Winter Cold Remedy

The ice age era is upon us or, at least, upon those of us who feel they have acclimatized to the wintery continental weather, yet are as comfortable with temperatures below zero as much as tractors are accustomed to running on rubbing alcohol. Among the followers of this particular category is also my cold-oppressed self, who underwent a wonderful experience just yesterday, when I had the privilege to stand in the cold and snow for no less than three hours. By ‘stand’ I really mean stand and/or sit while the walking part took too little to be mentioned here. The reason, you ask? Well, simply taking pictures.

You might ask yourself why I would up and snap shots in the cold and then complain about it. Well, of course, nothing is as simple as it appears at first glance: first of all, I went outside to learn how to take pictures during a photography course I’m taking so it was not exactly my unrestrained wish. Second, this was the first practical session I took part in so I couldn’t complain much on the spot (although, God knows I’d have loved to be able to do so!). and third, I omitted donning my skiing outfit while strolling through a local park but, had I known that winter photography can be easily compared to arctic expeditions, I’d have thought better of it.

You see, photography requires, among other things, working hands, preferably non-shaking  ones, and, trust me, gloves fail to serve any purpose in such a situation, because taking pictures with gloves on is worse than having animals without opposable thumbs do it. Also, frosted, non-responding feet tend to complicate matters more, because – as one might know from merely walking – joints have to work properly in order to carry you around. Ears? Who needs them; they can be left outside, subject to the piercing cold, and a person like me is reluctant to wear hats (especially considering the size of a hat that would contain my dreadlocks). And red ears make for a very nice, camera-friendly contrast to the snowy surroundings. Nose? Don't even mention it! Although you might not be very interested to know, its functions work abnormally well in dire conditions (if the goal is to produce a protective film of frozen mucus all the way to your lower lip).

So, after some three hours of doing this (although ill-omened rumours said it wasn’t that cold), I drove stiff as a crash-test dummy straight into a hot bath hoping to regain some sense in my limbs and to be able to properly articulate words again. And, after soaking for a while, the thick layer of ice finally melted, revealing my pink-complexioned tegument all warm and fuzzy... until I left the bathroom and realized that the rest of the house is not as cosy and snug as were my expectations. The only sensible thing to do was get into bed and hope to sleep the cold off; only that proved to be more difficult than I imagined: I was still refrigerated and the sneezing wouldn’t stop. So I turned to the last resort my mind was able to produce: I clapped together a winter jogging outfit any true athlete would have envied me for, with which, I decided, I wouldn’t suffer any more. I found some woollen socks, a jacket and – la piece du resistance – a woollen hat. Which I wore. To sleep. 

Malaysian Moment

Even though Malaysia’s KL didn’t satisfy my oh-so-refined tastes in cityscapes and urban planning and activities, KL is home to one of the finest moments in human kindness and is responsible for one of my dearest Southeast Asian memories. That is, on top of all mishaps that went on there (the three trips to KL’s busiest, most famous electronics shopping centre for a new netbook cable being just the tip of the iceberg of lost patience and nerve wrecking Malaysian experiences) providence, the gods, karma or whatever, gave me a short but fulfilling occurrence in return.

After the daily afternoon rain, I was aimlessly wandering on the capital's streets when I decided I needed some nourishment, preferably in the form of meat-less food; as much as I love Indian food, the choices at hand were not to my timely tastes or to my budget at hand and the Chinatown market was missing one important element, that is the owner of the food stall that fed me the previous days a choice of fried noodles or fried rice, him being the only one as all the other cooks don’t serve much except meat in various shapes, sizes and combinations. So I headed away from the market (some might call it an open-air food court barricaded on all sides by little Chinese kitchens on wheels), and found a nice corner place where my culinary requests were understood and were about to be met.

The place was crowded, packed to the ceiling with hopeful locals who stormed through their foods and left, only to make room for more hungry people, but I played my tourist card and claimed a whole table for myself and my trusty sidekick, THE KINDLE, and waited (somewhat impatiently) for the noodles to make their way towards my eager appetite. As seats were hard to get, an elderly lady politely asked if she could sit down and I happily offered her a choice of four or five seats waiting for someone bold enough to sit with the tourist.

She sat down and insisted on engaging me in an extensive interview, as if she was there to give me a full psychotherapeutic assessment: where I came from; what I do; where I’ve travelled and where I wanted to go next; what religion I was and how many siblings I had. I scrupulously answered every question to my best abilities, not forgetting to mention how sorry I was for not having enough time for a proper visit of her home country and city. She was thrilled by my interest in her life and home and proceeded to tell me how, after the recent passing away of her husband, she visited her daughter in Hong Kong:

‘It was beautiful, but I don’t want to go again. It was too tiring, too confusing... You must be so brave to travel alone...’

‘Well, if I meet people like yourself, it’s a pleasure to travel...,’ I retorted.

We went on chatting until she paused:

‘I must buy you a tea. You know, the tea here is great, not too sweet... usually, everywhere else they serve tea that’s too sweet...’

I tried to refuse as politely as possible because I felt she was already being too nice but mostly because I like tea as much as cats like to take baths; but there was no way she’d back down. So I got the tea.

