still not sure what that is, let alone if Iam one) in a clear way. And with that, I hope I can become more wholesome – asan artist, as a blogger, as a person.

That is also why the blog went through a name change.Despite the relentless advance age-wise, I’m still a boy, and I’m still “fishing”.

On Dragonball And Happily Ever After

2011-09-30T18:54:00.000+01:00

My sister has tried to make me feel bad for liking Dragonball. I reckon the show doesn’t get enough credit. It was the stuff of legend.

And it’s not just because there were people beating the crap out of each other, with blood and all in it. It was mostly about and because of everything else.

The hilarious one-liners, the comedy potential, those were key. And then there was the social aspect – in my school, people would be late to class because they stayed glued to the TV, watching it during class breaks.

Among the many things that were cool, was the fact that you saw the hero change, and actually get stronger. He wasn’t the strongest by default, even though he’s already very strong when he’s introduced. You get to see him train in order to earn strength, giving effort to get results. And in the middle of the story, he was even killed because he wasn’t strong enough to win against the bad guy. So the series pretty much broke the idea that the main character was always the strongest at any given point in time, and that he couldn’t die. Well, that last part is highly arguable, since they could come back to life.

Anyway, the truth is, the show was cool. Girls will tell you otherwise, and if they’re anything like my sister, mock you for it.

But in the end, we all knew that reviving people was bullshit, and that you couldn’t throw a Kamehameha no matter how hard you tried. And we know it to this date.

Check most female blogs out there, and you’ll find references to Disney films, with princes saving their princesses, and stories of eternal love and happiness. Girls claiming they “believe”, and girls blaming those movies for making them believe in such things, and arguing it’s because of that brainwash that they’re in an emotional rut. I-r-o-n-y.

So, do I really have any reason to be embarrassed about Dragonball? Hahaha, no, I’m too busy laughing at this:

Redesigning the Blog - Part 2

2011-09-07T17:22:00.000+01:00

First of all, thanks to both Vani and Paulo for the tips onthe fish shown in the last post.
So life’s been a little busy lately, so I haven’t had muchtime or energy to work on the redesign, certainly not as much as I’d like.Progress has been slow, and the biggest obstacle I’ve had to overcome so farare the scales on the fish.

I’ve tried several methods to do them – I’m a freak for symmetry,and I really wanted the scales to be all-alike, and at the same time, I wantedthem to flow perfectly with the fish’s body.
At first I thought that it would be impossible to do thatwithout drawing each and every scale – but I also knew that if I decided forthat route, I’d never get it done, and I’d never be satisfied. So I tried tolook for more-or-less “automatic” methods.
The first of those is called blending. I’m not sure why thisCorel DRAW tool goes by that name, but it allows you to clone an object along apath. This was pretty much what I was looking for, with one big draw back: youhave to freehand the path. I suck at freehand, and you need an amazingprecision to pull it off with a mouse. So instead, I decided to clone the pathand resize it, slightly readjusting it, etc. It didn’t really work that well:

The scales were also too thin, and making them this way madethem look unnatural. So I decided to try another technique, using the “EnvelopeTool”. With it, you can wrap an object or a group of objects around another,and this is what it looks like:

And that arrow there points to the problem with this tool:the wrapping effect is really hard to control, and I couldn’t individually correcthow each scale was wrapped. Not to mention that it didn’t really improve on thecritics over the previous method.

So I decided to try a more natural and straightforward wayto illustrate a scale, and I made circles, distributed them along an expandingline star, and kept rotating them to intercalate the scales.

And that’s what it looks like. Then, it was a matter ofadapting it the flow of the fish, and I drew some lines to help me along theway:

Of course in the picture the vertical curves don’t reallyfollow the flow of the fish, and it brought back one of the problems I wastrying to avoid: I’d have to individually craft every vertical line, and makesure the spacing between them is the same, so that putting the circle scales inthem is effortless.

Well, that was an ironic statement.

And that’s pretty much what’s been happening. I’ve also beentrying to make some changes to the design of the fish, trying to integrate someof the feedback. It’s a work in progress, but this is more or less what I’mthinking of doing:

Redesigning the Blog - Part 1

2011-08-19T00:13:00.002+01:00

I’m trying hard to come back to drawing and illustrating. MaybeI shouldn’t be, maybe it should come naturally – but for everythingprocrastination has wrecked in my life, only hard work and persistence gave meback what was once second nature. I guess this is no exception.

One of the things I’m trying to do, if you haven’t noticedyet, is to redesign the blog. There will be more than redesigning the look, butI’ll get to that later.

As with all blogger blogs, the most striking element isusually the blog banner, so I’m starting with that to build the rest of thedesign. In the last design, I drew a minimalistic logo, with a fish jumping outof water and a fishing rod. The water brush was taken from a free set ofPhotoshop brushes, and unfortunately, I can’t recall the artist behind them,and I’ve since lost them. I was quite happy with it.

But it just didn’t convey the spirit of the blog – its contentis too tied to emotion to be delivered in such a clean-lined banner. So thistime, I decided to draw up a fish on my very neglected sketchpad. I was lookingfor a fish that allowed me to play with warm colours, and at first, I waslooking at beta fish, and the famous mandarin fish.

Beta fish on the left, the Mandarin fish on the right.

In the end, I ended up with something like this:

Photo of the sketch (click it to zoom)

High contrast version (click it to zoom)

I wanted something that could incorporate as much colour asthe mandarin, and as flow-y as the beta fish, specifically its tail. This sortof hit the middle ground I was looking for. I still think the colours will makeit or break it.

I’m no big fan of the head, and I’m still deciding if I likethe idea of scales in there. In the meantime, I’ve been trying to convert thisinto vector, so I can colour and manipulate it at my will. I’ll talk about someof the challenges I’ve encountered in that process in a future post, but fornow, I’d really like to get some feedback. What do you think?

Lacking in abundance

2011-08-11T10:32:00.000+01:00

Death is a scary thought.
Before anyone asks, there have been no deaths around here, not in the family, not at my ward, nowhere. But even in its absence, it's one hell of a scary thought, often colored over as a part of life itself. If you'd ask me, I'd say you're inevitably coloring beyond the lines, in an attempt to blend it in. Death stands out like that all-black wearing goth kid at a hippie party, and honestly, he will never blend in.
When you're at a hospital, things like death might seem slow to you, to the dying patient's family, to everyone. I thing that sometimes, though, that might make us forget how Death actually is to most people: quick and unforgiving. Things move fast and change fast.
I remember talking about immortality in Man, not too long ago, and a point was made at how the natural evolution of our condition would be the definitive escape from death, a society where people do not die, and the pool of those who are can only be augmented.
I was quick to point to that speech in Charlie Chaplin's The Great Dictator, where something like "As long as men die, liberty will never perish" is said. I pointed to it because the absence of Death gives me the notion that we'd all eventually trap ourselves in our individual identities.
It's quick and easy to make a point about frailty and its quality being the very things that make life so great, to make a point that because it is temporary, it is a unique, non-repeatable blessing, and so, that it should be celebrated as such.
Were I imortal, I think I would eventually question my value, and I would pursue control over so many aspects of my life. And not having Death in the way, gaining absolute control over those might just make it... feasable. More even, I might be successful.
Along comes the question as to why I would pursue control, but the question is very simple really.
What ties me to this world are the things that don't change: from the very simple "The sun sets, the sun rises", to the more complex and demanding friendships.
If one takes into account that the amount of times couples split these days, you'd be hard pressed to argue that their love is forever. Even if you try to earn it forever, it doesn't mean it will always be yours, as boredom might just take over, and it's nobody's fault.
I think love can seem like it can live forever because life itself is not, and as long as it can piggy back on that, why take responsibility? The truth is, Man needs its constants, and forever love is the most powerful constant one can get his hands on to, for now.
I can't shake the feeling that the only reason it is constant is because it is bound to the limited lifetime, and if we were to remove that limit, I don't know if it would still be a constant.
And that's why I think we'd be at war, trying to individually build the place we wanted to live in. And we'd purse control to create constants, things that never change and that we could call home, especially people. Because I'm really scared over the thought that human immortality would kill us all, by taking down what drives us to pursue the ridiculously imperfect and incomplete as if it were the Holy Grail.
Immortality is a scary thought.

2011-05-15T21:47:00.001+01:00

You might be asking yourself whatever happened to this blog. Or then again, you’re probably not, as long pauses have become… frequent.

This last one was mainly thanks to the death of my old laptop, and it took me almost 2 months to find a new one. Now that I have a suitable successor to my prematurely-dead baby, I can write you again, from the high Alps, surrounded by snowy mountains and white and violet cows that are somehow related to tasty chocolate. Well, not really. I’m not up in the mountains.

So being disconnected from the internet meant more than being disconnected from facebook, deviantArt, naughty porn, etc. By being forced to hang out in the real world, I’ve started noticing other people. Other particularly strange people.

Take the Asian guy from the library. When I first got here, you would see him hanging by the computers, like a lot of people who just arrived to Switzerland and lack an internet connection. But this guy was different: he’d place his giant bag next to the screen so you couldn’t see it.

And I think that’s OK, you’re entitled to your privacy – no one blames you for feeling like other people shouldn’t be able to snoop around your business. What I find particularly creepy is the way he looked at you if you accidentally looked at him and his screen.

Picture this:

Two PCs facing each other, meaning the users are back-to-back. You’re on one, he’s on the other. You turn around to get up/pick something up, and at that moment, the Asian guy jumps, turns the screen off/hides it, faces you with his eyes wide open, with the whole “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LOOKING AT, YOU TWAT?”. He doesn’t really say that, but you can tell that’s what he’s thinking.

So the second time I saw him, I tested him. I turned around so many times, and several of those really, REALLY fast. He’d always beat me to it, it was remarkable. I was never able to see what the hell was going on in his screen. Plus, he’d make half the screen face the wall, and he’d practically glue himself to it just to be able to see it. He was goddamn dedicated.

So I told my father about this dude and his probable-porn-habits on the library. My dad, being such a great, innocent man, told me that he was probably doing something completely different: like playing in the stock market. Holy crap, I would have never thought of that.

Eventually I got internet at home, and I barely went back to use the library’s PCs.

Until these last months when my laptop died, I came back and saw him once again, almost 2 years later. There he was, with his backpack hiding the screen, near lunch time. I sat right next to him at first, I was still unable to see his screen. Other particularly creepy annoyances surfaced: as lunch time came close, he takes out several boxes of crackers, and starts eating them loudly. And the smell, augh. Onion crap. Seriously. They might be tasty, but anything with onion in it leaves a terrible smell eventually.

So eventually I left to get a decent lunch. When I come back, I take the PC facing his. And I try it again: I turn back so fast it looked like I was causing him a heart attack. It was AWESOME. And evil.

Still, I gotta hand it to him: I was NEVER able to see it. But it was enough for me: it was clearly porn. A creepy-looking nerd who covers his screen no matter what? Who seems to be all alone, to the point I never hear him talk to anyone? Something important enough to justify not getting a decent meal?

Porn.

Adidas miCoach Review - Part Two

2011-04-27T00:25:00.002+01:00

Oh no, I wasn’t letting this go unfinished.

It’s been quite some time since I’ve used the miCoach, and now that I’ve completed a training plan, I can tell you what it’s been like.

First things first: this thing works. You barely notice it, if you jog religiously, but I assure you, it works. See, I made the mistake of making a long pause in the final stretch of the training plan: spent like a month without jogging for several reasons (terrible back pain thanks to a dear patient I had to help up, mostly), then went back to it starting off with the few final workouts I had left. This is a mistake because the final workouts of a training plan are tougher than the ones you start it off with, obviously. But when you look at it objectively (ie, amount of effort it demands from you in theory, etc), it sure doesn’t seem like it. So I thought I could take it.

I couldn’t. I mean, I was able to finish it, but I felt terribly tired when I did. Almost like my heart was about to explode. But I kept on pressing, and eventually I regained my stamina. Now I’ve started a new, more demanding plan, and I’m actually quite comfortable with it: I feel challenged, but not painfully tired when I finish each session, which is good.

The miCoach has kept up with me quite well, having gone through a firmware update between the first part of the review and this last one. That annoying thing where it told you to maintain an effort zone only to change it up ten seconds later? Gone, corrected. I feel like they’ve hit a nice balance with it, as it doesn’t seem neither too annoying, neither too silent.

But this part of the review is supposed to be about the community features, so let’s get to them.

The miCoach website provides quite a handful of tips, including warm-up and cool-down exercises, nutritional advice, and a lot of documentation to help you understand, say, the value and usefulness of the assessment workouts. The addition of videos explaining how to do the warm-up exercises correctly is pretty darn great.

On the other hand, the forums’ structure sucks. Or better yet, the lack thereof. Most discussions aren’t very well categorized, so the topics you get when opening the forums, are only the most recent/most discussed ones. And they repeat themselves quite often in terms of content. The good news is that you can search for topics that already exist regarding you problem/suggestion. It’s an imperfect system, but it works alright. Navigation still sucks though, and it’s something that can be easily fixed and improved. So, Adidas gets no points on that one.

One other thing that irks me is that you can’t limit the time you actually dedicated to working out after you’ve recorded it. Every time you finish a workout, the miCoach keeps on tracking your data (how fast you run, heart rate, calories burned, etc), until you decide to shut it off. Last week, for the first time, I forgot to turn it off once I was finished, so the thing tracked me from the training ground all the way back to my place. Which means that now my longest “workout” is that of the day I forgot to turn it off, and there’s no way I can tell the thing to disregard the time interval where I stopped working out and went home. I wish that could be corrected. -> UPDATE: Friendly Anonymous just gave me a heads up! This feature has been added to the miCoach website. Just goes to show that Adidas is actually updating the thing quite regularly. Here's Anon's words: "They've added a new feature with the latest website update that allows you to "crop" a workout and remove irrelevant/incorrect data. When you're viewing a workout, select "analysis boundaries", move the markers to the part of the workout you want to keep, and click "crop data" at the top right and it will remove the rest of the data."

Anyway, the fact that this information is stored in the cloud is great, letting you easily access it and share. Heck, I could go to my doctor’s and show her my progress on her computer, complete with heart rate and pace monitoring. This can be super cool if you’re trying to go on a diet or simply improving your overall health and lifestyle.

In the end, is the miCoach worth its price?

It depends. If you’re bent on immersing yourself in the world of Adidas sport, I’d say yes: it’s a pretty darn complete device, and it sure helped me improve my stamina and speed. The community features are overall good, though I’m unsure how they compare to those of Nike+. The hardware itself is very good, and Adidas has been improving the firmware every now and then.

Now honestly, there are other ways of getting almost the same thing with barely any expenses. There are training plans scattered throughout the internet that offer the same kind of vibe and progression of those the miCoach has. What they lack, is the personalization the miCoach allows. But according to many who have tried them, they work. So if you get a normal heart rate monitor and some nice running shoes, you can do them and monitor your progress in a much more… traditional way. So if you’re not taking jogging seriously, or you’re on a budget, I wouldn’t recommend it.

If you can afford it though, the miCoach is a good investment that you might get along with pretty well, to the point of feeling like you depend on it (though you really don’t). I don't regret buying it for one bit.

Adidas miCoach Review - Part One

2011-02-14T21:52:00.001Z

So it’s been a few months since I bought the Adidas miCoach, and I thought I’d share what I think of it here, since I keep spamming my jogging performance on facebook. So, is it any good?

What it is:

The miCoach is this neat little device that ~~makes you magically run like the wind~~ sort-of works like a personal trainer. It actually consists of 3 devices: a pedometer, a heart monitor and apacer. The first two are self-explanatory, and the pacer is basically the central device, as it’s the one that collects the data from the other two and transmits it to you, through voice. So basically, the device is connected to your ears while you workout, and it gives you instructions and information, in a sexy voice, about your status and the workout.

What it does:

This device mainly helps you run. It can work with other sporty activities (like tenis, football, ~~kinky sex~~, etc), but it was intended for running.

You’re asked to reflect upon your objectives and select an exercise plan online according to your goals. Then, within each workout type, you select a level based on how long you can walk or run without feeling too tired.

Then, you sync this plan from the miCoach website to the device, and it will memorize schedules and workout plans. Once you’re equipped with the hub, pacer and pedometer, the miCoach will tell you how much effort to give, and for how long. It will tell you to slow down or speed up if the plan demands for it, as well as tell you when you’re overdoing it.

Using it:

To start, you need to strap the 3 devices on. The pedometer goes on your shoelaces (or sole, if you have a miCoach-compatible shoe) and the heart monitor goes on your thorax, at the bottom of the sternum. If you’re in the same mythical physical shape I am, you’ll find it a little ridiculous, the way it sticks out your “moobs” and all – think obese ballet dancer. Thankfully, you’ll put a shirt over it. No seriously, you’ll want to put a shirt over it.

The pacer has this clip-on thing, so you can attach it anywhere. I got an arm strap for my mp3 player, so I clip-on the device there. The cool part is that you can attach the miCoach to any mp3 player out there, so you can use it and listen to your music at the same time. Of course that when the miCoach has anything to tell you, it will interrupt your songs so you can clearly hear it. The song won’t pause, which is kind of a bummer when you consider that it can ruin the momentum of certain tunes.

There is a reason why there's a woman and not a man putting this on. Believe it.

The miCoach will tell you the time that has elapsed, the distance you’ve run, your stride and your heart rate, as well as the calories you’ve burned. It does this in a default, somewhat robotic female voice. This kind of disappointed me at first, the Nike+’s voice is sexier. Who doesn’t want to be encouraged by a sexy voice?

You can choose different voices on the miCoach, however, including those of international famous athletes, and you can switch it to other languages. There’s even a different voice actor for the American English option. And I honestly don’t recommend it, unless you enjoy the idea of being encouraged by a 16 year old girl. And if you do, well, you’re a weird person, and possibly a pedophile.

When you turn on the device, you can either go into free mode, where you do whatever and however you want, or you can get it into coach mode, and it will instruct you on how much effort to put out depending on your goals.

The first run is usually an assessment run, where the ting will ask you to progressively run faster until you reach the “as fast as you can” effort level (also known by the “OH-GOD-I-AM-DYING-IS-THIS-WHAT-DYING-IS-LIKE?!”. It will then study your heart rate during those exams, and put those values in to a graph. It then creates intervals of those values and converts them into different-colored “zones”.

I for one run both blue and green zones, the blue zone meaning my heart rate is between 131 and 140, and green zones go from 141 to 150. The miCoach lets you know when you need to “speed up” to a certain zone, or “slow down” to another.

The system isn’t perfect though. One of the complaints the miCoach community had was how the thing went silent for a good part of the workout, meaning that it would tell you what zone you had to reach, and then it would only speak again if you either screwed up or got to a point where the zones would shift. This is no longer the case, since many claimed that it was easy to lose track of what zone you’re supposed to be hitting, when you’ve been running on the same one for a long time. So every now and then, the miCoach will remind you. And sometimes it will tell you “maintain blue zone!”, just to tell you “speed up to green zone!” about ten seconds later. It gets frustrating, sometimes. Sometimes the software will falsely accuse you of not being in a certain zone, but those instances are very rare.

Overall, though, the experience is quite positive. By following the miCoach’s advice, I went from running for 10 minutes to running 30 minutes on the first couple of workouts, simply because every time I started to accelerate out of control, the miCoach would remind me to settle down.

Once finished running, you connect the device to the PC, and it will sync the results with the miCoach website. There you can get a graph and a chart describing your performance. There are achievements to be earned, just like in videogames (like most calories, distance run, etc).

There are also tinier, but equally awesome features. The site lets you keep a journal of each of your runs and rest days, so you can write whatever you want there. It also keeps track of what shoes you used to run, and if they’re worn out and it’s time to buy a new pair. It can also connect to google maps and let you chose what circuit or track to run on your town.

In short, the miCoach is awesome. It’s pretty simple to use, and quite useful, even outside the track. Another cool thing about it is the community. There are discussion forums that you can visit for tips from other runners like you. But I’ll leave that for the second part of the review, in the next few weeks.

2010

2011-02-02T03:16:00.001Z

To sum up 2010 in a word would be difficult, for there are just too many to choose from.

Unforgiving. Restless. Reckless. Testing. Agonizing. Blistering. Bittersweet. Heartbreaking. Never-ending. Quiet. Impairing. And the list goes on and on.

My favorite is probably “unforgiving”. It's perhaps the one that suites it best. The disease, the surgery, the loss of a pet, the loss of friendship, and so many other things of value that cannot be replaced.