‘Do you like it? Drink, drink. It’s not too sweet, is it?’

‘Oh, no, it’s great, thank you!’ I said gulping down another mouthful of black tea with milk, just to get the thing over with. Honestly, it wasn’t all that bad, except for the taste of, well, tea.

‘Be careful not to burn yourself.’

Still, she wasn’t happy. She seemed to be thinking; she looked around in her handbag and handed me a bag of fruit candy. She insisted I take it, the candy being a great energy booster, yet, again, not too sweet. She’d only opened the bag a couple of hours before so I could be sure they weren’t expired. And they were sooo good... Refusing her was not an option. So I ceremoniously took the bag, thanking her the best I could, all the while making a mental inventory of the contents of my bag so I could return the gesture, alas to no avail. I thought she would leave after finishing her tea, but she proceeded to explain to me where the most beautiful Kuala Lumpur temples were, which I surely must visit. And still, her kindness was not over: she rummaged through her bag again and this time she produced a half a dozen of nicely wrapped drugs.

‘This you might need,’ she said showing me the drugs. ‘They’re antihistaminics. Very expensive so don’t throw them away. If you have a headache or stomach problems you can use them. But not more than one at a time.’

‘You’re too kind and I thank you very much, but I have a lot of medicine...’

‘Oh, no, no. You must take them. Here. I have some more. And I’ll give you these as well. Here’s ten of them. Use them. You travel a long time so you need them.’

By this time I was half impressed and half embarrassed and just a tiny little bit sceptical about the wonder-drugs that I couldn’t say anything but thank her again. Refusing was, as you might have guessed, still out of the question.

‘Well, I have to go now,’ she said. ‘Don’t pay for the tea, I will handle it. Don’t let them charge you for it. Tourists get into this kind of trouble so be careful.’ But she didn’t get up. She looked tired and lonely. But she was determined to be the best spokesperson for a country I hadn’t enjoyed so much until then.

‘Can I give you something?’ she asked.

‘Oh, you gave me so much already, I couldn’t...’

‘Oh, no, wait. I told you I was a Buddhist? Well, I want to give you something for protection, something you can take with you.’ and she searched around for a small string bracelet in her wallet. ‘I make these,’ she said holding the bracelet with both hands. ‘It will help you, I’m sure... Can I tie this on your bag?’ Of course, I agreed and she tied a wonderful bow on the side of my bag and petted it lovingly, blessing it while doing so. Finally, she was satisfied. And so was I. But the smile on her face while soundlessly chanting a small mantra when she tied the strings on the bag was the best gift she gave me.

Dominator

So, after a long and fruitful (self)inquiring, I finally decide I should get a bike for at least a week to go and do a little country tour, starting at my work place and making my way south to the jazz festival I wanted to see since forever.

The night before leaving I go and see my future steel horse and its full-fledged master, and make a complete fool of my having-over-ten-years-a-driver’s-license self while trying to make a U turn with the 650 Honda Dominator. I succeed in inching my way round a light pole in a supermarket parking lot, saying “Oh, yeah, it’s fine, just that it’s turning around its own axis in a surprisingly small circle – yeah, I know how that happens…” Ahem…

The next morning I put my luggage on the bike at the price of perspiring to the point of total dehydration and proudly leave town: I am a biker and, moreover, I am a girl biker and finally, I am a girl enduro biker, with the right kind of helmet and all (well, actually with no boots, just sandals, no jacket, just a hoodie… Still!).

100 km later I get to work and try to look dignified while getting off the damn thing which tried to roast my right calf with its exposed engine! After the “wows” and “ohs” I give up my poker face and silently admit that my inner self is bursting into a very distressed state with the occasional spots of horror at the only now realized fact that I’m travelling with a vehicle from which I can barely touch the ground and which, if fallen down, will take the strength of two grown men to be reestablished in a properly working position. In a word, I’m screwed. Totally. Screwed.

Still, I admit I did this to myself and I cannot be so close to Geamăna lake (actually the mine dumps, reachable by Dacia and/or bike) and not try to get there. So one evening, after finishing early, I decide to ride there and take a look around.

Not a bad start: I smoothly ride uphill waving at the locals and nodding at passing cars, being safely hidden by the helmet’s bulging lower jaw and huge visor. After some doubtful bends, wanting to get lower, closer to the water, I ride downhill on the dusty, rocky road, congratulating myself for being wrong when I first deemed the cross-like tires unworthy of my quest, but end up balancing the bike with my own shifting-where-needed weight; not one of my better moments, but definitely an efficient one.

After slaloming between picturesque cows, I finally get that the place has little visitors (especially motorcycled ones) by observing the native dogs, which can be easily grouped into two categories: Titanic and Braveheart. As their name suggests, the Titanics sink to the bottom of their own little oceans, while doing what the orchestra on the Titanic did (keep in mind, the reference solely concerns the movie script): they continue on doing whatever it was they did before, which grossly amounts to doing nothing (mind you, not even glancing in the bike’s direction). The Bravehearts are no less the exponents of their respective category: while not quite shouting “freedom!”, they do give their all and dive headfirst for their cause, regardless of the perils; in other words, they throw themselves full speed at the front the wheel, the back wheel, the engine or the general direction of the bike and run beside it ‘till the bitter end (which, as opposed to Braveheart, is not death, but fatigue).