But calling 2010 a bad year would, just maybe, be unfair.

Afterall, the disease made me rethink a lot of assumptions I preserved about myself: it defied me to review cornerstones of my personality and helped to unveil the absence of obstacles once perceived as true.

The most defining moment of 2010? A walk. A random walk down an uninteresting street I go by everyday, one that led to the simple realization that I, my life as I knew it, could be running out of time. So many things were urgent, required immediate attention – I couldn’t leave them like they were if I was becoming impaired by the disease.

In times like those, I believe one is given a choice: either be consumed by the overwhelming amount of amends to make, or face them and let them fall into each other hoping the truly important ones are those left standing.

My choice was rational, elegant, but I’m afraid it wasn’t awe-inspiring: consistency. The harmony of action and thought, of belief and effort. I decided that the most important missing link in me was the distance between my values and my everyday attitudes, or rather, the lack of them. That was the most important aspect of not only my life, but of my self, that needed to be worked on, before the worst could have a shot at redirecting my life.

It began in that street, and it took me back home, it took me to Stockholm, it took me to the setting sun in the beach nearby, it brought my family to Switzerland, and it brought a never-ending struggle to my doorstep. And I gladly let it in.

Much of it consisted in subjecting my heart to unforeseeable consequences, some of them quite scary when hypothesized. I still don't know if I'll ever understand the fruit of those subjections, I fail to understand if and how they changed me. But after what it took to do them, I want to believe they did. And I can only hope that what they changed was for the better.

The fact remains that I still feel I didn't get a break. A string of terrible events kept knitting itself, and nothing could stop them. I began 2011 with the same uncertainty, and it still holds strong. I am still surrounded by doctors who promise me what no one can keep, what no one can predict. And I am haunted by the idea that the struggle of 2010 isn't over, that it may, in fact, become worse.

But then there's the in-between, the silver lining of every tragedy of last year, and it's not the one that allows me to claim that I survived it. The silver lining is that I can overturn some of this mess, and create a stronger foothold to battle coming storms.

But I cannot undo it. I cannot repair it all. 2010 left a mark, one that runs deep within the very foundations of my life. And like much in that life, the uncertainty of how it will all play out in the end, is filled with fear and inspiring, reckless possibility.

Season's Greetings

2010-12-24T14:11:00.001Z

Merry Christmas everyone!

Almost-Sexual Harassment

2010-12-15T07:27:00.002Z

Work has to be my ultimate source of memories I so wish they weren’t.

I’ve talked about how older ladies seem to fancy me from time to time, but the occasional naughty commentary is almost meaningless when compared to what happened last week: three nightshifts of unforgiving, consistent, almost-sexual harassment.

The first nightshift went fine: I entered the room, presented myself to the three ladies there, and started to review vital signs, wound dressings, the usual. The three were very nice, even though madam C was a depression-bound patient, extremely insecure towards the condition of her thoracotomy suture.

I was almost finished but A, my helper, rushed through the door and asked me to come right to the room next door, as Mr. D was trying to get out of bed and leave the hospital. Mr. D was sometimes crazy, sometimes brilliant. This one time he was complaining about the giraffes in the room (I assure you, we don’t keep giraffes in the hospital). I calmly asked him “Are you sure the giraffes are really there? Remember, you’re in a Hospital, and you’re taking medication that might make you see things that aren’t really there…”. He would reply “No! What you’re saying is true, yes, sometimes medication does that to me; but this time, the giraffes are really there!!”. Goddamnit.

The next time he complained about giraffes, I tried logic:

Me: “Mr. D, you do know Giraffes usually live in the Africa, right? Where it’s incredibly hot?”

Mr. D: “Oh yes!”

Me: “Look outside.”

Outside, it was about -5ºC and a heavy snow storm. Mr. D. looks at me and says “You win… this time.”.

Mr. D was hallucinating again tonight, and after hearing that he had spent last night screaming “WHORES!” to my two colleagues that took care of him, I wasn’t going to take a “wait and see” approach for the night.

So when I got there, I asked him if he’d like an injection to help him sleep well. He said yes, even after I told him it was going to hurt a bit. 0,5mg of Haldoperidol worked their magic, and he slept like a baby.

So I go back to the room and the ladies are smiling as I excuse myself for the interruption. As I leave the room, they thank me time and time again, and when I reopen the door to take down a light I forgot, I hear a “oh he’s so nice!”. I was proud and happy with myself. That is, until the next night shift.

As I got back to the hospital the following night, my colleagues are quick to tell me “Patients in room 210 didn’t stop talking about you today. I don’t know what you did, but they’re crazy for you. I’d stay away.”, and Julie went “They want your body, A. They want your body.”. I was instantly creeped out. “Seems like you’ve become very popular, A.”, the head nurse tells me, smiling.

So I get to the room, and the first thing I hear, right when I’m opening the door, is “Oh! Notre chéri est arrivé!”, which translates to something like “Our dear has arrived!”. I pretended not to her anything, since I didn’t even have a foot inside the room yet, and that would have made me extremely uncomfortable. But they didn’t care for that. After 5 minutes of hearing nothing but giggles, they say it again! “Like I was saying, our dear has arrived!”, says Madam S. More giggles.

Madam C seemed particularly happy today, even though a new tiny wound near her chest that appeared out of nowhere made her a little scared. I put on a glove and put some cream over said wound, which was dangerously close to her breast. The woman starts to giggle. And doesn’t even stop giggling. I wanted to take her vitals and ask her a few question, but she just kept giggling to the point of having her eyes filled with tears. I let out my confusion by stating I wasn’t sure of what was happening, but that I was glad she was happy.”. Sometimes I lie. Once she calms down, madam S comments “Oh we all know what she’s so happy about!”, and winks. The giggling starts all over again. Nightmare-ish!

Mr. D, on the other hand, slept like a baby for my three nightshifts. Didn’t give me any trouble whatsoever. Despite stating things like “I had a nightmare tonight, I’m so glad you’re here now!”, and “I was waiting for you tonight to drink water. Your colleagues do fill my cup but leave it where I can’t reach it.”. This wasn’t of course entirely true. I felt like I needed put an end to it before it became even remotely homo-erotic.

Then I had three days off, and when I came back, Mr. D was still there. He tells me “You disappeared. I don’t know where you went, but you shouldn’t disappear like that.”.

Oh I wish I could disappear. So much that when madam S said “Now he’s never stepping a foot inside this room again!”, after one final sexual remark, I vigorously agreed.

Sketch My Curse With the Music of Promise

2010-11-30T20:00:00.003Z

It’s a bit of a crippling blow, the idea that one never really knows how true the feelings of another are. The music you see coming out of their eyes, and even the simplicity of the touch of their hands are so easily shaped by the receiving end, it’s like bad piracy protection.

I remember reading the booklet on Seal’s 1994 album, where he answered the question “why don’t you ever print out the lyrics for your songs?” by reasoning that sometimes you think a song goes a certain way, and you build a connection to it on those grounds, only to have it all destroyed when you read the real, official lyrics. The feeling I get when that happens to me is somewhat similar to heartbreak. I now hate that song, but I still love it. I shut the door but I keep thinking about what was behind it, and what was the point of it all. And how the version on my head was so much better.

There’s this idea that when a door closes, another opens. Or a window opens. Something. It’s essentially the

same idea as the “things fall apart so they can fall back together” ordeal, except that this last one seems to be quite more extreme in the departure, for the experience is not shut off and isolated, but utterly transformed or destroyed. But then again, isolation, transformation and destruction are very closely related.

In my head, inspiration would flow unexpected, but when it did, the sheer force of its waves would crush any obstacle, no matter how long it took. I’d produce results, and things would gleam some hope that I’d get even better. Eventually, what came out of it would be just as good as the version on my head. It would be a cure to that salty sweet of a drag that is having a song stuck in your head.

But my hands and pencil skills never really reached a high level, despite my willingness to. Their greatest enemy was procrastination, a habit of mine that seems to get worse over time. Part of me blames this on Switzerland, where I speak French every goddamn day unless I lock myself in my apartment. This country has whipped my language skills into shape so much that the words “laissez faire” actually bear meaning now, one that my brain can understand and mistake for an order. The Swiss fight dirty.

But I keep on trying, and I bought this shiny new sketchbook to go with it, but it’s been collecting dust for quite a long time. Here stands my shaking hand, trying to regain an old vigor, to retrace its way back to aspiring glory. The artist’s block lives up to its name.

I read somewhere that the key to overcoming procrastination was to accept that you can’t trust your future self; no matter what you do, that obese blob of a specter won’t take his ass off the couch. He’s so predictable he’s untrustworthy, and the only thing that leads you into having some faith on your future self is a seductive hope cast by your childish and wishful thinking. It’s quite sad, really.

And just like Seal’s thoughts on music, the only thing you’re left with all those pointless projections, is the idea that, in your head, it all sounded and worked so much better.

Treading through a long forgotten path bears the obligatory Kipling poem:

They shut the road through the woods

Seventy years ago.
Weather and rain have undone it again,
And now you would never know
There was once a road through the woods
Before they planted the trees.
It is underneath the coppice and heath,
And the thin anemones.
Only the keeper sees
That, where the ring-dove broods,
And the badgers roll at ease,
There was once a road through the woods.

Yet, if you enter the woods
Of a summer evening late,
When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools
Where the otter whistles his mate.
(They fear not men in the woods,
Because they see so few)
You will hear the beat of a horse's feet,
And the swish of a skirt in the dew,
Steadily cantering through
The misty solitudes,
As though they perfectly knew
The old lost road through the woods . . . .
But there is no road through the woods.

~ Rudyard Kipling

Great Movies for Rainy Winter Afternoons

2010-11-08T12:39:00.002Z

November, with its cold, cold weather and threatening rain, is one of my favorite months. Mainly because the coziness of the fireplace becomes more and more inviting, and the fact that there’s either snow or incredible amounts of water pouring down outside, which becomes quite the excuse to stay home and do nothing.
Nothing really beats wrapping yourself inside a warm blanket, heating up your hands in a cup of tea, and if you have a good movie to watch, all the better. So I thought I’d share some of my favorite movies out there, emphasis one those that are less popular, but all of them quite good. Here goes:
6. Finding Forrester

One of the scenes that shows off the simplicity I love so much about the movie.

So a lot of people usually compare this movie to one that preceded it, Good Will Hunting. Both share Gus Van Sant’s hand as director, and both are about a young man with untapped talent, who eventually meets an adult that becomes his catalyst. It’s been a while since I’ve watched Good Will Hunting, so I can’t really tell you if I agree or not that it is the better movie. What I do know is, I love Finding Forrester. Sean Connery’s talent draws a lot of great moments, but it’s the sheer simplicity of the tale that is truly remarkable. There are no special effects, there’s no over reliance on a romantic relationship, there’s no unnecessary dialogue. One can feel that in many movies the drama is well planned out, every scene and every take. But in this one, that feeling completely passes me by, as everything seems so natural to the point where is looks as if the writer and director didn’t care if they bored the hell out of the audience. Fun fact: this is the movie that gave birth to well-known website YTMND, through a scene where Sean Connery’s character shouts “You’re The Man Now, Dog!”. Hence the Sean Connery thumb button on the site.
5. Brick

This is hardly a standard movie. A few years back, the poster for it caught my eye, and I decided to rent it on a whim. It was a nice surprise seeing Joseph Gordon-Levitt, who at the time I only knew as “that kid from 3rd Rock By The Sun”, make such an intense performance. The story can throw you off for a while, and it can feel convoluted at times, but once you sink in it, it’s one heck of a ride. You spend the whole movie wondering where this unpredictable story will fall in.
4. I’m Here

This one’s quite special. A movie centered on two robot-characters that somehow transcends the idea that you need humans to convey human emotion and establish connections with the audience. An example of the tendency to impose human presence in an unneeded scenario is the Transformers movie. The humans exist solely to link up with the audience. In “I’m Here”, however, the fact that the characters are robots is used to materialize metaphoric feelings of love and selflessness. It’s a short, sweet ride that you can watch online here: I’M HERE.

3. Paprika

Satoshi Kon died back in August, and when I found out about it, I got quite disappointed. I was really looking forward to his next movie, “The Dream Machine”, which might not get released now that he has passed away. But before that, he left us Paprika, a mind-blowing animation epic about the dangers of science interfering with the human psyche. The story’s about a machine, the DC-Mini, that allows people to jump into each others’ dreams; though created with therapeutic purposes, once it gets stolen, the machine is feared to be one of the most powerful criminal weapons out there. The movie will send you places, dazzle you with its amazing visuals and action-packed sequences. If you thought 2D animation was dead, then you haven’t been paying attention to what Japan has been doing.
2. Hard Candy

This one’s not for everybody; it’s one of those movies that will either disgust you, or put you at the edge of your seat until the very end; and when the ending finally hits, you’ll probably feel very confused, unsettled, shaken, maybe even terrible about yourself. So why would you want to watch such a movie? Because Hard Candy is defying, it will make you think and question you, your integrity and the very concept of ethical behavior and social rules. It’s a movie that will definitely move you in some way, it certainly won’t allow you to feel indifferent about it. This is what independent cinema should be like. Ellen Page delivers one hell of a performance.
1. Primer

Speaking of movies that make you think, Primer does it like no other. Some disregard it as a movie about time travel, when in fact that is just the pretext to the movie’s main focus, the fragility of friendship when power gets in the way. The storyline can get tough to follow, so don’t be surprised if you can’t understand it all in one sitting. I had watch it twice to understand how all the timelines connected, and how the final resolution came to be. The movie’s unusual, extremely intelligent and defying, so much that it might put you off. But it’s one great accomplishment, especially considering the tight budget. Be prepared though, it’s not by chance that people often use the term “mindfuck” to describe this movie.
And that sums it up; sound off in the comments if you have any suggestions to the list, but please try to focus on films that never got much exposure to begin with.

The Edge

2010-10-31T00:59:00.004+01:00

MyCN18, The Hourglass Nebula

The other day, M came in my boss’ office and exhaled “Mr. S, he’s dead. It’s over. It’s all finally over.”. She seemed relieved. In the case of Mr. S, nothing more could have been done. He and his family had discussed what his last days would be like, what we would do to ensure he would feel as little pain as possible. And when the moment came, the family remained in the room: crushed, but simultaneously happy that his suffering was no more.
That was the kind of relief M felt, it had nothing to do with the fact that Mr. S represented a great deal of sweating and stress on the caring team. No longer that man had to stand the toll of disease. How I wish that in such stories, things would end like this all the time.

My cat passed away this past week, her body conquered by breast cancer. It might be puzzling to say this, but so far no death has weighed as heavily on my heart as this one, not even those of my grandfathers. Maybe this means I have some sort of serious issue.

She was baptized by my sister with a name representing the happiness she’d bring to our household after the loss of another stray cat, and for 14 years, she kept on giving. From ruining sofas, to giving birth in my sister’s closet in the late hours of the night, she’s the centerpiece of many joyful memories.

As disease kept on hindering her quality of life, the moment we knew would come finally arrived, and we took her one last time to the veterinary, where she died under anesthesia, and a fatal injection.
One could argue that we spared her from a streak of days of impossible suffering, but this situation still leaves me incredibly unsettled. It’s not that I was miles away that I didn’t have the chance to say goodbye, as I already had done that. It’s not that she’s not coming back.

It’s that she was forced to get inside the car she hates because it always takes her to the place she hates the most. And when we got there, to the vet’s office, she didn’t know she was about to die. In the place she hated the most, by an arbitrary decision made by the people that were supposed to love her the most. And as she got the anesthesia, she bit my mother’s hand, as if she was clinging to life.
I cannot stand this idea, that the last moments of her life, even if they were physically painless, were stolen from her, in a thick could of confusion, paradox and uncertainty. I’m unsure of what she felt, and the possibility that she felt full blown betrayal terrorizes me.

I’m so sorry it ended this way, I should have fought for letting those last moments take place in the comfort of her home, and not that place. But maybe not even that would make her feel less scared, less confused, less betrayed. If only I could have conveyed those feelings and our reasoning in a way she could understand. But we sadly don’t speak the same language, even if there are mountains worth of reasons to believe she knew how much we loved and needed her.

She makes me think about my stance on Euthanasia. I’ve watched hundreds of people suffering. I’ve watched dozens of them dying, dye or dead. I don’t believe any one of them really wanted to die. I do think that the only thing they really wanted was rebirth, but that is something that surpasses even death in the matters of accessibility to human kind. Do I think that death becomes a viable and respectful option in the face of suffering? Absolutely.

But taking the suffering off doesn’t exactly ease up the fact that such situation just sucks.

She leaves a void that weights heavily on my heart.

Secluding Freedom

2010-10-14T10:04:00.001+01:00

The breathlessness is ironically soothing, and the music takes a backseat as my stride gets heavier, but always steady. I’m back to jogging through the night, I’m unable to see much of what’s going on around me. Faces get blurred in the dark; presences are only signaled through small talk and gossip, or even the occasional cigarette light. It looks dangerous, but I feel at peace.

I think a lot about the freedom of being alone in the night. I think about how easy I have it.

I’ve read several of those female blogs, those about love, fashion and the little things. A lot of them sound alike when circling certain themes, heartbreak being no exception. It’s impressive how they all seem locked in this cycle, a tendency to atonement through the very reason of having that heartbreak, but then again, it’s no reason that love is the only cure for itself. It simply baffles me that in the high-time of their love, they completely abandon the idea that maybe their current partner might not be “the one” yet. And when a flood of mistakes are made between the two, well, it’s emotionally crushing.

When she told me how things were between her and the one she thought of as her forever, I could only shake my head, not comprehending his attitude, but not comprehending hers either. Her reluctance to abandon what was hurting her so bad confuses me. I get it that one should fight for things to work, but not when the other clearly does not care for the open wound that bleeds ever since the first disagreement. What’s more impressive is that there seem to be those who settle for an uncaring partner because the somehow believe they don’t deserve better. But I’ll leave those alone for now.

But even when you think you see a pair of individuals that are made for one another, reasonable doubt should have its place. Even if the ideal definition of love is a boundless leap of faith, something should keep you on your toes, for the person you fall in love with today, is not the same person that will wake up with you the morning after. Assuming that is like announcing their death, for no one escapes the toll of time and aging. Except the dead. But all this drama, all these troubles, are silenced with a single good moment.

At my age I still haven’t found that, and I’ve progressively been losing my faith on it. Not in the idea that love, as the ridiculous ideal we pursue (and that is the only one worth pursuing), is inexistent. No, I’ll forever defend that ideal. But I am shedding away the notion that I’ll ever revel in it, that I’ll ever live it. The years pass, and I remain oblivious to the inertia I generate when pursuing it.

And it’s because of this that it’s all so ironic. Some seem locked-in that cycle of dependency and companionship, having their hearts crushed ad infinitum, so desperate to break free. As if they wish they could have a taste of what I feel when I surrender my running feet and my breath to the calm and anonymity of the night, not having anyone to worry about or to worry about me and where I am.

And Julie told me the other day she couldn’t understand how I could stand the load of crap we take at work and live through these last couple of months without so much as shaking in uncertainty or showing signs of fatigue. I can understand, in fact, it seems obvious to me: I have it easy.

But when I finish my run and go back to an empty apartment, distant from friends and family, I too forget how I’m able to stand it.

The biggest, most significant difference between solitude and companionship isn’t how easy one has it, or how happy one can be. The greatest difference is that in love, when you bleed out, you feel the weight of the world on your shoulders. In solitude, it just makes you feel a little lighter.

On Manly Stuff

2010-09-22T22:29:00.001+01:00

Let’s talk about some forbidden-by-the-bro-code topics, shall we?

I’ve told about Naz, the girl that made me use a Santa hat during Christmas. Well, she is a strange girl. She looks like the fun, moderated girl you’d find in many places of the world, except she isn’t. No, Naz is actually quite the hilarious pervert.

She once told this epic story where she and her boyfriend had sex in the car, then rode around her village, waving to known folk and such, only to find the used condom they had thrown out the window stuck in the car’s door. Interesting and hilarious stuff, right?

But Naz will also tell you things you don’t really want to know, like the fact that her boyfriend shaves his privates. I remember almost puking in my mouth when she said this as we drove around Coimbra, followed by a “Ok, that’s… That’s… Yeah. Errrr. Why are you telling me this?”. It’s one of those things that, even if most men do, you don’t want to talk about. I don’t like talking about it.

But yeah, body grooming is nothing new. It’s also not new the fact that shaving your own back is a pain.

I have some back hair, also known as the “being Portuguese” syndrome. But mind you, it’s not something out of control. I’m a supporter of the idea that a man with a “Back Fur Coat” should keep that thing hidden AT ALL TIMES. No one likes to look at it. No one likes the fact that one inevitably notices it during sunbathing.

You think you have a hard time looking at them? Try doing my job, and you’ll find yourself sometimes having to touch it. Massage a back covered in… fur. It’s not a nice feeling. I don’t care if you’re 85 years old, shave that thing off.

But I gotta say, it’s no easy task to shave it. You can take like, half an hour (which translated to the female equivalent of 3 hours) in the bathroom to get it done, and even when you are done, it’s hardly ever perfect. I find the biggest problems with body razors is that “shaving” isn’t really shaving as much as it is “trimming”. They recommend you use either shower gel or shaving gel/foam to get the job done, but I think we all know that doesn’t really to any miracles.

I’m sure there will be people thinking “why not just wax it off?”. F*ck you, are you insane? Who the hell would do that? Only the same kind of men that approach Gillette blades to their testicles: insane, insensitive, cold men.

Or robots.

Or women disguised as men.

The Science of Blossoming

2010-09-01T21:30:00.002+01:00

My grandfather, from my mother’s side, was quite the farmer.

Agriculture wasn’t his elected fate, he always wanted to be a carpenter. But at the time, the pay was better if you were a farmer, so his sisters insisted he should take that route. He followed their ‘advice’, and went on to dedicate his love and life to the ‘science of blossoming’, as I like to call it. I think it’s a sweet name for agriculture.

My father would take care of our backyard, several days a week. He’d drive to get here, and I sometimes woke up in the middle of the night, as his car left and the gate shut down. Sometimes, it was past midnight. One of the most vivid images I have of him, is his lit-up cigarette off in the distance, in the darkness of the night.

Sunshine or rain, my grandfather would come to take care of the backyard; plant some pumpkins, apple trees, and wheat. I remember the tall little field of wheat during the summer, where I’d hunt for ladybugs with my sister. And I remember a tree with wonderfully smelling leaves, out in the back. I even remember their smell. I also remember my grandfather yelling at me when I stepped on his pumpkin plantation.

But the most remarkable thing I remember? My grandfather was always barefoot. I always questioned myself how was he able to see what he was doing through the night. Maybe that was the answer. When I asked him why he was barefoot, he’d reply he couldn’t do his job any other way. I guess feeling the earth and roots wrap around your feet was the only way to ‘live’ agriculture.

Before he passed away, I made sure he knew how much I admired that in him; his dedication, his grown-love for something he didn’t choose.

I look at myself today, and I envy him. My colleagues complain I never leave work on time. I always stay there at least half an hour longer than everyone else, doing things I didn’t get to do during the day; mostly paperwork, but important nonetheless. But the reason for this is, we agree, because I don’t have much to return home to. I’m living alone, no parents, no partner, no flat-mate. Most reasons are in another country.

But my grandfather had something to go back home to: his wife, his younger daughter, his other grandchildren. Yet he’d stay until late, until he was finished. No, more than that, until he was satisfied. He was a genuine man.

I complained about him a lot; I hated how he teased me, how he’d tell me to become a doctor instead of a nurse, because “you have the brains, and the nurses are the doctors’ servants”. I’d reject his criticisms, even if sometimes they were true, mostly because I didn’t believe I really had the brains, and because I’d see the doctor’s role as a very administrative one.

Time has gone by, and the man I avoided to be with is now one of the most important influences in my life. Because of him, I try to leave no word unsaid, no feelings unshared. I wish he’d known for longer the good I saw in him.

Since college, when I feel like I’m going to lose someone, I make sure they knew how I feel, and how I’ll miss them. I even told Berta, the first girl that directed a word to me in college, how much it had meant to me that she said hi, welcomed me to the campus, and how she’d visit me often in my class’ room. And I told a group of friends I got closer with in the final year, how much I regretted not having joined them sooner.

I wonder, to this day, if these people actually value that. If they think about it every now and then. And, if they do, why I haven’t heard most of them saying it back to me. Am I a fatalist? Am I too demanding and needy? Am I seeking attention? Am I feeling too lonely?

I think about them quite often. I can’t easily forget them, their silence hurts. But I almost feel at peace, with no word left unsaid. It is a risky way of living, because of all the strange reactions you can awaken, some of which pull them apart. You can hurt and get hurt, much like you would if you were walking barefoot in the wild, sometimes stepping over pumpkins.

But alas, that is the only way of living.

An Apology to Ernest Hemingway

2010-08-12T09:24:00.001+01:00

The list of books I've read can’t be considered big. In fact, for the most part, I dislike reading. Especially when we’re talking about big novels, like the Fellowship of The Ring from the LOTR series. I read that book and I can’t imagine myself going through another one of that size again. Despite some of its engaging peaks, I couldn’t get over the fact that Tolkien was telling us about an entirely different world, no introductions given. I guess I don’t really like the fantasy genre. Which is a shame, since I read almost every Goosebumps book out there.

So I did the natural shift, and looked into realists. Authors that portrait stories in our reality, and on the top of the list was Hemingway. I decided to dive into a bookstore, knowing next to nothing about the guy, and I bought “True at First Light”, a posthumous novel that reported on the writer’s hunting saga in Africa. The book’s backcover celebrated it, with critics claiming “feels like an old friend has come back”, even pairing it with famed “A Farewell to Arms” and “For Whom The Bell Tolls”. So I thought that it would be good. Big mistake.

Turns out, hunting for a lion, can be very, very boring. I was unable to complete the book. I read a few chapters, and they simply didn’t grab my attention. I hated it, as the momentum kept getting pushed and pulled, and the concept was really not that interesting. And so I was quick to label Hemingway in the group of “Authors people are fascinated for and that I’ll never understand”. Again, big mistake.

I read Into The Wild by John Krakauer, sweetly given to me by Pips (and recently offered by S while I was hospitalized… in French), and I liked the book. Except when the author started talking about HIS experience in the wild. Who the hell cares about that, I wanted to know what happened to McCandless! As a book on a real event, I thought that I was on the right track.

And then I stumbled upon this tiny book, called The Old Man and The Sea, its size perfect for the 2 or 3 days of hospitalization I’d be getting. The title was alluring, the concept very simple but unexplainably magnetic. No fantasy crap in it. Seem to coincide with the tendency I pursued. The catch? Hemingway.

So it was another Hemingway book. With a ton of praises printed in the back cover. I didn’t want to be fooled again, but the book was just 16CHF. And it was a Nobel Prize winning book. So I thought I’d give him another shot, but this time, he only had a tiny novel to impress me with.

And holy crap if this isn’t perhaps the best book I’ve ever read.

The story is quite straightforward: an old man named Santiago is an unlucky fisherman that has nothing to show for over eighty days of work. He used to be accompanied by Manolin, a boy whose family forced him to look for other luckier fishermen. The relationship between the two is quite sweet, and Santiago’s dependency on the boy beautifully contrasts with his unbelievable emotional strength. As a man shaped by solitude, Santiago’s bait is bitten by a very large fish, one he hopes to catch and sell for good money in the local market. But the fish is quite strong, and ends up dragging Santiago to the middle of the high sea.

The story has nothing extraordinary in itself. It’s just perfectly done. Santiago’s development is just so good that even though you spend over 80 pages (out of 99) with just that one character, you don’t get bored easily.

There have been people and critics looking for a ton of symbolism in the novel, but I think Hemingway’s comment on that sums it up quite well:

"No good book has ever been written that has in it symbols arrived at beforehand and stuck in. ... I tried to make a real old man, a real boy, a real sea and a real fish and real sharks. But if I made them good and true enough they would mean many things”

And this is what I felt in the end. There are many things to be found in the novel, but they’re mostly very personal. A lot of critics have been objective to the point of narrowing it down to Hemingway’s religious beliefs and his “philosophy of Manhood”. I didn’t really thought of that as I read it.

To me the book is amazing because it portraits success in the midst of tragedy so well. It brings up value on actions and intentions, beliefs and values, not necessarily tied to results. Santiago is seen as an Old Man, abandoned by luck, with almost no one to turn to. But once the social mirror is taken away, and Santiago is left alone with the fish, you see this unstoppable, roaring fire in his heart, and the limits he is able to push for his ambition. Even if he isn’t necessarily successful, he succeeds in almost every way.

And I plead guilty. I am a boy from a land of sea, fascinated by and in love with the ocean. I know the weight of solitude well enough to understand Santiago’s condition. And I’ve got great friends to help me understand Manolin’s affection for the old man. In short, not only do I find myself empathic towards Santiago, I practically aspire to be like him. If forever alone, forever unimaginably strong and true.

So, sorry I said so many bad things about you, Hemingway. You’re alright. Thanks for the book.

Don't hit on the nurses

2010-08-09T16:56:00.001+01:00

I remember the toll of midazolam when reading a newspaper; my eyes were heavy, I couldn’t focus on the page that well. Soon they’d be putting me asleep for the surgery.

But I couldn’t let myself fall in so easy – I say strange things when I’m sleepy, I couldn’t allow myself to make stupid remarks to the OR team. Last time I let that happen, my colleague D got scared off her pants as I started numbering random facts. Thank heavens she wasn’t there when I started typing about my parents escaping the Spanish invasion instead of the actual work we were supposed to be doing. I do strange things when I’m sleepy.

I kept thinking “Please don't let the nurse be a woman or I'll probably hit on her” and repeating that to myself several times. Turns out it was a man, so no worries. I think.

I remember them pressing the mask against my mouth and nose, I recall the agony I felt because it felt like I couldn't breathe properly. There was this bastard in a mask who wouldn't let me. But I knew it was necessary, so I just calmed myself down by planning an elaborate revenge.

And so I fell under.

When I woke up, I saw a nurse, a blonde woman telling me where I was and how my lips were dry. My lips always get dry. I was afraid I’d use that to make a pass at her. Thank god I didn’t. She said I was fine, I looked good. I started wondering if I already had surgery. And if I made a pass at her that actually worked.

I looked at my left and saw my parents closing in. I tried to smile and I remember not feeling half of my face. It was buried in an ice pack. I put my fingers over my face and I could see that my lips moved, my eyebrows too. There was a beautiful symmetry to it all, It was only then that I knew that the surgery went okay. My facial nerve seemed intact. And nothing else mattered.

I later found out that I can no longer move my left ear lobe, but that is unimportant, and most people can’t do it anyway. So, even though I’m still in limbo regarding what happened to my neck, I am happy and free to smile as much as I want and can. There is nothing more important than that right now.

So, it all went well, readers. I'm still my old self. And I promise I'll be up to speed with your blogs. Thanks to everyone who showed their support, I owe you all.

I just wish I could understand WHY THE F*CK DID ANYONE THINK IT WOULD BE FUNNY TO SHAVE HALF OF MY RIGHT LEG JUST FOR THE HELL OF IT.

A Fabricated Smile

2010-07-19T16:22:00.003+01:00

There’s a tiny, itty bit piece of hardware that has detached itself and is now travelling along the insides of my laptop, making it fall into a long, unbreakable sleep. As such, my internet presence has been brought back to almost inexistent. And if you’re looking for me on facebook, forget it – the Hospital’s ISP blocks all access to it. And to YouTube. I’m going through a RayWilliamJohnson withdrawal. And yes, you should check Ray’s channel on YouTube.

Days have been… agonizing. I’ve been ill, even though I don’t really feel ill. This disease I have is a strange one. A few months back I also got a lump in my neck, and now I’m going to need surgery to remove it – even though it doesn’t hurt or anything. But this is required to find out what exactly the lump is, and to prevent further complications. The problem and the reason why I’m saying this, is that this surgery may change me in more ways than one.

The looming fear is that the surgery may paralyze half of my face, and prevent me from ever smiling, speaking, and looking normal again. Doctors tell me there’s a small chance this happens, but it’s the number one concern, no doubt. This would raise many problems in several aspects of my life, my professional life among them. A nurse that can’t speak normally? That can’t smile? Inconceivable.

But my biggest fear is for the person that I’ll become, should my face be paralyzed. I am 23. I am out in another country, alone. I’ve led a life that rejected tobacco, alcohol, drugs and all that kind of “bad behavior” (which isn’t really). I’ve dedicated a great deal of my life to helping others. Hence my choice in the profession. And now, all I’ve got to show for it, is a disease with scary potential, and a surgery that will take my life as it is away. Ironically, it won’t make the disease go away.

I see this as unfair. As unreasonable. But in science we’re taught to accept this: in Nature, there’s no such thing as “deserving”. This roulette works the same for everybody, it never discriminates. I understand this. But I am still revolted. I am still resentful. I am screaming and accusing injustice. And for this, I fear that I may become a secluded, forever angry, bitter man. The kind who has no patience for the world around him. The kind that hates it for what it brought to him. The kind that would project that hatred to friends and family.
I do not wish to become that man.

I don’t want my friends to know me that way. I do not want my family to suffer any more than they already are.
I know that I can manage to survive through thick and thin. I’ve proven that to myself several times in my life, even if in general, I’ve had it easy. But there was always a glimmer of hope, there was never a step back.

But this might be. This might be a step back from happiness, from meeting someone and building a family with that someone. From making my parents proud and happy. From compensating my sister for the half-assed brother I’ve been.

I still see the light at the end of the tunnel though. If all goes well, nothing changes. Except maybe, I’ll become a better nurse and a better man. The kind that understands the patient’s perspective well enough. The kind that is even more grateful for his blessings.

But I’m telling you all this readers, because it might be the last time I write on this blog as I am today. Happy. I don’t know if I’ll be able to write again before surgery is scheduled. Should this blog return to its dark ages, please don’t remember me that way, and excuse me from being a bastard, should I become what I fear. It’s not intentional. It’s not personal.

As with nature, I guess it never is.

Sorry for not keeping up with your blogs. The Hospital’s library is filled with people snooping at your computer screen. Pretending to work. And making faces at you if they notice you aren’t.

On Awkward Sexual Advance

2010-07-04T11:25:00.004+01:00

So this week a new supermarket opened at half the distance from my apartment of other supermarkets. This is usually an instant win – why would I stand 15 minutes under the sun carrying ice-cream when I can spend 7 minutes instead?

Well, there is a reason why this isn’t an instant win for me, and the reason is “awkward sexual advance”. Let me explain.

Women rarely ever made any advances towards me and even less when only accounting for sexual advances. Even if those are only remotely sexual. And I’m honestly glad they aren’t many, because they usually freak the hell out of me. Here’s an example I vividly remember that happened TWICE.

Back in the day when I was a 4^th grade nursing student, I spent half a semester in this healthcare center, where I was the only male nurse. A common scenario, but always uncomfortable. The center was crap, but I still managed to keep a lot of my enthusiasm thanks to the activities we were involved in. Going from highschool-to-highschool promoting healthy behavior was great! Not-so-healthy behavior occurred within the healthcare center however, as Christmas season was knocking on our doors.

I was once challenged by Naz, a girl I’m yet to tell you guys about, to wear the santa hat she gave me on the previous Christmas, during the season. I raised her challenge to doing it every single Christmas. So the next year was no exception. Hat on!

I look ridiculous with that hat, so much that Tellus refuses to be seen hanging around with me while I’m wearing it. Some girls found it cute though, so I was happy. Until one of the secretaries of that health care center saw me wearing it as I left the building.

Di, another good friend, would give me a ride from the center to Coimbra; and that day, as soon as we get in the car, she tells me how the “fat lady with the glasses” (the secretary – and as always, never a good looking one… sorry ladies!) made a pass at me. I was surprised and simultaneously scared. “I’m not sure what she said… but it had something to do with you being her Santa.”.

“Her” Santa? WHAT?!

I laughed and refused to believe it, as she replicates the ridiculous hookup phrase. I laughed my ass out loud, claiming that Di was hearing things. Turns out, she wasn’t.

The next day me and Di walk by the secretary while wearing the hat. Then I hear “Oh I wish a Santa like that came down MY chimney!”.

I remember freezing in time, baffled, extremely creeped out and speechless. As my eyes kept filling themselves with panic, I started to make up excuses to start running and get out of the building before it was too late. When the secretary was long gone, Di bursts out laughing and I almost shed tears of horror. You just don’t come on to a guy like me that way*.

So when a 70-something year old lady at the new supermarket saw me reaching for some dishwashing soap, and went “A boy buying dish soap? How sexy!”, I left.

And I’m probably never coming back.

*Unless you have these incredibly hot green eyes, dark hair and amazing body. If you match this description, please leave a comment. And your phone number.

On Music - The New Pornographers

2010-06-21T15:53:00.006+01:00

Let's talk about music for once.
When I was young, I used to hate music. I guess mostly because I didn't understand it at all; most music was in english, and I had a hard time getting what was being said. To me, it was just a bunch of noises.
So you can say that lyrics play a huge part for me, the music might sound great, but if I come to realise that the lyrics are crap, it all gets ruined for me. It's sad, but that's just how I am. There might be a few that escape this.

I'm pretty much ecletic. I love the big names in the industry with a certain share of exceptions, and I sometimes go on about a band just to have others going "Who the heck are those?". I like to share what I love in music, but I don't want to turn this blog's posts into nothing but a youtube video. So here's a little background about a song that been hanging on my mp3 player for a while.

The New Pornographers are a Canadian indie rock group. There are 8, count them, EIGHT members in this band. Even in the most tragic songs, you feel almost like cheering along because of all the chorus going on in the background.

The song, "Bleeding Heart Show", is one about friendship gone romantic relationship. If you pay close attention, they are going on about using a close friend to recover from a broken heart, and how that ends up splitting them apart. The verse "our golden handshake has been smashed into this shape" seems to reffer how the friendship is distorted, and the song progresses to recall how convenient it seems to be at first. And most of all, how arbitrary, random and thoughtless the mind process for this is with the verse "it looks as if I picked your name out of a hat".

Can't say I completely relate to the song, but I've felt the strain of love in friendships I used to claim, and they all suffered the same fate: they were lost, never to be recovered. Or at least, not in the same way. They become these disfigurate, unconfortable bonds. It's not that you stop loving them, you just can't... stand them. Sometimes I'd start seeing the once-friend as an annoying one, or even worse, as an insincere peer. Awful. Specially considering that you know they're not like that. But your perception gets so beaten up, you can't help but to think otherwise.

So the song has this serious and almost tragic message of how love can get in the way of friendship and ultimately destroy it. But if you listen to it, it's almost like the song's celebrating it. This is what I meant before with "cheering along because of all the chorus".

I haven't heard much into this group yet, but it's certainly one I'll be discovering in the coming months.

With Reckless Abandon

2010-06-11T00:18:00.004+01:00

It’s been a rough year, blog readers.

It started with a patched red eye. Then, by February, it was something much bigger, and a whole lot more determining. To think that was it, a red eye.

Back then, me and Marianne, we were friends. She was important to me, so important in fact, that she gave me a lot of courage to stand my stay here in Lausanne. She was sweet, engaging and interesting. I’ve even found out she was a nerd. A Nintendo nerd, but still, a nerd.

Looking back, I’m not sure why we stopped being friends. Then I remember that night, that conversation we had with Vince. The meaning of living, the final reason why we, nurses, do what we do. Both of them had their minds set straight in one philosophy: there’s only your life, once it ends, it all ends. There’s no ulterior meaning, no final discovery to be made, no God, no continuity. It ends when you end. An d you need to make the best of it; have fun, venture, do something that makes you feel good, like nursing.

There’s a lot of objections to be made to that last part of the statement. You don’t exactly feel good when you’re cleaning a patient’s poo poo. But then again, that’s not all. At least that’s what they tell you in nursing school.

I, however, stood baffled as they told me all this. How couldn’t they believe that, even once you’re dead, something remains? Something that embodies your presence, that reflects the importance of your existence? How could they live without believing there was something more?

Maybe I was being naïve. But I couldn’t imagine myself a nurse if I didn’t believe that. I let them know that. I didn’t understand. I told them that I had met people who were open about life philosophies, as well as the precise opposite, but I had never met someone who had just… “given up”. That’s what I told them, and they took it as an offense.

Maybe my then-rusty French betrayed me, maybe they were just more sensitive in that matter than I had understood. All I know is that we went to Darling, a bar in Lausanne, that I kind of… dislike. Before going in, I told them “You know, I think I’m going to head back; I’m very tired, and these places aren’t really my type. I’ll see you tomorrow?”.

And with this, they went on inside. No goodbye, no nothing. I stood there, surprised at being ignored like that. I took off, went home, thinking about where I messed up. I never found a good answer to that.

An hour later I get a message from Marianne, wondering where I hand run off to. As if they didn’t hear me. I told her I was going home, like I had told them, that I thought I had overstayed my welcome. No reaction from that moment on. That was the last time we exchanged words. No more sms, no e-mails.

I lost a friend.

She was the first to know that I was going to throw my heart with reckless abandon. I told her because I knew she’d be honest about it. She was the first to tell me I was being brave, and a true man. That made me happy and confident.

By the time I did that, my neck started to get this little growth.

That little growth kept increasing in size, and now, I have doctors on the other side of the phone proposing me surgery. It’s not like it’s a big deal but, it can mess up this important structure that allows us to close our eyes tightly, smile, show sadness, and all that. They talk about it as if the risks aren’t important. Maybe they’re not.

Like I said, it’s been a rough year. To me, to my body, to my emotional heart. I tell it that we’ll get by, like we always do. I always managed to get us by. From the moment I landed in this country, as alone as I feel right now, and I got us through it.

I want to believe I can still do it. But not without it, not without that heart. The only major obstacle, is that I don’t even know if, since I did what I told Marianne about, it’s still there. It’s as if it stands in a corner, silent, after I’ve made it go through hell and back.

It won’t talk to me, and I’m getting lonely without myself around.

Lausanne Survival Guide: Being a Good Neighbor.

2010-05-31T18:23:00.003+01:00

I’m an ass, sometimes.

Remember when I told you that Switzerland isn’t the place to be nice? If you’re nice, people will question your intentions. And if they’re nice to you, you should question theirs as well, since the swiss aren’t nice to people they don’t know for no reason.

A typical example would be the act of holding the elevator for someone who is about to enter the building. You’re already inside, you can see the person approaching the door, and the elevator is ready to lift you up. A normal person would hold the elevator and go up with the neighbor. The Swiss? Not a chance in hell.

I’ve lost count of the amount of times I got angered by the fact that people see me coming in and they don’t hold the elevator for me. They just get in and go up to their floor. Seriously, you have to be a bitch to do that. It’s rude, it’s inconsiderate. It calls for revenge.

And a few days ago, I found my weapon to carry my revenge with.

See, our elevator is pretty old (read “stupid”). So it doesn’t memorize the floors you select, it only lifts up to the first floor you choose. This means that if there are several people in the elevator, you need to ask them which floor they live on, so you don’t risk lifting your 4^th floor neighbor to the 6^th floor. This also means that it will only start to move again if you select another floor.

So this one time I was in a hurry to get to my apartment, and I kept pressing the call button even though the elevator was lifting someone else. You can’t tell if the elevator is going up or down, but I did see the shadow of someone inside it going down. I continuously pressed the button. The elevator arrived with the other person to level -1, and since I kept pressing the button, it went back up to me once the other passenger left.

Or so I thought.

Turns out, then poor neighbor was still inside: “I… wanted… to go to the underground floor?”, he says, puzzled. I was pressing the call button so fast that the guy didn’t even have time to open the door and leave before the elevator started moving again.

And so, my dear neighbors, here’s my warning to you all:

NEXT TIME ONE OF YOU FUCKERS DOES NOT HOLD THE ELEVATOR FOR ME, I WILL MAKE YOU REACH YOUR FLOOR ONLY TO GO BACK DOWN WITHOUT GIVING YOU A FLYING FUCKING CHANCE TO GET OUT.

Tender Loving Care

2010-05-22T23:46:00.005+01:00

Tender Loving Care (TLC) is a care and medical attitude that focuses on the patient’s comfort, and when facing death, the patient is not to be reanimated. In short, you do the minimum to ensure a safe, pain-free departure. Mrs B is one of those patients.
No one seemed to like Mrs. B. Well, maybe “like” isn’t the best word. But let’s just say that no one really wanted to take over that patient’s case.
If you take the 5 stages of grief, Mrs. B oscillates between the anger and the depression stages. She’s been bedfast for over 5 weeks, a tumor in her femur prevented her from moving her leg like anyone else would. She went under surgery to take it out, but the cancer has spread out everywhere, and the pain didn’t go way. It’s now more tolerable, but ever-present. She’d refuse basic hygiene care on her leg because that meant we’d have to touch it. Mrs. B would say the word, and no one would defy it.
I’m seldom working at unit B, where Mrs. B, but last week I took over her case for a couple of days. The pain would only increase. I eventually found a palliative care prescription that allowed us to increase the fentanyl (a very powerful pain-killer) dose by 20%. Her fentanyl pump would “feed” her cells 24/7, and Mrs. B felt progressively better. Still, Mrs. B wasn’t very nice to me, questioning my every move. I had begun to understand why the team was getting emotionally saturated.
The next few days I stuck to my unit, Unit A, but every now and then, I’d hear the news about Mrs. B’s status. Everything was getting better, they said she was in much less pain. Fentanyl was working its magic.
Today I took over the case again. Mrs. B will get out of the hospital in a few days, to spend her last at home. One of the goals just two days after the last surgery was to get her up and let her stand on the operated leg. A couple of weeks passed, she never got out of bed. Until today.
I asked her, “How about trying to get up today?”. After a long pause, she lets out a barely audible “Ok…”. “Sorry?”, I asked – “…Do whatever you like!”, she angrily replies. I go to the continued care unit, I look for the one physiotherapist in for the weekend. The physiotherapist wasn’t aware of the case. After a brief report, she asks me:
P: Has she been sat on the bed’s edge?
Me: No.
P: So she’s only been doing bedfast leg exercises?
Me: No…
P: …And you want to get her up? Today?
Me: Yes.
P: … Does she have medical clearance to do that?
Me: Yes, since about a week ago. She was just… in too much pain to do it.
P: Ok… meet you in 15 minutes.
We went in that room, to do something that, since this morning, I kept telling myself was impossible.
We turned the patient on the bed, got her sitting down on its edge, and then got her up for a few seconds with our help. She did it. She did the impossible.
As the physiotherapist went away, she asked if Mrs. B ever wanted to walk, to which Mrs. B replyed “It’s a dream.”.
This got me thinking about me.
I’ve been postponing my return to jogging, hiding behind my recently diagnosed disease. I got home today, and despite the encouraging words of the ophthalmologist, my eyes are still red. The inflammation on my neck is still huge. But most importantly, everyone else on my facebook friend list seems so happy. They’ve got something I complain I’ll never have. The world never seemed so unfair, and I don’t remember the last time I complained so much about myself. My flaws frustrate me, they make me dislike me. My body, my social aptitude, my brains, all deeply flawed, all robbing me of the will to keep fighting.
Disease comes in to throw us off balance, and if we let it, it will take it all away before those things are actually gone.
Today I saw pictures of who and what I couldn’t have, and things got even more depressing upon the realization that the world goes on despite my presence, and those people go on to be happy despite my absence in their lives. I don’t even get to share that with them, much less being a part of it. “It’s unfair”, it echoed in my mind.
Were it not for The Temper Trap’s song playing at that moment, “Sweet disposition”, I wouldn’t have done what I just did. Were it not for Mrs. B’s “It’s a dream”, I probably wouldn’t have regained the courage.
I got dressed, mp3 player in hand, and I went for the first of many new jogs. My lungs ached in the end, the legs trembled a little, and my heart wanted to pop out. I was home by 10:40pm. This disease, threatening to rob my lungs of their ability to absorb oxygen, is in for one hell of a fight.
And just like that, even though I may not get her to her dream, I’m going to do everything in my power to get Mrs. B one step closer to walking again.

Lausanne, a year later.

2010-05-14T11:03:00.004+01:00

A whole year has gone by since I moved to Switzerland. It’s almost like a distant memory now, as I hardly recall the stress, fear and uncertainty I felt before stepping on the plane. I remember my mother crying, I remember my dad telling me he wished that day never came. He told me that since he was young, he believed his country would provide what his children required. Sadly, it isn’t the case, and I guess that’s why I’m still here.

Spring was coming to Lausanne when I came, and as it is now, you could see a mountain slope filled with grass and yellow flowers right in front of my apartment. The city grows exponentially in beauty once spring kicks in. Colors fill every space you can imagine. Even inside the Sallaz subway station, there’s an artificial garden, a project that extended to several others last year. Ouchy, the docking area by lake Leman gets overpopulated with parents and children. It gets incredibly busy.

I’ve made friends, and sadly lost a couple of them. Some because we were too different, others because they saw it fit to end it all. I’ve defeated a few fears, I’ve gained new ones. Even disease has caught up with me. I keep pulling through, and alone, for the most part. That’s not to say I do not require the presence of friends of family. I do, and I miss them so, now more than ever.

I’ve had two of my flights to Portugal halted by the Icelandic volcano. I couldn’t even surprised my academic goddaughter in Coimbra’s student parade this year. Hope I can be there for her graduation.

It’s funny though – when the first flight I tried to hop on to got cancelled, I had to forgo my plans to see Lou Rhodes in concert so I could try again and go to Portugal the week of the concert. That flight was also cancelled, and I somehow managed to get tickets 2 days before.

I wasn’t glad to have lost the opportunity to go see my family, but I was glad that I got something out of this mess. Interestingly, that’s mostly how I feel about this journey, about coming to Switzerland. I knew, before I stepped in this country, that it would be a giant mess. In some ways, it still is. But I can manage it better now. The greater mess is the future, my plans, or the lack of them.

I can perceive my father’s will to get me to come back and try to find a job back home, even though he’s gotten a better understanding of how bad things are for nurses in Portugal. At the same time I have the disease that won’t let go, at least for the next couple of years. At the same time, my boss wants me to get a masters degree, even though I’m the youngest nurse in the unit, and most people there don’t have that degree yet. A nice opportunity, but I’m not sure I want it now. In fact, I’m not even sure if I want to stay here long enough to complete it. I still don’t know.

My skies are cloudy, the weather’s uncertain. It’s a mess.

Lou Rhodes looked directly at my camera at some point during the concert, a moment captured in a blurry photo (clearly not the one featured in this post). She was singing “The Rain”, and in that moment, I wish the song was directed to me.

I too wish the rain would come and wash it all away.

Knitting the future

2010-05-12T09:08:00.003+01:00

I had a rough primary school phase.

In “The Devil’s Cave” (my school), there were a lot of... traditionalists. People as wrinkly as they were hairy. One of them, Mrs. S., was my teacher. A scary woman whose perfume would consume the hallways of The Devil’s Cave. A stench that would trigger fear in every brat’s minds. That’s how we knew she was approaching. So what happened inside the classroom? Well, I’ll give you a few ideas.

First of all, you didn’t choose your place in the room. Short kids and glasses-bearers were in front, tall ones in the back. This would mean that Paulinha, a midget-sized girl for her age, sat in the front with Paulinho… also a midget-sized boy for his age. So yeah, the pairing was fun, Paulinha and Paulinho, like Little Paula and Little Paul. One of the most vivid memories I have of this couple is Paulinha’s pink hair band flying off her head.

The teachers, E and S, husband and wife, were abusive. They’d call you to the board for a demonstration of your ignorance and their ability to smash things against the black board. Those things were usually… your head. Especially Mr. E would grad students’ hair and swing their heads against the blackboard multiple times. His biggest victim was H. Mrs. S would slap Paulinha across the face, and sometimes it would hit the board. I swear, it was like that woman’s hand was the size of King Kong’s palm. That’s how her pink hair band would end up flying.

About 17 years later, I caught up with one of my best old friends, J, who shared the experiences of The Devil’s Cave with me. J told me “But you know, I’m actually grateful. If you think about it, those of us who succeeded in that system, we can do anything we put our minds into. And we’re not just good – we’re great at it. Not everyone can say that.”. I nodded when he said this, but the truth is, I don’t agree with him at all. I’m not grateful for most of what I had to stand in that school.

The teachers weren’t bad to me, in fact, they never put a finger on me, only the wooden ruler – and that was once, as far as I can remember. And that was because of two things: one, both my parents had college-level degrees, and that was rare in the neighborhood at the time – so they were respected and well known; and two, I kept really, really quiet and well-behaved. I would hardly speak a word. I have no doubt my parents’ status saved me from a savage beating once.

You see, I began learning the English language at age 5, in kinder garden (KG). I began learning the alphabet, and how to correctly pronounce it. And you pronounce “a” by saying “ei” in Portuguese. So when the teacher called me on the board to write “leite” (milk), I wrote “laite”. I wrote the “i” because I knew there was one somewhere. But something didn’t feel right.

I stood in that board for what felt like 30 minutes, trying to figure out my mistake. I’m not kidding, I was stupid. I finally came up with the correct form of the word. Colleagues would make fun of me for years to come. But not all of them, no. Rafael was then asked to come to the board and write “manteiga” (butter). He wrote “mantaiga”.

I always felt I was treated differently. Mrs. S would do something I hated. She would warm her cold hands in my back. And when I say this, I mean literally: like putting her hands under my shirt and resting her palms on my back. I’d shiver in cold, but I wouldn’t say a word.

I would rarely feel good about being at school. I mostly felt scared, and in the best moments, I’d feel embarrassed. Like a time where Mrs. S made all the 4^th graders read one of my 3^rd grade compositions. It was supposed to be a positive moment for me, but my shyness always got the best of me. I didn’t like to be noticed. It usually meant trouble. I still don’t like too much attention.

The school was very demanding; they’d make us memorize the darnest things, but they also came up with stupid rules. Like, say you’d screw up writing a word in a phrase the teacher was dictating. You couldn’t bar your mistake. You could write the word correctly right next to the incorrect one, proving that you knew, but the mistake you made would still be considered in your grade. A brutal, almost Spartan evaluation method. We were sent home with tons of homework. I’d spend afternoons in the kinder garden trying to finish it. My KG teachers couldn’t understand the amount of workload I’d bring. Some days, I’d pretend to have finished it, I’d tell them “Yes, that’s all of what the teacher told us to do.”, just so I could play with the other kids. All of them were from other schools.

B, another old time friend, used to get sick when tests came up, he’d often throw up. Once he threw up on the floor, Mrs S walked over it and slipped, landing her back on the vomit pool. That’s one of the few times I remember the class laughing out loud in the middle of a lesson. It was glorious, I almost felt like we were in the Robin Hood movie.

But the worst thing about The Devil’s Cave was its status. It was “a good school” because it had “good teachers”. At least, to my parents’ and most of the neighborhood’s eyes. The saddest part is that only years later would I find out that my parent’s didn’t completely take me seriously when I told them that Mr E would bash H’s head against the black board until years later. During dinner with guests, as they remembered the days me and my sister were in that “good school”. When I repeated the things I lived in that place, their expressions changed to horror. As if they were saying “So wait, that was true?!”.

Yes. Yes it was.

So I honestly don’t know if I’m at all grateful for what I was given. But as I learn to love myself, I learn to accept it as part of what made me become the person I am proud of being. I still wonder how different would I be, were it not for those days, for that school, for those teachers. To be fair, I do share J’s observation that we can do anything we put our minds into – but I don’t think we owe that to that school. That, we owe to ourselves.

If there are any parents reading this blog, even if in this age it’s more often the student that abuses the teacher, don’t take any of your child’s words too lightly. Sometimes, we dislike school for good reasons.

On Men and other pricks

2010-05-03T20:34:00.007+01:00

All of you, faithful readers (yes, all 4 of you), know that I’ve mentioned multiple times that I was surrounded by women in both my student and nurse life. Make no mistake, I’ve reveled in the perks of being around such graceful beings, but I mostly complain about it, to those who know me outside this blog.

If there’s one thing I’m familiar with, it’s women complaining about boys, boyfriends and ex-boyfriends. It’s also true I’ve withstood countless hours of girls drooling over boys. But mostly complaining.

At first I’d think that they simply didn’t know how to distinguish a decent guy from a prick, and had no luck. Then I’d accept that they like pricks. I’ve even gone as far as thinking that they knew no better. Or that they were simply very stupid.

But the fact of the matter is, us men, we’re often pricks.

I’ve shared an apartment with this guy – let’s call him Prick - who was the luckiest son of a bitch. He met this girl, let’s call her S., who was as beautiful as she was smart. We were three living under the same roof, and when S started dating Prick, she quickly became part of the bunch, and she was the most mature of the lot.

S was very sweet, with a dash of sophistication, and paradoxically, owner of a humble philosophy. Prick was a smart guy, very smart, especially school-smart. But also pretty darn dumb in the most mundane things (SERIOUSLY DUDE. LEARN TO USE A TOILET BRUSH. FUCK.). To compensate for that, he was blessed with good looks, he was very popular among girls (allegedly), and he wasn’t shy on boasting his “greatness”.

But Prick was also very nice, and at some point, I really believed he was really, really into S. Once he even came to ask me – now you gasp – for RELATIONSHIP ADVICE. And me, the greatest nerd I know, I tried sharing my best cards. No surprise, he found them all to be too… nerdy.

Prick and S once shared a 20 minute shower that drove F (the other roommate) insane. I remember seeing Prick walking around the kitchen in his boxers with a stupid smile on his face… and then see S leaving minutes later.

But one day it all changed, we stopped seeing S. less and less. And eventually, it wasn’t S. anymore, but B (that stands for bitch, if you’re wondering). I learned what happened from F, a couple of days later.

Prick betrayed S with B, and S. found out before Prick got to tell her and breakup with her. It was ugly. Prick was sort of angry about it, despite having no right to. “You’re an idiot.”, I told him once I learned of what he had done. “You lost a great thing there.”. That night, I wasn’t enough of a friend to him. I didn’t even bother hearing his side of the story. In my mind, there was no excuse for betrayal.

And then I briefly got to meet Bitch, a usual kiss on the cheek, a brief exchange of words and smiles, and back to my room I went.

The next morning, I woke up early to get some studying done in the kitchen. The kitchen table was huge, and when I’m working I need a big table, not some tiny desk. I sat with my eyes on pneumology textbooks, enjoying my cereal bowl. In comes Prick going “Man, those curves, man! THOSE CURVES!!!”, he happily told me after his first night of sex with Bitch. I suddenly lost my appetite, along with much of the respect for Prick. Not even a week of remorse. Not even a night of apparent regret. That cereal bowl seemed as disgusting as the words that came from Prick’s mouth.

I hated the Bitch. She was an intruder. The reason why S was gone. I had grown to consider S as a friend. Bitch took my friend way. Heck, she even destroyed one of my possessions:

F: You know, last night I came home and I found her in the kitchen, with Prick, and… your apron.” - (yeah, I used an apron. What?)

Me: Oh… Well, that’s OK, no problem.

F: She was naked from the waist up.

Me: ?

F: Only wearing, you know, your apron…

Me: …

F: …?

Me: Think the landlord would be pissed if I burned it in the balcony?

I was afraid of catching diseases.

Prick told me that things ended up alright between him and S, and that they were ok with each other. I eventually learned Prick’s side of the story. Changed nothing. And I couldn’t help but to feel a bit sad about it all. How could Prick not realize that when a heart is betrayed, things are never “fine”? He claimed she herself said it. But even I know enough about women to know that that is never true, if events like those had taken place.

But, let it be noted: a few months later I caught up with Prick. Some of the last lines we exchanged were in the lines of “I threw away a great thing, didn’t I?” “Yes, you did…”. Bitch betrayed Prick, later on.

So, to the ladies who read this blog, I know we’re pricks, I still have no idea why we do prick-things. I still don’t understand how boobs can be fascinating to the point of making us betray another. But they are, and we fuck up with no excuses. The good news is, not even pricks can escape their mistakes, and eventually, they hit us hard. No heart goes unscathed.

On Swiss Mental Health - The Sequel

2010-04-22T04:44:00.003+01:00

I can only imagine the terror of miss D. A senile elder, miss D. never really expected something like this to happen.

She would ask us where she was very often, and start climbing out of the bed after being submitted to surgery on both legs. Trying to figure out what the heck was she doing sleeping in someone else’s bed, and trying to go back home was a task often taken by the horns by this 87 year old lady.

“I need to go back taking care of my mother!”, she’d tell us. A sad note. But I’d still almost burst-out laughing when she asks me to explain to her mother, who was on the phone, what the heck she was doing there. Me, in my nursing innocence (such concept does not really exist), I’d think that the person on the other phone was her daughter or a distressed neighbor lady, only to find a very male voice. Her son would like to know how everything was doing. How this senile woman thought that it was her mother on the phone by listening to her son’s voice is beyond me.

Miss D. was, in short, someone of a fragile mind. She certainly wouldn’t be able to handle a lot of craziness around her, so her roommates were 3 very sane and caring ladies. Until one day, Miss M. returns. And there’s only so much crazy we can hold in one room.

You remember miss M., the schizophrenic who would lose her headphones while wearing them? This big, black, obese and very strange woman is something to behold. Miss M. doesn’t even lay on the bed like your average patient. She goes belly up and diagonal, with her shoes on. And she looks at the ceiling while listening to her music. The families of every patient stand in awe and fear.

But this one night, someone was smart enough to join miss M. and Miss D. in the same room. Miss M. would wake up in the middle of the night (like 3 am) and just stand up, staring in the dark at other patients sleeping. She’d eventually creep up on them and stare some more. Miss D. would wake up in the middle of the night, wondering where the hell she was.

So that night, miss D. wakes up to a big, dark shadow, 20cm away from her face, staring at her sleeping at 3 am. You hear screams, miss D. loses it, miss M. goes “WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR PROBLEM?!”.

And the room goes wild.

Of course the next day, we put miss M. in a room with only one other patient. And despite all the craziness, I grew to enjoy miss M.’s particularities. That and the fact that before she even saw me that day, she turned to the nursing aid, and went “Who’s in for the night?” - “It’s A.” – “Oh, I like A. He’s gentle and very nice!”.

Scarily heartwarming and confidence-boosting.

Dusty Camera Lens

2010-04-09T15:13:00.003+01:00

Every morning my eyes open to the skies as a dusty camera lens. I see dark spots around the corners and center of my eyes that remind me every day of the disease I’ve been diagnosed with. Doctors say, that’s most likely permanent. A constant reminder for a cursed man.

I hold my camera between my hands, try again to take away the dust spots that got in-between the lenses and that sometimes pop-up in the sunset pictures I took.

Everyday my eyes feel slightly fragile to sunlight, and I have to look away from that giant star and its reflection on the water. This year was likely the last year I saw a clear sunset with my own two eyes.

No true cure, no actual treatment. A wait and see approach. An agonizing symbol of the powerlessness one can live with. And every week I get asked how I get by it.

I had shut it down for a while, like a surgeon quiets the nervous system with anesthesia before gutting the body, like a general sends his soldiers to battle and death by muffling the voices of their families. I tell myself, “actions that are required, actions that were essential”.

I’m still not sure what this has done to me; the truth is, since then, I haven’t asked you. You’re still silent, still sleeping. Got me thinking that before all of this, you were not. Others still ask me how I get by. I guess it’s because you’re still sleeping.

We live a silent solitude; I like to think I understand you, but I get the feeling every now and then that you’ve given up trying to make yourself understood. I don’t even know if you’re still there, or if you’ve forsaken me for good. People still ask me how I get by. I remember you, and I want you back at all costs.

Family and friends face their challenges alone in the distance. I ask you if we were ever really part of it, as I seem to be unable to now. I’ve seen lives getting deconstructed in a brutal, unforgiving way. I’ve seen fortune ring to their doorbells. And I stay clear, I’m kept away by the kilometers that pull us apart, unable to share it. People keep asking me how I get by. I still don’t know.

I sit at work, run through patient files, verifying charts and graphs of people more unfortunate than I. Their misfortune means nothing, helps nothing. Patients ask me how they can get by, I give them a list of ways.

Lor smiles at me. We call her Tina Turner because of her hairstyle. Talks about a get together and goodbye party to Iz. I smile back, I guarantee my presence. She places her hand on my back and smiles again.

Julie asks me if all’s well. She embraces my back. Small talk at the reception desk, I decide to go check on a bleeding wound dressing.

I walk the hallways, a Care Assistant walks by and enthusiastically asks “You’re a Professor now?”, with a smile on her face. “Lately everyone seems to be calling me that, yes.”, I reply back. “It’s what’s written on your back!”. I take out a sticky label from the back of my coat. “Professeur A.”, with a pink heart next to it. I notice a smiling Julie and Lor on the reception desk, I reply with my best smile. People ask me how I get by. Not alone, that much I know.

Maril calls me once I’m home. Just the sound of her voice is enough to sooth me. She asks me how I’ve been getting by since I operated on you. I promise to tell her to greater detail once we’re together again. She has to go to work; I send my embrace and heartfelt thanks.

I remember the last few brutal months. My last clear sunset, my last clear image of myself in the mirror, my last look at a clear sky, and my last clear look at the face I’ll probably never see again.

I hold my camera up, I point it at the sun. I focus and refocus, until I hit the plain where no spots are seen. I take the perfect shot, I keep it in my collection.

People still ask me how I get by. I look at those perfect shots, I love my ability to attract such an amazing entourage of friends, I savor the times the spots aren’t visible, review Lor and Julie’s smiles, I echo Maril’s voice.

Constant reminders of a blessed man.

The Dark Side of The Nurse

2010-03-25T00:09:00.004Z

Motivation is a critical pillar in my line of work. If you don’t have some to hold to, bad things will come your way.

The worst you can give a nurse is a badly motivated team. The unit can be heaven, calm and simultaneously challenging, engaging. The unit’s organization may be supreme, and the patients may be amazing people all around. But it all falls apart if your team doesn’t have the right reasons to do what they’re supposed to do.

And right now, that’s what it’s like in my unit. Well, sort of.

The unit itself has many issues, but nothing that a strong team wouldn’t be able to overcome. However, individually, everyone is slowly losing their hope and motivation, myself included.

So what makes me say this? Well, the simple matter that right now, I’d rather be working for the Dark Side of The Force instead of my current job.

Yeah, yeah. I know. When you have a nurse that would rather be building a giant space facility able to destroy an entire planet (Death Star), instead of helping patients, you’ve got a problem. But you can’t possibly deny that there are many advantages to consider joining The Dark Side:

POWERS AND ABILITIES OF A NURSE	POWERS OF A DARK JEDI
Godly patience/ignoring ability to deal with rude and uncooperative patients;	Ability to suffocate anyone with your mind, without leaving trace;
Summoning the doctor when patients become hypochondriac by the phone;	Summoning a cut-through-anything lightsaber with a hand gesture;
Standing stubborn patients with a death wish for 12 hour shifts;	Manipulating anyone’s mind at one’s will;
Immunity to all imaginable sorts of disgusting sights and smells;	Ability to lightning-strike people from a distance.
Prevent doctors from killing their patients;	Levitate and throw any object/person out the windows;

By making this completely logical comparison, I have come to the conclusion that The Dark Side has its perks to consider. Of course that, to be fair, I should also review the best advantages my job has over The Dark Side:

MY CURRENT JOB	THE DARK SIDE
My boss is EXTREMELY hot (I will always deny I ever said this); I’m surrounded by chicks! :D	Darth Vader. Siths. That is all.
Free Nutela;	Free slaughtering; (OK, this one is a tie)
Juicy “Office rumors” with harmless/irrelevant consequences;	Juicy “office rumors” include incest – consequences of spreading such info are usually deadly;
Female colleagues that take their uniform’s coats off in sweaty conditions (oh yeah. But I’m not elaborating any further);	Identical storm troopers in armor; People you really don’t want to see naked;

I guess my job isn’t an entire loss when compared to what I could have been doing. There’s also that whole “SAVING LIVES!” thing that everyone seems to find greatly rewarding. I have to ask: in what way? In what way is it really rewarding? The “feel good” about yourself part? I think that should come with every job. The “making a difference” part? Ditto.

How about the toll your back takes over the years? The kind of thing that will lead you into becoming a hunchback. And that whole “body swimming in diseases” thing? Or the chronic burnout? Where’s the reward on that?

The fact is that even if I worked for the Dark Side of The Force, I’d be rambling about the other non-rewarding aspects of it all as well. So I guess I should be happy that I still have some motivation left and an amazing set of people to work with, who can definitely make the boat turn around and avoid the iceberg.

It would still be really cool to build a Death Star though.

The Boy and The Dragon

2010-03-20T22:03:00.004Z

© Monsoon/Photolibrary/Corbis

Seven hundred and thirty one days later, I parted on a journey to end you. Never did I take this long to ponder.

You've taunted me for a lifetime, and the closer you got, the faster I ran. Perhaps I finally found the strength to oppose you, perhaps I simply grew tired and ran out of places to escape. I couldn't allow you to stand in my way, not a minute more.

Under the spell of those eyes, I felt the pull of that place. The wrong place, the wrong castle, but the right lair. The perfect place for us to meet, man and fear.

I set other concerns aside, I asked once again the question that drove me this far. “Who do I want to be?”, like a broken record. You were not part of it. It had to be done.

My priority was clear: I needed to tell the princess, and give her what was rightfully hers. Yet, I thought I’d only be sacrificing the friendship, and I prepared myself for it for months. But the price is not only never fair, it's always higher than one can imagine.

I tried not to think about it, despite knowing it was the wrong princess, I didn't want to lose the little I had. Especially knowing that I’d gain nothing by telling her. Despite that, never once did I think about losing you, the least of my concerns, the enemy. Friendships are to be mourned. But mourning the loss of you? Unthinkable! Despicable! Impure!

I quickly drew the sword, and plunged it into your chest, as I exposed mine to consequences of the actions that would follow. My hands shook, my mind dribbled, my tongue was restless despite the lack of words.

Who do I want to be? I honored the answer to that question the best I could. I told the princess, I sacrificed what was dearest to me. Ironically, that loss was prevented by a promise. And while I'm not sure if that will be enough, I at least owe good hope and effort towards that promise.

But you? Though I keep telling myself I didn't lose you, you no longer breathe fire. Icy cold air fills your place. Or rather, an incredible void fills your place. What is a lone man without fear?

They told me to stop while I still had the chance. There was no closure to be had, that had long been established. There were no compensations to be earned, that much I knew. This wouldn't make the princess mine, I wasn't enough of a fool to believe that. All of this was simply the end.

And so, it was the end I met.

A Dragon was slain. The princess wasn't mine to save.

Welcome to Sweden.

2010-03-18T14:01:00.002Z

Before I write an incredibly boring post, I thought I'd tell you how the trip to Stockholm went.

The city's beautiful as expected; truly an archipelago floating in style and history. Even in winter, it's colorful and charming. Of course, had I gone there in actual Spring, all the green expected to cover the town would maybe make it a lot more appealing. Still, I have no regrets in regards to the season I chose.

Plus, we stayed ON A BOAT. And I obviously sang this once we got our keys:

I've visited several museums, but the most impressive of them all was the Vasamuseet. Not for the subject itself (though everything nautical seems to spark a je ne sais quoi in me; blame the Portuguese roots), but for the sheer passion the Swedes have for preserving their history. And the detail they plunge into is an example to follow.

Then there were the people, who easily showed that the stereotype southern Europeans have of the north is simply baseless. All of them smiled, and were quick to try and help you out. Sure, you still can't kiss those incredibly hot Swedish girls on the cheeks with the excuse that you're just saying hello, but that doesn't make them cold.

Speaking of girls, before you ask, no, I didn't encounter the Swedish Bikini Team. I discovered they were all American before heading out to Sweden. The world is a cruel place.

The best of all is that you can easily walk in and out of every main island, as they're within walking distance from Stockholm's center. I used up no more than 30 minutes to get from where I was sleeping to what I wanted to visit. Having Erika and her cousin as guides was a ton of help as well, their kindness shouldn't go unmentioned.

Also to be taken into consideration:
- Swedish stores' names are hilarious (greatest example: "C.U.M. clubwear");
- Icy streets are icy. (I fell catastrophically on my ass once, and that was enough to get several cuts on my left palm);
- Walking like a penguin actually works;
- Dinosaurs still exist in Sweden. FOR REAL.
- Elks are dangerous. But not as dangerous as MURDEROUS SWEDISH OTTERS.
- The Portuguese have a serious problem with drinking that resides on the fact that they don't have any problems about getting drunk.
- A Swedish shot is twice the size of a portuguese shot. If that's a good thing or not, depends on who you ask.

My only regret is that my pictures didn't come out that good. And despite have over 500 pictures of the place, they still don't seem enough. I need to either seriously improve my photo skills, or get a much better camera. I relied way too much on the polarization mode. You can do great things with it, but it certainly doesn't replace a steady hand.

This was a trip I will never forget, and while that statement is binded to deeper reasons, that's all I have to say for now.

The Boy Goes to Sweden

2010-03-11T11:56:00.007Z

Gone fishin' to Stockholm, Sweden. BRB.

Lausanne Survival Guide: Transportation

2010-02-26T22:00:00.001Z

Image shamelessly taken from Wikipedia.

Lausanne is like that pretty lady you spot at a distance in a bar. Looks dazzling, but it suddenly looks (the bad kind of) crazy once you close up to her.

Let’s get into the crazy part.

The moment I got here, I had to hop on a train, then on the subway and finally on a bus. I was fairly jaded most of the time (“Oh-my-gosh-what-did-I-get-myself-into?” moments, as I had just landed in the country), so I guess it’s excusable the fact that I didn’t even notice how mind-boggling the people here are.

A piece of advice: under no circumstances shall you believe that people are actually going to be nice to you out of the blue. And if they are, don’t buy it right away. Most of all, if we’re talking public transportation, don’t even expect them to acknowledge your niceness, much less thank you for it.

Getting on the bus is an adventure. In the countries and cities I’ve traveled to, people are logic. They let you get off the train/bus/whatever before getting inside. In Lausanne, Switzerland? Fuck no. In this place, it’s actually a battle of epic proportions, filled with the most incredible schemes I’ve witnessed. Let’s list ‘em:

4) The “I Opened the Door First” method:

This is the most basic method. Once the bus stops, you rush to push the outside button to open the door so you can get in. Even if there are tons of people waiting inside the bus for that door to open, meaning the door will open automatically, if you touch the button first, it is culturally accepted that you magically gain the right to enter the bus right away, pushing everybody aside, no hard feelings.

3) The “I’m Menacingly Fat” method:

If you’re a couple of pounds over, fear not: you get a special pass. If the person on the outside is fatter than the person on the inside, the first gets the right to barge in. Wave your arms rigorously as you talk to your (in comparison) skinnier friend that follows behind you. This way, not only do you get in first, but everyone taking cover in your gigantic wall of fat will be able to infiltrate immediately after.

2) The “Old Lady/Man Piggy-Back” method:

I’ve seen this method elsewhere, but it’s even more noticeable here. You open your arms and look around with a “STAND BACK, you worthless young! Old lady/man needs help to climb up!” kind of expression on your face. This method summons the shame within if you try to ignore it. Then you realize that the activism of the person behind is not because of sincere empathy, not even because they’re somehow related, as they get just right behind the old lady/man to take advantage of the ride.

1) The “Baby Ghost” method:

The sneakiest of them all, the baby ghost. “Baby ghost? What the hell does that mean?!”, you may ask. Well, it means what it reads.

You will often see someone (mostly women) carrying a baby car. At their side, you’ll see a child, presumably that person’s son/daughter. A quick jab of the baby car and you witness a shockwave effect over the crowd: everyone splits, making some space for the tired mother/father to get the baby inside.

Then you notice that said person, or should I say “said bastard”, doesn’t really care for the way he/she jams the baby car in. Suddenly, it looks like the baby car is empty. You wonder “maybe it’s that child’s car, the one that is on her side”. And then you ask yourself “How would that 1 meter tall, Toblerone-fed obese child ever fit in that car?!”.

And then, you see it. You see the mother reaching to the car, and adjust something. You take a closer look, at you see that presumed baby is actually a baguette, bought in the local market.

Sucker.

One Hundred Misinterpretations of Self Later

2010-02-01T20:44:00.000Z

It took almost five years for this blog to arrive to its 100th post.

At first I though I should write just another post, preferably something funny, as that seems to be what resonates the most with those who read it. Then I thought it should be a post that touched the depths of me. Then I thought it should be some sort of celebration.

And then I thought of this.

My blog never had many followers, and maybe if it did, it would have long past the 100 posts. I don't get as much feedback as I used to wish for, but then again, I never comment much over anyone else's words. And many times this made me question why the hell did I create it for. And considering that, what big of a deal is it to reach 100 posts?

Though today I look back on it, and I see tidbits of mine, shards of who I used to be and, to some extent, still am. Things that sometimes make me drown in embarrassment or crack a smile in my face.

But most of all, I can see everyone else I'm interested in posting their posts in their blogs. This blog has given me privileges, opportunities to read the minds of some of those I admire, by allowing me to blend in their tribe. It has given me the opportunity to see things I never thought other people actually thought about as well. And most of all, it let me meet some of the most interesting and adorable people that walk the Earth.

This blog, though small and often neglected, has become amazing to me. It creates the time I need to understand myself a little better. And it swims in along in this deep, blue, breathtaking ocean of words and emotions, thanks to and provided by the people it links to.

At its 100th post, it only makes sense to thank you, for giving it a second of your breath, a blink of your eyes, a word from your hearts, and the magic of your following.

Thank you!

The Night Shift Nurse

2010-01-24T23:25:00.001Z

Night shifts aren't the paradise people often believe in.

In this hospital you're left alone on the night shift. There's one nurse for each unit, that makes a total of 3 nurses for whole floor. You have the help of an aid up to 11pm. Then, up until 7am, you're on your own.

Unit A was under my care, and everything seemed to be going fine. I take my time to make my night round, right before patients get to sleep. I have this idea that, the calmer and the less you rush with each patient at night, the less likely will they mean trouble throughout the night. I finish last, not only because of this, but because I'm still a little slow at getting everything done. And I like to be excruciatingly picky.

Julie was over in Unit B, the less known-about hidden level of Hell. One very unstable patient, a disoriented patient, a claustrophobic pain-killer addict (and despite the similarities, not the same one!) amputee, and a hypochondriac bed-restricted woman.

Julie focused on the unstable. Or at least, she tried. Me and Kat, the nurse on Unit C, took the disoriented patient out of his room and put him near the nurses' station. We feared that would make him even worse, but we had to watch over him before he got himself hurt. Oddly, it worked like a charm. Despite waking up every now and then and almost fucking it all up once, he slept with no problem.

The addict and the hypochondriac kept ringing every 5 minutes. Either they wanted a pain killer, or wanted to pee, or they wanted to be straightened up on the bed. The hypochondriac was the most amazing of the duo. She'd sound the alarm because she was burping a lot. Julie checked her out, asked a few questions, even took her vitals and stetoscope'd her. All she had was air in the digestive tract.

Burping. That was the only symptom.

Obviously, to the patient, there had to be something else. And so she kept ringing all night to tell us she was still burping. And when she got mad, she started shouting in Spanish. One of the times I went to see her, I calmly said "I'm sorry miss, could you repeat all that? I don't speak Spanish.". Dumb silence ensued. I smiled. She went back to trying to sleep.

Julie kept herself busy with her unstable patient. I then took over him to get him down to the OR's recovery room. We placed some very strong pain killers in line, and I went back up as the OR Recovery team surveilled him for the next couple of hours.

Back on the floor, the same two patients kept ringing all night. Julie finished her round at around 0:30 am. She started it at 8pm. The left-unmentioned patients weren't easy to deal with either.

To give you an idea, a night shift nurse needs to make 2 sets of complete rounds (ie, take vital signs, administer medication, measure and evaluate blood drains, urine, check wound dressings, maintain IV lines, etc.), one at 7:30pm, and the other at 6am. At 6am, you still need to add blood sampling. At least every 2 hours, you should check up on patients: see if they're having trouble sleep, check if they're breathing, the little but important things. That's what the patient sees.

Now here's what you, as a patient, don't get to see: in this hospital we're still tied to a non-digital patient dossier system. In short, it's all handwritten. In the night, you take future-patient files and prepare the dossier for tomorrow's newly-admitted patients. You go through every dossier and search for errors, unnoticed prescriptions that aren't present on the nurse's files, write down any relevant patient-related event that took place in your shift. Create a new Unit Plan/Graph for the next couple of days.

And you better do all this fast: if you don't, you risk getting surprised by an ER call, asking you to admit one of their patients in your unit. That happens more often than not. And it's precisely what happened to Julie that night, as my Unit had no more vacancy left.

People often ask me "do you sleep in the night shifts?". Sometimes. Sometimes you get to lay your head down for a couple of minutes. Most of the times, you're wide awake with all the overwhelming stress You can't see every patient at the same time. But they all expect their meds at the same time. And if they don't get them at the hour they know they have them, they'll let you know how pissed they are about it by sounding the alarm and going "DID YOU FORGET MY MEDS?!".

No, we didn't forget you. No, we weren't partying at the nurses' station. We were trying to keep a broken-down, overworked and overstressed Julie afloat after one hell of a night.

The night shift can be a calm, smooth-sailing work night. You certainly get in touch with the more relaxed version of your unit and patients. Sometimes.

Sometimes, the night shift is an unforgiving reminder of the weight of the cross we decided to carry for the rest of our lives. In the end, you'll either be glad you took up this profession, or ask yourself time and time again "What did I get myself into?". That changes every night.

*Sidenote: interestingly, Google Images comes up with a looooot of porn when using the night+shift+nurse combo. Even with the filter on to the max. Hum.

My Moby Dick

2010-01-17T08:45:00.001Z

It's been hiding from me since I can remember, and it shows its face every once in a while. Unwillingly I've ran from it, got scared of it.

But no more.

This year, it will do the running, and I'll do the hunting. And I've already managed to corner it a little. This year, I'm not allowing it to escape again.

It can dive as deep as it can, but the hook has severed its lip. I'll bring it to the surface, I'll look it straight in the eyes. Should I emerge victorious, or fall defeated, in no scenario will I cower.

The rattling bell announcing the battle can already be heard in the distance. An end approaches, and it may as well be the end of me. It wouldn't be reasonable, weren't this a quest to be free.

The man I want to be, and the monsters I want to slay, unavoidable waves have pulled them away. The threat remains.

It's not that I'm tired, not even intimidated. Death herself won't respect me if I don't venture any further, if I let us both swing each other at the rocks for my eternity.

It's not that I want you gone, I don't hold it against you. Any man would know, life has no meaning without a nemesis to aspire to.

It's not that I find no other option, though for a while I did believe in that. But sacrificing a past just for the sake of starting flat is too much of a gamble, one that even the devil wouldn't do.

Only Man.

I would shout it's because of the things you've halted me to be, even though you're a part of me. I would claim it's because of the torture you bring, the helplessness you've deemed core.

It's what I expected from you, it's your purpose. Or at least, half of it. It's not because of any grudge. After all, you were born big and scary.

But you see, friend, it's because I suddenly realized that I'm a bigger monster than you.

On New Year's

2010-01-09T01:13:00.002Z

Christmas wasn't Christmas this year. It was spent away from family, away from the coziness of the fireplace. There was no mountain of presents around Christmas tree, no amazingly delicious codfish, no orgasmic Ovar Pão-de-Ló. It was a dinner spent with Marianne, but all the others were strangers.

The earliest plans of New Year's Eve were something along the lines of Budapest. Of course I was the only one not really wanting that, but I agreed to them anyway. I wanted Paris: the romantic zing of that city beneath what is considered the most beautiful fireworks demonstration on the face of the Earth.

But after a tiny obstacle, everybody stalled and all plans failed. I spent the New Year's eve at someone-I-barely-know's home, with Marianne.

I wasn't in my best shape, I'll admit. I had an uveitis (not nearly as disgusting as the one demonstrated in the picture, mind you), so I was wearing an eye patch in my final day of 2009. And as you might wonder, when you're wearing an eye patch, people want to ask questions. In fact, they don't even ask permission for that. So here:

TOP 5 EXPLANATIONS I GAVE FOR HAVING AN EYE PATCH ON NEW YEAR'S EVE:

5. I tried to activate my Sharingan.

4. I saw into the future. And in 2010, the world will burn.

3. I saw Lady Gaga naked.

2. I walked in while you were changing clothes.

1. This conversation:

Me: Some guy was walking in the opposite side of the street, looked at me and started shouting "SPLIT YOUR LUNGS WITH BLOOD AND THUNDER, WHEN YOU SEE THE WHITE WHALE. BREAK YOUR BACKS AND CRACK YOUR OARS, MEN! IF YOU WISH TO PREVAIL! THIS IVORY LEG PROPELS ME, HARPOONS, THRUST IN THE SKY! AIM FOR HIS CROOKED BROW, AND LOOK HIM STRAIGHT IN THE EYE! WHITE WHALE, HOLY GRAIL!!"

Other person: ...

Me: And then he har-

Other Person: harpooned you in the eye?

Me: Yeah.

Other Person: ... Did you just quote Mastodon?

As you can see, I wasn't even in my best shape mentally speaking. So of course I made the huge mistake of accepting to try non-alcoholic champagne. Tasting it is like tasting death for a diabetic. There's THAT much sugar in it.

I tasted that champagne when the midnight hit, and more specifically when we, 6 goons with very different backgrounds, were staring at a huge cathedral which was supposedly on fire from the inside. Everyone tells you it's beautiful. Well, let's just say that after watching that, I believe the swiss have very low standards of beauty. And that explains more than you think.

But it's never a problem that booze can't solve, so we hit a bar. If only I drank alcohol. But it was fun, we got a free round, we talked to no end, we "danced" a lot, and I learned that Iz, the dinner hostess, could kick my ass. She's a Karate brown belt. But I beat her at arm-wrestling, so there. I was even congratulated by some random old guy.

The night ended with several kisses good morning. Yes, it was almost daybreak by the time we were finished. And just to remain in the same crazy vibe as New Year's, my first day of work of the year 2010 started out pretty crazy as well. But more on that later.

Quote of the night:

"That's not dancing! That's waggling! That's what I do!"

(Me, after Iz explained me how to "dance".)

Happy Holidays

2009-12-25T20:54:00.002Z

Merry Christmas!

No matter if you're alone, among family and/or friends,

may this season of giving, snow and hot chocolate,

be one worth remembering.

On Bob Log the Third, Life Changing Events and Unbelievable Odds.

2009-12-17T00:04:00.002Z

The 15th of March 2007 holds perhaps one of the most life-changing experiences I've had, and it's one of those sneaky, sneaky determining events.

On that day, Coimbra's theater was holding a blues festival, and among the performances was this one man: Bob Log the Third. Or Bob Log III. As if the name wasn't striking enough on its own, his description told the story of a once two-men group, that somehow broke apart in the middle of a tour. Knowing that if he returned to stage alone, he'd be disgraced, this man put on a helmet with a telephone handle attached to it, he broke the drum kit down to pieces and put them on the floor, he took his guitar and he became Bob Log III, a one-man band. He played all instruments, all by himself, at the same time.

This concert changed my life, somehow. And Cátia, who joined me in it, even shouted "This concert has changed my life!!!" in the middle of it. What was so special about Bob Log the Third? Well, maybe it's the fact that he could play the guitar and the drums better than anyone else, and he did it at the same time. Maybe it was his eccentric appearance, and his foul mouth. Maybe it was this one moment where he asked the audience if anyone could play the guitar, and to the one man that said yes, he answered "Sir, I'm about to ruin it for ya.", while playing that thing and making it sound like a Formula 1 car. Insane. This is the man that usually asks for two girls in the audience to sit on his knees while he plays the drums - and when he tried that in Portugal, all he got was this one fat guy, and I can still hear him lament "Look what you've done to me, Portugal!". And if you're wondering, yes, he did play the drums with the fat guy on his knee. This man also created the art of boob scotch.

But it's not Bob Log III at the center of this life-changing event, it's Cátia. She was on my mental healthcare nursing group for the clinical trials. When the teacher and the overseeing nurse were splitting us into pairs, I prayed to the lord not to pair me with her. She was the kind of party girl that usually isn't keen on me for some reason. Logic dictates, because I'm a nerd and she's the cool kind.

But the "lord" has a history of being ironic with me, so he paired us up. Cátia was nice, fun and really, really caring, even for a nerd like me. When we were walking back from the hospital to the downtown center (a word of advice: never, EVER miss the bus if you're at Sobral Cid hospital), I mentioned the blues festival and how I wanted to go but didn't have anyone else to go with. To my surprise, Cátia was going with her boyfriend. Surprised because I never thought she'd be into blues. Then her boyfriend cancels, and we went together, and so we got to Bob Log III.

Cátia turned out to be interested in the Erasmus program like me, and I even remember me trying to convince her to go to Denmark, and her advocating Finland, since two other colleagues were there in Kemi that same year, and it was great. We both fought to be on the program, but we weren't allowed to participate in it. Eventually Cátia would go to Lille with me and those same other colleagues that were in Finland (and Sofia as well).

Cátia was one of the driving forces that led me to sink in the desire of eventually going abroad to pursue nursing. She was one of the motivations I held that made me actually read on the challenges of it all. Most of all, she was that one voice that echoed that I wasn't alone in all that hardship. She's now working abroad, as I am.

I never would have guessed that someone I didn't really want to be paired with would eventually have this much significance in my life, but the 15th of March 2007 changed all that. From that day on, I saw Cátia as a friend. A really, really cool friend.

And this crazy decision I took, to leave it all for another country, was played off by the craziness that is Bob Log III. Cátia's voice still echoes in my head "This concert changed my life!!!!!". Sure did change mine.

Thanks, Cátia.

(Bob appears at around 1:25 in this video)

On Swiss Mental Health

2009-12-01T12:14:00.003Z

I told you it wasn't over.

Since I started working at the hospital in April, I suddenly acquired a long list of ridiculous, extraordinary and sometimes hilariously terrifying situations that I’ve been through. But to tell you the truth, I just need to give you the example of the past 2 weeks to sum them all up.

In those two weeks, my four patients were comprised of a schizophrenic, a drug addict, a dying woman that wasn’t aware of her fate, and a 91 year old woman.

Sure that sounds bad on paper, but let me assure you: it’s much worse in reality.

The drug addict is perhaps the most interesting of them all. First thing she told me after I introduced myself was “I hope you’re better than the last one. That guy gave me nothing for the pain during the night. NOTHING. Doesn’t he know that I’m in pain?! You better give me something. And it better be enough!”. How charming.

Turns out the colleague did give her something. In fact, he gave her everything that was prescribed. So I moved on. Except the patient didn’t.

I was careful. I made sure I gave her everything that was prescribed, and reminded her she had to tell me when she was in pain so that I’d give her additional medication when required. Until one day, she asked me for another dose of morphine, and I asked my colleague to give it to her, since I had to go have lunch before the personnel restaurant closed. Bad idea.

So she didn’t get her morphine in time. I get to the room after my break, she cries like she’s going to die. “Nobody cares for me or my suffering! It’s like it’s irrelevant for you all! I can’t take it any longer!”, she shouted and sobbed while I held her hand. That’s when her roommate, the schizophrenic, goes “Mr. A, I lost my headphones!”, she shouted. She shouted because she had her headphones on. So I told her “You’re wearing them, miss M.”. “Oh, you’re right! Thank you Mr. A!”. At this point, the drug addict stopped crying. She tightened her lips, paused, breathed, and… resumed crying. It is then that the schizophrenic decides it’s an appropriate moment to ask me “Mr. A? Can you come here and wash my head?”. “Miss M., it’s not a good time. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”.

I somehow managed to calm her down, despite arguments like “Most people here are STUPID.” and “WHY DID YOU LOCK ME IN HERE WITH A LUNATIC?!”.

The next room, where my other two patients resided was heaven, compared. Except when the dying woman started to make long term plans for when she got out of the hospital. When you know someone’s going to die before year’s end and you can’t let them know, it almost feels unbearable. You feel kind of stupid because you’ve got to lie. Sometimes, you even feel like shit.

The 91 year old woman was even better at that last part. She was extremely nice to you, and most importantly, almost completely sane. In fact, she was even able to walk around freely and manage her stuff. But for some reason, when you came to take her blood sugar (take a tiny blood drop from the fingers with a really small needle), she always gave you the middle finger to take blood from. ALWAYS. She smiled, lifted her hand, and showed you the middle finger. After one hell of a day, that felt nice.

The two weeks ended up alright. By the end of it all, the 91 year old was replaced by an 86 year old with a broken leg that... peed a lot. The dying woman “sort-of-knew” she was going to die. The schizophrenic had found her headphones multiple times, and the drug addict was at peace with me. Sort of.

“Oh, A. does a better job than anyone else here, and he’s nice. He does a great job… most of the time.”, she tells to her husband right in front of me.

You bitch.

Measure of a Man

2009-11-10T20:25:00.002Z

I guess it eventually comes to everyone, that day where your reflection in the mirror faces the reality of the self. This battle has been announced within myself for a while now, and my recent birthday just pushed things further.

About a month ago, my boss called me to her office, looked me in the eyes and asked “So, where do you believe you stand, as of now?”. My final evaluation, the day that would decide whether I stayed in that hospital or if I would be sent back to Portugal, had come. I didn’t really know what to respond. I told her what others had told me.

What is the measure of a man? Is it the number of hearts he conquers or that he breaks? Is it the roughness of his skin, or the gentleness of his touch? The quick-sand lengths he walked through or the price of his shoes? Is it the number of fights he won, or the number of opportunities he lost? Is it his ambition or his results? Both?

I’ve grown from a pre-teen with a sickening tendency of over-analyzing, over-reading his possessions and experiences. I had my share of illusory complete comprehension of the world. A time I felt at peace, and enough of a smart ass to claim human understanding as my domain and specialty. I’ve grown from arrogant to self-skeptical, from believing I was rich to embracing my own spiritual poverty and other imperfections.

As I arrived to adulthood, I almost couldn’t get over of how much I had changed since I was a child. To this day, it is disturbing in so many aspects.

Then I find myself here. I know less of the world than I used to. I understand people less than I believed I did. Before, I felt I lived inside this room filled with wires, complex thoughts that crossed essences in too many ways and moments. I used to think that was beautiful, and that it was a sign of how much I had grown.

Today, I look in the same room, and it feels empty. I no longer seem willing to add complexity to everything I do and see. Every understanding of my surroundings is more ambiguous, more volatile.

I take more of the heart than of the mind, I ask more questions, I search for a smaller amount of answers. Out of my own will, I leave blank spaces of wonder, plant seeds of fascination and passion for the trivial and the unusual.

And so it feels like a regression. I almost feel stripped from direction, but I know who I want to be. I lack the life project of an adult, a down-to-earth plan to conquer his place on earth.

But the world in its own, the unanswered questions and my imperfections line up for a fool’s dream, an intangible racing heart and hungry mind.

What is the measure of a man? Is it how much of a child he has left within? If traditional adulthood claims the departure from this mindset, I’ll be forever deprived of its taste.

In my maturing age, I can’t help but feel that I’ve come all this way just to return to innocence. And against all odds, it feels right.

On Drugs

2009-10-21T20:00:00.002+01:00

So I thought I’d leave the retrospective posts behind, and just tell you about Switzerland as I share some recent experiences here.

Switzerland is quite the place for drug addicts. No, seriously. You get to see containers for syringes and needles spread throughout town. They also occupy spots that are crossed by the townsfolk quite frequently, both in daylight and night-time. Most importantly, the town does give you the sense that it has accepted the existence of this “social group”, if you can label it like that.

But there is something disturbing about this. For example, imagine walking around town and, in one of the most populated shopping streets, notice a guy, sitting on a bench, face down, jaw slightly open. A can of beer in one hand, vomit on the floor and on the black coat he was carrying. The man is asleep under the shinning sun. This man clearly wasn’t okay. He was sleeping, but you don’t need to be an expert to understand that he needed help.

Supposedly, I have the moral and ethical obligation to act in this circumstance, but I simply felt too lost. I’ve never knew what to do in my country, let alone in this place. Not to mention that my then-primitive French would most likely not get me very far. Four hours later I cross the same place, the man is still there. No one gives a crap, or they’re just as scared as I am to approach the man. But people don’t hesitate to pass by him and shake their heads as a sign of shame.

Then I go to a pharmacy to buy a tourniquet. I bought one and I had to order a second one for a colleague of mine, so I had to go to the pharmacy twice, and both times they tried really hard to sneak in the most important question of all: “Why do you need a tourniquet? Is it for personal use, or…?”.

Immediately I felt the urge to wide open my eyes, crack an unstable smile and rub my arms, answering “Personal. I need it to get my smack into my veins!”.

But I just said “I sometimes need to take blood from my patients. That comes in handy.”. This is followed by a quick “Oh sorry! I see, yes, you certainly need one!”. But what strikes me even more is the fact that they turn to the colleagues and go “Oh, it’s ok! He’s a nurse!”.

I get it that buying a tourniquet at a pharmacy isn’t something you see every day, in fact, they actually had to ask and search around the pharmacy to even tell me if they sold them. But what if I wanted it for personal use? How would you dodge that bullet? How would you tell me you couldn’t sell it to me? If I wasn’t buying it for a professional reason, in what way wouldn’t it be ok?

Glad I didn’t tell her I was actually planning to strangle someone with it.

Check your Swiss Happy Meal

2009-10-09T22:46:00.003+01:00

The next few days followed the progression of the wind. Decreasing, weakening, becoming gentler. It wasn’t any easier to start a conversation, but there were no doors I could escape to. Only confrontation.

And that’s what I did, how I met V and M. Two French colleagues from the same world, but who crossed there ways there. I invited them to grab a drink, and we did. V brought his girlfriend, M brought Ml, all french-speaking, none English-speaking. A terrible combo for me, but one that felt necessary. I didn’t understand half of what was being said: the speed, the accents, pushed me away. I quickly remember the awful afternoons I spent in french class listening to audio tapes of french people speaking on the street, on the phone, and many other contexts that simulated real situations. I had gotten pretty good at it in the end, and I did great in the final exam on that level. But sadly, 6 years had gone by, 6 years where I didn’t have a real chance to practice. It’s like I felt the ability was there, but always too far away from me to reach it once again.

This wasn’t the only hard moment for me, but there were also some pretty funny ones. And very weird ones, like the McDonalds reporter incident.

This guy comes up to me on the street, him wearing a microphone and a big backpack, told me he was a radio reporter, and the rest of the conversation went something like this:

Reporter: A condom was found in a Happy Meal at a McDonald’s.

Me: …

Reporter: …

Me: …and? You want me to what, comment on that?

Reporter: Yes! Give me your thoughts!

Me: …Ok… Well, I guess it was some sort of very bad joke started off by some employee.

Reporter: What do you think of McDonalds after hearing this?

Me: I, I guess I can’t blame them. It’s not like they can watch over what their employees do every second. So I guess the incident doesn’t change my view on the company.

Reporter: Why do you think someone did it?

Me: Like I said, I think it was a joke.

Reporter: I think Ronald McDonald liked to fuck burgers!

Me: … Well, you are certainly entitled to that opinion…

Reporter: It makes me happy! *smiles*

Me: …and that’s what matters! Goodbye now! *big smile, walks away*

Reporter: Wai-… *left hanging*

I came to this country under the impression that they were more civilized than us, Portuguese. I was wrong. Either that or Portugal is actually very awesome. People here were supposed to be educated, cultured, slightly more serious, rigid and efficient. And that conversation was the first bucket of cold water that hit my face.

A few weeks later, when trying to get my bills directed to my bank’s online service, another stupid situation emerged.

I wanted to get my health insurance bill online, I didn’t want to wait for a letter to arrive so I could pay. I was ready to let them drain the money directly from my account, and for that, you need a form (hint: in Switzerland, you need a form for everything.). You are supposed to take this to the bank, and they should sign it and send it to the company, in this case, my health insurance company.

My bank happens to be/run the post office. So that’s where I went. I told them what I wanted to do:

Me: I’d like to get this form signed to clear authorization for my healthcare insurance company to drain the money need to pay the bills.

Bank Lady: I see. So for that you’ll need an envelope. Do you have the address?

Me: … Yeah, it’s right on the form. So you can sign this for me?

Bank Lady: Oh, I’m not signing.

Me: … If I may ask, why not?

Bank Lady: You need to send that to your insurance company.

Me: but I just got it from them. Why would I send it back unsigned?

Bank Lady: You send it to them, and they’ll send it back to us, we’ll sign and we’ll send it.

Me: … so why can’t you just sign it right away and send it right after? Kind of redundant if I send it back like this.

Bank Lady: We don’t have the instructions from the healthcare insurance company.

Me: But they’re printed out on the form, right here! Are you sure that’s how it’s done?

Bank Lady: I’ll ask…

(moments later)

Bank Lady: OK, it’s like I told you. You can leave the letter in that box over there, with the company’s address written on the envelope.

Me: So you won’t sign?

Bank Lady: Correct, we won’t.

Me: Wait, you do realize that if I sent it back, they’ll just send it to you like it is for you to sign it and send it back, instead of you signing it right now and sending them instantly?

Bank Lady: But that’s not how it’s done.

Me: OK, if you’re sure about this…

Two weeks later I get a letter com my insurance company calling me an idiot in fancy language, not understanding why I sent the form back signed by me, but unsigned by the bank. Dumb silence ensued.

The Swiss turned out to be slightly crazy and traumatized. But more on that later.

Running amongst the waves

2009-10-02T12:16:00.004+01:00

The 6 months flew by, and I barely shared anything about my life in Lausanne. Is there a logical reason for such thing? No, there will never be. But there is no time like the present to start sharing.

First contact is quick and deadly. I got out of the plane, and I ran towards the train station to get to Lausanne as quickly as possible. I found my way through the metro station towards the hospital. And just like in the first time I rode it, I wondered why was it that the stop-sound of the metro hinted at the sound of a tired horse. And me, scared as a little boy in his first day of school, stood empathic with such sound as I dragged my bags towards the big building that would eventually become my workplace.

I fought through crowds coming in and out of the hospital, and found my way in the office where they would handle the keys to my apartment. Or so I thought. Instead, they called someone who would meet by the apartment’s door. I was early, and they contacted said someone immediately. When I got there, I met a tall looking south-african cook, who had been waiting for hours for the same thing I was. He too, would start working at the hospital. He did tell me his name, but his accent and foreign French made it as hard to memorize as it was to pronounce. I haven’t seen him since.

Later I got the keys, and as I looked at the tiny, tiny apartment, I couldn’t help but to feel disappointed at the conditions I’d be living in.

Time showed me it wasn’t so bad. As you start filling the emptiness with your belongings and decorations, it doesn’t seem so cold, so raw, so crude.

My first instinct was to unpack and get my backpack to go shopping for the so-called “essential goods”. I got enough things to cook on my first day, and when the night knocked at the window, the frightened boy in me fell asleep asking himself “What will become of me?”

Enduring, the first day of integration came, and by that day I’d meet one other Portuguese nurse, and two French nurses that would be the stepping stones of my social environment in the country.

Integration was straightforward, but also unnecessarily long. 3 days of talking in a presentation hall didn’t exactly give me much, but the opportunity to fool around with other colleagues. Much of those brief interactions created no lasting bonds.

There was always Alexandra, my beacon of light in all this mess. But I barely resorted to her. As stubborn as I am, I continued to cling to the one I knew the best, myself. Despite the insecurity I hold over my own resources, I knew I would survive. And I did.

Many, many things tried to knock me down in the first days: the need I felt to evade French when asking and answering questions, seeking people to talk to, seeking familiarity. It really feels like waves trying to throw you down. And because you know you can’t stay on such a violent sea of doubt for too long, you run. You run like it meant the difference between your life and death.

And if I look back into it, it really did mean that.

Home is where the heart is.

2009-08-08T23:05:00.001+01:00

Home is where the heart is, so they say. For years I’ve lightly pondered this notion. I want to believe that the heart can go and be anywhere. But home? There can be only one. If there’s more than one, where’s the value of it?

Perhaps it’s the idea that we’re special that makes the sense of belonging to multiple places so… “less likeable”. It’s maybe like the ideal of love in which we take comfort: there are over 6 billion people on the planet, and I found the only one that is to stay with me, that wants me to grow old with.

My home is supposed to be 6km away from the sea, where my mom bakes German cookies, where my dad has always something wise to say and my sister has a day’s work to discuss and vent. And let’s not forget, where one cat can barely stand on its feet and drag its obesity around, and the other sleeps on my laptop demanding attention. Is that home? It should be.

It’s not every day that my heart is in that house. The time I’ve spent away was enough to set it drifting apart for a while, searching for a place to stay, to settle and start beating on its own. I haven’t found it yet.

And then I called her, at a bad time as usual. The conversation is supposed to be brief, but we always find the time and the excuse to extend it. But when the time became unforgiving, when she was saying goodbye, she genuinely said “I miss you. I really miss you.”.

Had it been anyone else, this would be just another “I miss you”. But coming from her, there is no short of a doubt it’s real. And suddenly I felt relieved, as if the heart started beating again after a long pause.

Home is where the heart is. Home is that one place in the world we want to be. That moment, home was where I could hold her and tell her how much I miss her too.

Pogo

2009-06-14T11:51:00.001+01:00

“Pogo” comic artist Walt Kelly's quote “We have met the enemy, and he is us.”, over the portrait of a polluted forest easily became one of my favorite quotes of all time.

On the other hand, Henrik Ibsen’s “The strongest man in the world is he who stands alone” couldn’t be further from the truth, the way I saw it.

A man is measured by his surroundings: by those who love him, and by those who dislike him. But more importantly, by those he chooses to love and dislike. At least, that’s how I really thought things were. It was the thought of leaving those one loves that made the future seem scarier than it really was, the thought of being alone.

As the days moved on I started to realize exactly how uncomfortable I feel in my own skin. Most of all, how I behaved when I was alone, and finding out exactly how much I disliked it. How lazy I am. How anhedonic I could get. How messy I’d let things get. I almost felt like a bachelor from those movie comedies where no one seems to clean after himself. It’s terrible.

And it seems to take so much intellectual effort that I quickly grab the excuse “I work 12 hours a day!”, and that I can’t be on 24/7. Or can I?

The days continue to go by and it seems harder and harder to catch the Zeno paradoxes in each hour. Even when I go out and get lost within Lausanne’s charm, the willing to explore and live it quickly fades away when I return home, with nobody to share the experiences with. It’s sadly quite similar to my experience in Coimbra, actually: the town seems to have so much potential, but there’s no point in discovering it alone, and when your friends are unwilling to do so because they “lived there all their lives”, even more discouraging it becomes.

It bears reflection. How do I get off of this circle?

I now understand why it’s so frightening to be alone, and left only with yourself. For when you find out that you’re the one keeping things from being what you want them to be, when you realize that the enemy sleeps within yourself, you face the highest measure of a man. For life is only as great as you dare to grasp, and in that struggle, you’re always on your own. It can get really creepy, and insomnia is granted.

So to Ibsen’s credit, he who stands alone is remarkably strong and courageous. But I still don’t think he will ever be the strongest, no, that title is for he who continuously tries to be genuine in the smallest act. And for that, you really need those you love and those you dislike around you.

Being alone, however, is one of the most frightening and at the same time most intriguing experiences one can get. It’s starting from nothing. It’s infuriating and ever-so-exciting!

Sunrise

2009-04-24T15:47:00.001+01:00

It descends from the sky and sparks the sails. The seemingly empty blows us away into seas unknown, and knocks us down from the dream we were sharing. I fight to go back into your arms, but the wind has distanced us too much. I desperately seek your whispers among the sound of crashing waves, only to find the sea singing in a language I don’t speak.

It’s disorienting; a high-bass explosion that blocks your hearing into the depths of your mind. And, for a short while, you swear to be able to hear the synapses within. As the other voices get louder, you struggle to make them hear you, in hopes that along the blind sea, another ship comes by. Though when such does happen, you drift apart once more, and are left alone with your echoes.

For a while, I thought it impossible – I had been dreaming for too long to wake up so suddenly. But the tomorrow is certain, gravity is unforgiving, and my world suddenly gets caught by another star.

A burden I call it! Having to keep an eye on my sails so that the wind doesn’t rob me from them as well. What is a ship without its sails? Nothing but a floating piece of wood. What is a tree without its roots? Nothing but debris. What is a man without his family? A lone, single drop of water in the immense ocean.

But through the thick and thin, through the blinding fog and the emerging colossal mountains from the shore across, I swear I can still taste the sand and the salt of our last sunset on my lips. I stop, breathe in, and lick them once more.

For after the sunrise, opportunity awaits.

Moonlight

2009-04-02T00:03:00.002+01:00

I leave the bedroom’s window shutters wide open. The street light is brightly reflected on the old tiles of my late neighbor’s house. It shines through vividly. A house long abandoned by those I used to say hello to, one that I often ignored since the day I stopped playing football and basketball in my backyard. Needless to say, me and my friends carelessly threw a lot of balls at the neighbor’s front garden. But it stood the test of time, and every night it bathes me with its light as if it were to say “hello”.
Into the night, I can sometimes see sparse stars and satellites, which I stare at for a few seemingly-eternal minutes. I recall what an ophthalmologist once told me, that myopians were able to see “extra” stars, once the disease reached a certain equilibrium between the “slightly-unfocused” and the “complete-mush” eyesight. Suddenly, a fairly distant memory comes to mind, where I was stargazing with a friend (and apparent old crush), and I was able to count more stars than she could. Perhaps not because I was (and still am) a myopian, but because I knew the trick. If I stared directly at the star, it would become harder to see. If I stared at its dark surroundings, my eyes would gather more light, and I was able to see them clearly. Straightforward physics and biology. How I wish the feelings involved were as straight as this.

Tomorrow, I release the sails and prepare them for the upcoming stormy wind. I’m moving to Switzerland, leaving my family and friends behind. Never did I imagine I’d have to commit such sacrifice for a career.
My family threw a party, complete with a cake and everything, wishing me the best of luck and ensuring me they were supporting my decision. I still ask myself if I’m worthy of such attention. They are my beacon of light in an otherwise pitch-black sea.

Old roommates tell me they always knew I’d do this, and that they’re with me every step of the way. College friends look and sound surprised, and still claim to be awed by the amount of courage required for such a move. And best of all, close friends remain how they always were.

I have no idea when I’ll update the blog once more. I hope it’s soon, but I don’t know if I’ll have internet access immediately. So I’ll leave it adrift once more, wishing to arrive at a beautiful sea shore pretty soon. In the meantime, I’ll keep trying to spot some extra-stars, documenting them thoroughly and eventually tell you all about it.

My best regards to all of you, my patient readers.

Stay safe.

2009-03-15T22:47:00.003Z

Geneva Airport '09 - Atlantean into the night

2009-02-19T00:34:00.003Z

Entry from the Boy’s Moleskine

11th February 2009 – “Atlantean into the night”

Dear Moleskine,

I sit somewhere in Geneva’s Airport, on the top floor, waiting for my 7:10 am flight. It’s now 10:47pm. A long night awaits me.
I somehow survived this day: woke up at 6am, took the plane to Geneva, and then the train to Nyon. At 2 pm I reached the Hospital and spent a day with the surgery unit’s nurses. Almost felt like a nurse again. Almost.
This lovely old lady grabbed my arm, and stated in perfect French “I admire the path you’ve chosen. Have a safe, happy destiny.”. I could barely thank her words. I really need to get my French back into shape.
Nyon’s hospital is much like a Portuguese one. In all its faults and qualities. In a way, I think the Portuguese are further along the path to “healthcare nirvana” (my orthography is becoming much like my mom’s. Oh no.). Go Portuguese!
Next week, the hospital shall call me and tell me whether I got the job.
In other news, I’ve realized something important: my endless quest(…) // blah, blah, blah, boring part //(…) I’m going to schedule a whole day for my lovely goddaughter.

If I go overseas, I’ll sacrifice more than I originally thought.

Geneva’s airport is amazing – well, not really. But there’s this lovely atmosphere among the nightcrawlers like myself. A long night awaits us all, and in the meantime, I’m taking pictures.

-//-

I’m sitting in a chair, and there’s a pretty girl trying to sleep on the floor. She looks unhappy.
I’ve ripped a page from the Moleskine and made a paper plane out of it. I wrote “You should smile more often! :)” inside. I threw it at her while she was sleeping. It landed on her side, not on her face, mind you. I’m getting out of here now.

-//-

The police just approached me to check who I was and what I was doing there on the floor (trying to sleep). Gave them my documents, they let me go excusing themselves for disturbing me. They kicked out a homeless guy. :(

-//-

I’m back at the chair. The girl is gone. She left the plane there. She opened it, but left it there. She could at least have put it in the garbage can. I took it back and put it in the Moleskine’s pocket.

-//-

The girl is downstairs with a few guys who are drinking and playing poker. They look my age. They seem to speak English. Oh well, I still don’t know how to approach a girl. Wonder if I ever will. On the other hand, how did I make so many female friends?

-//-

I couldn’t find a good place to sleep, so I ended up sitting where the girl was. How creepy is that? Anyway, I’ll try to sleep now, while my mp3 drives the noise coming from downstairs away.

-//-

Two guys just approached me. They’re from the group downstairs. Asked me to join them. They said “We’ve just met a guy from the UK and a girl from Russia. We’re getting to know random people and having a blast. Want to come with us?”. I said yes.

-//-

Harshal, Desmond, Craig and Rik. All of them from the UK. They were the ones drinking and playing poker. The floor’s a mess. The Russian girl is sleeping in one of the guys’ sleep sack. Harshal is incredibly friendly, he knows how to make someone feel welcome. Desmond seems to be a lot of fun, the kind of guy there’s never a dull moment with. Craig is the silent type. Doesn’t say much, but has a great sense of humor. Rik seems the most balanced of them all. Also a lot of fun, but doesn’t say as much as Desmond. Seems very tired too.

-//-

They are running out of alcohol, tired of playing poker. Rik and Desmond decide to drive the escalators, in their own fashion. I decided to record that and post it on YouTube:

-//-
We picked up the bottles on the floor, since the guards were starting to wonder if we’d clean up our mess. But instead of throwing them away, we lined them up like bowling pins and threw a boot at them to knock them off. We called it “boot bowling”.

Rik found a chair. Or rather, stole a chair from one of the Check-in counters. We decided to throw the chair around and eventually used both the chair and Rik to bowl:

After seeing the chair roll around, I said “You know what, we should steal another chair and RACE!”. A moment of silence followed. Desmond looked at me with a big smile on his face and said “Man, that is the most brilliant idea I’ve heard all day!”. And so we did. And yeah, we raced:

We then went upstairs, trying to get some sleep. Me and Harshal spent the rest of the hours talking. Everyone fell asleep. The Russian girl went between Desmond’s arms, who ironically was the only one with a girlfriend. I’ll say it again, I don’t understand attraction.

The night ended with a quick goodbye, as our planes got ready to take off. I said goodbye to Harshal, asked him to say so long to everyone else once they woke up. We parted ways, but with a smile on our faces: BEST. NIGHT. IN AN AIRPORT. EVER.

Sound crazy? Not as crazy as this:

The Move to the Big City

2009-02-16T21:56:00.001Z

A short movie called "Signs" by Patrick Hughes that I ran across today.

A lot happened this past week, and I'll update the blog soon.

In the Twilight

2009-02-01T22:56:00.017Z

I've been hunting for inspiring words, to eventually find a compass. Job offers on the table, great conditions to be reviewed, decisions to be made. None of them easy, none of them without sacrifice.

My praxis goddaughter somehow knew. "They say you're out of the country!", she writes me in an e-mail. I told no one I didn't need to, yet somehow the news reached Coimbra. Gossip travels far, that I knew. I just never thought I'd be an interesting topic, not even in my old college.

Sometimes time seems to be standing still, and I have no worries. Suddenly, it starts racing, faster than my legs will ever go, and taking the decision becomes all the more urgent And despite my previous courageous claims, my knees still feel weak when the moment comes. The moment to make important calls, the moment to arrange meetings, the moment to tell the red cross I can't support them in the time they need me the most. Troublesome, asphyxiating, beautiful.

Although my weakness, my one-too-many questions, my drifting reflections upon the decision, they, the inspiring ones, still make it sound simple. And they have no trouble knocking at my door, in the most unexpected of symphonies.

I sit here reading Jon Krakauer's epic, that Pips so kindly gave me (something I'm yet to bring retribution to), and for a split second, I had the urge to find Mark Twain's "The Damned Human Race", particulary that "Man is the Animal that Blushes. He is the only one that does it or has occasion to." verse. Maybe to somehow justify my weakness, against McCandless' unstoppable spirit. Krakauer sends you to the great unkown, in a very personal perspective. Not the kind of epic our portuguese ancestors accomplished.

And right when I go to Mark Twain's words, télépopmusik's Another Day (a song I rarely listen to) starts playing, as I read yet another famous quote. The following scenario, ensues:

"Twenty years from now, you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails." (Mark Twain)

"From here on end, you're on your own. Have fun, and, good luck." (télépopmusik)

Sunset

2009-01-24T22:21:00.004Z

Trail of light that teases me through the window, there is no sunnier moment in my day. A sudden grasp of your eyes, and troubles get washed away. I stretch my arms towards you, in the laziest embrace my dazed mind can achieve, after a night of rushed, profound sleep. Only in my dreams do I consume the oxygen around me, only in my dreams do I see you, but the breathlessness is always real. The curtains dim down the rush of new opportunity, as a single star in the sky directs my daily symphony. And never during the day do I stray from the distant horizon, I keep the distance close me. The falling rain satiates the crowd, but only occasionally am I graced with its healing touch. It’s beginning to get to me that the more I penetrate the ground, the more I wish for the wind to take me away, though I fail to spread my limbs to fly into infinity profound. An afternoon breeze dries the rain drops away, and blends the clouds to my horizon. The day comes to an end; chances succumb to the darkening sky. But no loss do I carry during the night so bold, for in my dreams, your hand I will hold.

Happy 2009!

2008-12-31T21:25:00.001Z

~Happy 2009, everyone!~

Have a romantic, breathtaking, heart rate-increasing, almost-unbelievable, new year, Paris style!

Make it unforgettable!

Happy Holidays

2008-12-24T22:18:00.002Z

Dear readers,

Happy Holidays! Be your motif christmas, hanukaa, kwanza, or simply yourself and your personal wonderful life, celebrate like never before. May you rediscover your love for those close to you, and the appreciation for those that are not-so-close.

I'll be updating the blog soon, even if it's just to wish you a happy new year.

Stay safe, take care, and enjoy the season!

The Christmas List - Jizz in My Pants

2008-12-18T13:40:00.001Z

I really can't come up with a fitting introduction to this, so I'll just say that if I could get my hands in their album, I'd know who to give it to. Awesome, HILARIOUS video to follow:

The Christmas List - Snuggie

2008-12-17T23:16:00.003Z

You didn't think it was over, did you?

For several years in highschool, we (students) hear about Nature's law of "the least amount of effort", to breathe life upon the most amazing things. And you can count on America to promote that idea in your everyday life!
If you have a ~~lazy fatass~~ friend/family member/sissy in your life that hates the cold, the Snuggie is perhaps the greatest present you can give. Specially if they just hate it when they're under the covers and need to stretch their arm out to do something (like picking something up, or flipping the pages of a book).
The Snuggie is pretty much a cover with sleeves, allowing you to interact with the world while it keeps you warm and cuddly. ~~And obese~~.

Creepy ad to follow:

I don't know about taking it to soccer/football/hokey/whatever games though. You know, hooligans might be watching you from afar.

Ambulances, Facebook and Turkish Girls.

2008-12-12T01:08:00.001Z

This is what facebook gets you into.

A turkish girl added me as a friend. She became an Erasmus student in Coimbra, and so, we've talked online on several ocasions. Mainly me trying to give her some tips, places to visit, things to do, etc. Pretty standard stuff.

Until her friend complains of stomach pain, to the point she can barely move, vomiting and a couple other symptoms. She opens up a chat window, and asks me where the hospital is. "Call and ambulance through 112!", I said. But after insisting so that I called the ambulance, I did. After leaving 3 people baffled on the other side of the phone for asking for an ambulance to a place I'm not at, they demand me for her phone number. I quickly asked her, and she took a few seconds to reply. Her reply? "I don't know!!". Yeah.
That's when I imagined what was going through the doctor's head on the other side of the phone: "Oh great, a prank call!".
Having apologized to the lady on the phone and giving her my personal contact, I finally managed to get the turkish girl to call them directly. Thankfully, it seems she was successful. I'm now waiting for the result of this whole - allow me to put it bluntly - clusterf*ck, and my heart's racing at probably 160 bpm. I'm too zoned-out to check, but that's my guess.

What I did was probably seen as a crime for a couple of seconds. I still wonder if the police is going to show up at my door for the call. I wonder if I'll be able to sleep tonight.

And this gets me thinking why, a person like me, who's seen a lot of crazy sh*t, has his heart racing so fast for a situation like this. I keep telling myself "it's because you simply care too much", but somehow that doesn't cut it.

Damn you, facebook.

Bloody Rich?

2008-12-10T14:49:00.002Z

A fellow blogger had this fun quiz, and I decided to try it out. Here are the results:

I advise you all to try it out. The descriptions just crack me up!

Tennis

2008-12-08T22:08:00.001Z

There's something I share in common with one of those friends that doesn't let much out. We both consider that we need to make ourselves better, achieve more goals and make our lives a lot more interesting before we meet with old "long-time-no-see" with friends. Mostly because if we don't, when telling them our lives are pretty much the same as they ever were, or even less interesting, we have to deal with some sort of "feeling of disappointment" delivered by the other person's look. And that might bring our self-esteem down a notch.
Evidently, while we seem to share the same fear, the way we deal with it differs. He runs away from the meetings, I pursue them. And while we were exchanging ideas over the reasoning each one of us made facing those meetings, I threw the oddest metaphor I've ever thought up.

When talking about the path we took to make ourselves better, it's like playing tennis. You read up on it, and then you practice with your close friends. They're other players that teach you a thing or two about tennis. But then you have to continue on your own for a while, to make sure you got it. And the only way to play tennis alone is having a wall, because if you don't, you have to pick up the ball each time and start over again and again. Those meetings with old friends are the wall. You use them to face off against yourself in an all-out match. You use them to measure just how confident you've become towards the steps you're taking and the path you've chosen to pursue.
It's been a long time since I bounced unusual metaphors like this in a conversation.

Top 5 Quotes Written on Cloth

2008-12-07T19:43:00.001Z

Throughout this year, I've collected a series of quotes printed on T-shirts of people I spotted on the streets. I've kept them written down on my cellphone, and the day I had to empty them out finally came. A lot of them were quite bland, but a few stick out. Not necessarily humorous, these quotes brought a smile to my face. So, here are the top 5 quotes written on cloth:

A girl wearing a parchment-colored Morgan top:
"Ceci est un top MORGAN - 100% sexy, un t-shirt a laver avec AMOUR"

A girl from my class wearing a (mostly) dark-violet top from my class:
"When I grow up, I'm gonna be even naughtier!"

A girl on the bus, wearing a dark green t-shirt:
"Make Awkward Sexual Advance, Not War"

A guy with a t-shirt in a night club, in Coimbra:
"An Awkward Morning Beats a Boring Night"

And finally, a guy on the train, with a light-green t-shirt:
"COME TO THE DARK SIDE...

...we have cookies!"

Again, about the interview.

2008-12-05T17:03:00.001Z

So I sent an e-mail to the irish ladies that informed me about being rejected for the job, asking them if they could provide me some feedback on my performance. Their answer? I did well in the interview, I simply was not what they were looking for.
I can't decide if they're sugar-coating it, or if they really did see right through me. Both possibilities don't make me feel any better.
Some used to tell me I was hard to read. Maybe that changed throughout time. And for some reason, I wish it hadn't.

Song for the Day

2008-12-05T13:31:00.001Z

Some fools don't know what's right from wrong,
But somehow those folks belong.
Me, I travel all I'm worth,
But I still remain a stranger on this earth.

Some people gloom, other folks fly.
Me, I got to struggle to keep alive.
Ever since the day of my birth,
I've been a stranger on earth.

I try to be what all folks should,
Forgetting the bad and doing good.
But no matter how I try,
My troubles always multiply.
I've been living the best I can
Ever since my life began.
The day is gonna come
when I don't have to prove my worth
I won't be a stranger on earth.

I've been living the best I can
Ever since my life began.
The day's gonna come when
I don't have to prove my worth
And I won't be no stranger,
Won't be no stranger
Won't be no stranger
On this earth.

Stranger on Earth, by Lisa Ekdahl

Unfortunate cookie

2008-12-02T23:15:00.002Z

Ah, I feel kind of sad. I shouldn't be mentioning this on the blog, since I did state that past posts were filled with depressing subjects, and that I'd move on to another direction. But I simply felt the urge to write it down, and the blog's pratically my new moleskine, so...

I got an e-mail from the irish company I had an interview with about a job offer. The e-mail simply said that "unfortunately", I was "unsuccessful at interview" (yeah, they left out the "the". I know, I'm picky, but I'm mad at them). I didn't want the job, and I pretty much lied to them when I said I saw my future in elderly care. That's one big lie. And they did show that they weren't so enthusiastic about my lack of experience. And most of all, I didn't want the job. At all.

I'm not sure if you can easily tell when someone doesn't really want something. Sometimes, I wish it was impossible to tell. Because all these arguments I'm making sound, at the end of the day, like excuses for my "unsuccess". I still wanted them to say "we want you to join us", even if I was going to reply with a "but I don't want to".

I look back and try to understand where I failed. For a start, I was really nervous. They sat me down in front of three different persons, asking me questions about three different areas (CV, ambitions and clinical questions). As prone to anxiety as I am, my english level seemed to fall down from its usual standard, and I had a hard time answering some of the questions regarding my ambitions (the ultimate ambition is clear, but the path, not so much). As for the clinical questions, I know I nailed every one of them, except this one question where I gave like 3 different possible scenarios (all of them correct, I checked), except the one they wanted. I eventually understood what they wanted me to reply, but they had to hint it.

I never expected to be rejected. My tutors say I'm lucky because I was able to get an internship at some top-notch healthcare units (neurosurgery, medicine, pneumology, pediatric surgery and oncology,...), they'd assured me I was smart and knowledgeable, and my friends tell me my english level is good. So I pretty much thought I couldn't lose. Guess I was wrong.

I'm feeling down, so down. I miss being a student, with all the ambitions, cravings, fun and frustration that came with it. All this time in unemployment, and I still haven't figured out if the world's mad at me, or if I'm mad at it, or even if I'm just mad at myself. Heh, maybe it's all three.

The Christmas List - Keyboard for Blondes

2008-11-26T23:22:00.001Z

'Tis the season of giving. So I'm creating a list of stuff I'd buy for several other people.

It takes a great sense of humor (and a lot of smarts to appreciate it), but that only serves as a garantee you'll get a few laughs should you offer your blonde friends this keyboard this season. The Keyboard for Blondes sells for $49.95 (US Dollars), and features 64 hilarious swaped-out keys. For example, the "Backspace key" is now called "Oooops!", the enter key's "YES!! I Want it!", and the space key is "The Big One: 'I need my space!' key". And to top is all off, the function keys (F1 to F12) spell "U S E L E S S K E Y S".
I can think of 3 girls I'd give this keyboard to as their christmas present. :D
And I wouldn't mind getting a "Das Keyboard" in return, just for the kicks!

Gaming, the 9th Art (or perhaps not)

2008-11-22T13:54:00.001Z

I used to be a real gamer. The kind that owned a games console. But my last adventure in that world came to an end when SEGA decided to discontinue the Dreamcast and became game software company instead. That right, I never owned a Playstation, and I don't plan to. And before I had this laptop, I had never played any recent games on the PC. Now that I have a capable one though, I've been playing every now and then, with much less enthusiasm than I had when I played, say, Sonic the Hedgehog, for example. But I'm still interested in the industry, and I find games fascinating, since more and more they're approaching the movie industry. In the present, you can find games with complex storylines that could result in a great movie, like Metal Gear Solid. But the best part of it all, is that it's interactive, and that's why it still fascinated me. They're nowhere near what they used to be like, "back in my day". Or are they?

The New York Times published a video called "Immersion", which you can find here. This video recorded the faces of several gamers while they're playing, and it captured quite a few hilarious and interesting reactions. I took some stills for you guys, but I really encourage you to watch the video.

One other interesting thing about this video is that the gamers are playing some M-Rated (as in, 17+) games, even though they're clearly underage.

I dare you to find a better picture for the word "Apathy" on the internet.

This gamer is playing the controversial Grand Theft Auto IV, for example.

Something tells me I used to look like that while playing games.

Or maybe I looked more like that.

But for the record, I've never danced like a douchebag when I won a game.

Bande À Part, indeed.

2008-11-15T00:12:00.003Z

It's about time I blog about this. My birthday week wasn't a complete wreck, despite the 'obstacles' of the particular day. On the 8th, me and Pips hopped to Porto for Nouvelle Vague's memorable concert. But the day can hardly be summed up to that.

I could stand here and talk about the hilarious drooling moment during lunch involving Pips and her drink, but I won't. Oh wait.

We actually went to the cinema and watched Burn After Reading, in one of the emptiest rooms I've ever been in. Which was a good thing because I don't think I've ever laughed as loud in a cinema room as I did that day. The movie is GENIOUS, in my opinion. I recommend it whenever you're feeling happy and naughty. Not too naughty, if you know what I mean. Brad Pitt's performance is awesome. The whole cast is pretty good, but Pitt takes the cake.

After dinner, with no new drink-accidents (see what I did there?), we went to Nouvelle Vague's concert. Oh my God. The second one of the main vocalists stepped on to the stage, I was in love. There was something magical about that being. I didn't catch her name, but I'd still put my life on the line for her. On stage, she was the kind of persons you'd wish there were more of. Not only was she french, with the cuttest voice I've ever heard, she acted so sweetly. Everything she did reflected a child-like innocence. She graced us with soothing melodies and a keen attention to detail. She lighted up sparks, put on vinyl discs and played this tiny little organ. I'm a sucker for this kind of girl.

Since there isn't a single good video of the concert online (oh, how I regret not having taken my camera!), I'll leave you a performance from some other one:

Later on, however, I concluded that she wasn't so innocent and that she's probably a freak on the bed. Allow me to explain. In the song "Dance With Me", she sings:

"Let's dance little stranger

Show me secret sins

Love can be like bondage"

She sang this not too long after I claimed "Let me be your slaaaaaave!!!". Later on, I found her name, which goes quite well with this observation. Mélanie Pain is the name of this mistress in disguise. Couldn't be any kinkier.

When the concert ended in Teatro Sá da Bandeira's old, romantic walls, Pips somehow endured my company for the whole night, since we had no way of going back home. Realizing the big mistake I made by walking nearly 12 Km that morning, my body almost couldn't stand being up for too long. I've also determined that the "I preffer english" thing is getting out of hand. Poor Pips had to stand hearing me speak in english for long periods of time. Such long exposure can't be good. But staying all the night awake actually reminded me of the nightshifts I pulled off during the clinical trials. Ah, saudade!

Being cold, starving, taking a cab to nowhere, and eating from a vending machine was totally worth it.

Chrono'ed Nurse

2008-11-14T00:04:00.001Z

So on November the fifth, I went down to Lisbon to have a Prometic test, prepared by the European Union for nurses. This test is part of a year-long selection program for 5 nurses to work on the EU's healthcare facilities. That's right, only 5 nurses for the entire european nurse population.
I've had several unanswered questions about these 'job opennings': first of all, which facilities are they talking about? No one can tell me anything, and e-mails have proven useless. Second of all, where are these facilities located? It's the EU, so there's lots of area to cover. But even so, I applied and took the test.
The first part of the exam tested our EU-knowledge: the different bodies, procedures, etc, etc. I was doing fine until they started asking specifics like "the xxx EU officer's name is...". I ask myself just how important is it that I, common (ok, maybe not so common, but let's not get into that) EU citizen, know the names of the men and women behind each body of the EU? Some bodies change officers within 6 months. But still there were only 2 or 3 questions like that, so out of 20, I guess I did ok.
The second part was quite interesting. It was mostly to test logic and numeric thinking. I like to think I did well on that, I was pretty confident by the end of the exam. But the interesting part was that I actually learned with the questions. Unexpectedly, these were related to all sorts of knowledge-areas, from art to politics. When I was studying for the test, it certainly did not occur to me review what I know about Dalí and Tutankhamun's death.But then again, you didn't actually need to know much since the answers were pretty much in the questions themselves. After going through a few graphs and math problems, I reached the 3rd part of the exam.
This on was not actually an exam, but rather a survey that they'd use to gather our opinion on the test. I was happily filling the comments bracket when, all of a sudden, the computer informs me that I ran out of time to complete the survey.

That's right, the survey was timed. What. In. The. World. I got out of the testing room and the tutors asked me what I thought of the exam. I quickly replyed that it was as if they had given me the most unexpected present, allowed me to enjoy it for long enough so I had become attached to it, then suddenly took it away from my arms, and locked me outside the door of a beautifully christmas-decorated house with a huge fireplace and a happy family inside.

It's not everyday I get the surprised expressions of Lisbon's inhabitants. Usually the apathy and smiles with an underlying "eh, cute." are part of the daily menu. I've always thought they were so used to the clusterf*ck that big cities are, they wouldn't mind a kid lashing out such a cruel metaphor. Guess I was wrong.

Commenting on the Blog

2008-11-13T11:03:00.002Z

I noticed it wasn't possible to add comments with the current layout. I've fixed the problem. I would like if you readers pointed out things like that to me, please? :)

Train Sickness

2008-11-12T21:31:00.004Z

Dear blog,

I did it again. I just couldn't help myself. This time, the victim was leaning by the train's window, her eyes heavy and slightly wet. Though not crying, it was perhaps the saddest person I've seen in recent memory. To top it all off, she was really pretty. Long, wavy brown hair, big brown eyes to match, and an elegant neck (that's right, I like necks).

But the saddness in her eyes really struck me. And so, armed with a mechanic pencil and a single sheet of paper, half of which printed with a map, I wrote down how lovely I thought she looked, and that she should smile more often (cliché!). I cut a tiny bit of the paper, and much like what happened with the blonde girl, I gave the note to her right before I exited the train.

There's something about these actions that make me wonder. Number one I ask myself would be 'why the heck have I done this?' and number two is 'what is up with their weird/apathic reaction?'.

If a stranger approached me on the train and handed me a note, I wouldn't just think "oh that's... strange.", I would go "what the heck does he/she want? No way I'm touching that without asking what it is first.". But they just look slightly confused, and accept it as if it was... well, something boring. Granted, she was sad and all, but her reaction might just be the confirmation that I have some sort of disease.

I bet that if a certain friend of mine read this, he'd ask me when do I plan to grow the balls to actually talk to these girls instead of leaving them untraceable notes. Something tells me that it would be even weirder if I approached them like that.

But most of all, I think it would take away what makes the note seem genuine in its message (anonymity). I do get the feeling I do what I do because sometimes, I wish someone, out of the blue, genuinely, made me feel good about myself after a crappy day. It's with that intention I do what I do.What a strange disease this is.

Not only do I wonder what their reaction after reading the note really is, I wonder what would happen if I met any of them again.

So readers, help me out. Would they:

a) Slap me accross the face;

b) Run away from me;

c) Ask who I was and if I was stalking them;

d) Other?

Turn the colors to red

2008-11-10T23:51:00.002Z

Turn the colors to red, and let them shred in brown. There’s no place like autumn’s lap, where rain is not the merciless flood of winter, and the sun is not the uncharitable heat wave of summer.

Autumn is an orphan saxophone, whose resonance is only matched by the constant dripping of the wet rooftops, the same you dodge as you linger the streets.
I’ve often figured to be better off containing my comfort inside the fireplace-lit fortress, holding a hot cup of tea between my stone-cold fingertips, under two layers of covers and my favorite feline on top of my feet. But such pleasures never really did seem to achieve their promises of safety.

I’m still sleeveless, and I haven’t added any covers to my bed, despite the ongoing threats of the weatherman. I still walk out the doors between 5:30 and 6 pm, tighten up my sneakers, and rush to the dim-lighted running track.

This season’s raindrops stimulate the numerous skin cells covering my head, and resonate like autumn’s saxophone. An imposing melody flashes through the electrical nervous impulses as they impact, threading an electrical storm that sooths me and simultaneously excites me.

As I begin to step forward, the wind’s no match for me, the inertia is mercilessly ignored. My lungs are filled, my heartbeat is as slow as it has ever been. The impact of my feet crafts the finest melody along with the caressing voices whispering through the headphones. For the briefest seconds I’ve got the world within my grasp.

But such a sweet thing quickly extinguishes itself as the cold grabs me by the throat, and my legs begin to weaken. Breathlessly I end the race, and the heart takes its time to settle. Stronger runners cross my away, as if to remind me I still have a long way to go if I want to reach them. Sudden silence and disappointment should fill me, but for some reason, the cruelty of taking away such an overpowering feeling, makes it all the more addictive, all the more perfect.

A Clean Breakaway

2008-11-10T22:13:00.003Z

Dear readers,

I told Pips that, after going hiatus, it felt like I had left a child locked out in the cold. In a way, I had to do that, for this child had to find a new direction, and after a month of intense insights, I feel ready for it. I’m simply trying to ban the negativity, disappointments and fears I usually encrypt in the posts. It’s not to say that the blog will change much, who knows, I might fall back on to the same cycle. But one always tries to swim against the tide, right?

One obvious change is the layout, which I’m unsure if it will work on most browsers. So, if you use Firefox, Google Chrome or Safari, let me know if something seems out of place to you. Ironically, the layout works in IE 7, but doesn’t work as well in my favorite web browser, Opera.

Lastly, the list of blogs I follow has been expanded: H2O Tinto, Modus Probandi, Vox Conscientiae, Extraordinariamente Comum and Jérôme Mireault’s lovely art blog are the newest additions. Be sure to check them out.

No Fishing Zone

2008-10-06T11:17:00.004+01:00

I was trying to figure out a propper introduction to this post, but I might as well go straight to the point:

I'm going hiatus for undisclosed reasons.

See you guys!

Something brilliant

2008-10-05T15:08:00.002+01:00

Público's site published the winners of the 2008 IgNobel in the several cathegories:

Check them out.

Wind Blown

2008-10-03T19:19:00.004+01:00

As the search for a job continues, my ecosystem spreads its influence on me, and entangles me in its web, with bits and pieces of scattered whispers, and a few coincidences.

"They say they've been hiring a lot in Switzerland", a friend's mom tells me, and after a lenghty conversation about working abroad, I quickly trash the idea of going to such country, telling myself that my french isn't enough.

On the same night, Patrícia asks me why I haven't considered french-speaking country, and I dodge the issue with the same consideration once again. But her wonder prevails, and she counters with a "I know someone who's working in Switzerland!". Somehow I accept the e-mail address of such person.

The next day, in the evening, that same person contacts me, and tells me exactly what I had to do to go to Switzerland, and what I need to look for a job there. She echoes that my french would be more than enough, and that I would soon recover all the vocabulary.

The next morning, I run into my former french teacher, who asks me "Why don't you try Belgium?!", the country she was born. "I'll translate your CV! I've been translating several lately.", she says. I confirm her contact, get home, and sit back wondering if there's something nature is trying to tell me.

Such string of coincidences point to a direction I've been rejecting, although now, it begins to seem viable. Such a leap, such a distance from my beloved english, such a dive into my neglected, lethal enemy, french.

The current is strong, the wind screams in a high tone, as if it were as tired as I. Wouldn't you wonder, if Darwin's words went beyond the mathematical equation that dictates the future as it belongs to the fittest? What if Max Ehrmann was right? What if the universe is indeed developing as predicted, although it might not be clear to us?

This Boy's Future

2008-09-26T14:13:00.004+01:00

Every week, CVs are sent through the mail, phone calls are made, hospitals are visited, and time seems to stand still.

This week I applied to 4 hospitals, 2 of them actually include several hospitals, and I'm now a participant in a EU program to fill 5 nursing vacancies. And this one's actually a LONG one, it will take up a whole year, if not more. Not to mention that it's so darn hard, that I'll have to read up on a LOT of documents about the EU. From the moment they sent me the mock-up test, I thought to myself "Oh what did I get myself into...".

But things like these bring some excitement to the life of the unemployed, and prevent me from feeling like a complete loser. As frustrating as it is, it also drains your self-confidence, as it keeps you away from the successful somebody you want to be.

Yesterday, she sent a sms claiming that she was hating her job and getting somewhat depressed for working in the middle of nowhere, far away from her family and significant other. I thought I had felt bad for others before, but in no other circunstance did I feel like a dagger was thrusting deep to the heart as in this particular moment.

Certainly it's not terrible, working where she is has its good things. But it makes me wonder exactly how much we'll have to sacrifice to get a job in this god forsaken nursing market. I wonder, if the job I'll eventually get will satisfy me and motivate me to keep up a cheering atitude towards my ambitions. I wonder if it will be enough to feed me the strenght I need to become the man I envisioned.

The truth is, without a job, or something you simply NEED to do, life feels empty. And my favourite nursing tutor once told me that, once you get a job, it will dominate your life to the point you might have trouble finding anything to fill yourself with. So, in both scenarios, I risk ending up with an unfulfilled life.

Of course there are other things, like friends and beloved ones, that keep you happy and fulfilled. But it seems to me that it's not enough.

Right now, there's only one thing that keeps me afloat, and that's an Eleanor Roosevelt quote that sits in one of my room's walls. It reads, simply,

"The Future Belongs to Those Who Believe In The Beauty of Their Dreams"

Such simplicity fills me with ever-so-much hope in my potential.