People are quick to give me directions but totally lack in existence when I get to the crossroads which can either take me home, or to some remote village on even on worse country roads. It is not even mentionable, but I take the wrong road and only realize it while driving uphill on an impossibly narrow side of the road. And by “impossible”, I mean definitely not possible for me because of my state of chickenshit. So I decide to back up in spite of my not really touching the ground. Backing up by literally millimeters, I lose my balance and, in the hustle of the moment, I grab the rotting wooden fence on my side, which, incidentally, gives in and only produces some cuts and bruises on my palm while I am still falling to the ground on my left with 180 kg of bike on top of me. I awkwardly shamble from under the bike and freeze when I see the little spring of gasoline happily squirting in the alarmingly growing puddle on the road. When I finally succeed to stop the gasoline from flowing all the way to the Danube, I start panicking, thinking that I will have been left without gas completely. Still, the bike must stand on its wheels again so, in the rush of the moment, I clutch one side of it and jerk hard.

Nothing. Well, maybe just some centimeters off of the ground. But not enough. No more strength. A growing tingling feeling in my lower back. Adrenaline level: abruptly, totally freefalling. Judgment slowly creeping back. A thought finally taking shape: must find help. Strong help, of course, because otherwise I’ve got nowhere. Surely, country folk are strong from all their country activities and will be undertaking their country activities out here – in the country. And, most likely, they will be eager to help me, a poor, mad girl, lost on these back roads. I only have to locate them for this:

15 minutes later I hurry back to the bike alone, being convinced that all the country folk have been undertaking their country activities in hiding (needless to say that just a few minutes earlier there were lots of country folk in their own country!). Also, I started having this obsession that some professional motorcycle thieves will come the moment I turn my back and will steal the bike.

So, after I dragged the bike a few meters down in a sort of ditch left by the wheels of some cars or tractors, I put all my strength, determination and insanity into getting the bike back on its wheels; and behold: I inexplicably succeed!

The last couple of meters backing up only took about 20 minutes. Each.

Labour Day II

As a privileged escort in the maternity ward, if you wanted to go outside and say, smoke a cigarette, you’d find that there’s no way to get back in because all the doors had card/badge based entry. And so, being separated from your worldly possessions, and accompanied by some tens of husbands/boyfriends and family members all awaiting the wonderful news of the new added offspring and all trying to peek inside stretching their necks like giraffes whenever the doors to the heavenly wards opened (this is because they were not part of the fortunate few and had to leave their spouses all alone during labour, thus winding up in the waiting room aka the entrance hall of the maternity hospital), and so, as I was saying, I wanted to get back inside, in my warm (although disturbingly noisy and visually harassing) little corner next to my by now yelping friend (yelping is right because after seven or eight hours of labour, you sort of lose your enthusiasm and stop acknowledging every little cry of pain).

What I failed to mention is that, on this lovely winter day, in mid January, the percentage of little creatures coming to life was overwhelmingly favoring the (more) colored population of Cluj, meaning that most of the hang-arounds in the waiting room were, more or less, of the gypsy persuasion; meaning that the amount of uncoordinated colors on the backs of these people was, just like the volume of their conversations, immensely high. Also, the quantity of facial hair was definitely imposing, so much so as not to get anyone second-guessing the bearer (moustaches are a well groomed trait of gypsies… preferably male).

Everything made my throat dry like sandpaper and had me swallowing as if my tongue were the size and shape of a tennis ball. Yet I had to look calm and peaceful for the sake of the ones truly suffering (of course, that was not the best time to point out that the sufferings were self instilled and so annulled any type of rightful complaints) and had to keep my cheerful nature (ha!) so as to always be remembered as the friend who was there in times of need (I have yet to find a better means for extortion!).

Finally, the future father arrived in the waiting room, having some friends over as well (because they figured, what the hell?! It will eventually happen and the more supporters the better. Also, parties can occur in the most unexpected places). Having no scrubs or anything the least bit resembling hospital clothes (as opposed to me, who got the hospital props from well-intended doctor friends), he had to wait outside, fussing and fidgeting, looking awfully concerned. By that time, we were all a little edgy and were waiting for the blessed moment of birth, just to be able to go home and reprogram our minds the best we can and simply shut the memory of the whole day out (at least that’s my personal take on things).

In the end it came; or the end came; or, rather, she went; inside; where, because of my special condition, they cordially invited me to assist, participate and observe the act that they call the great miracle of childbirth. To their dismay, I refused the wonderful offer and contemplated the beauty of not participating (for which the father probably despises me even as we speak): my frown disappeared, my exhaustion faded away and my whole being came back to being! Only for an hour or so, during which the husband sprinted closer to the OR and paced around nervously, just like a rally car, and I tried (unsuccessfully) to organize my after-the-birth time, as in: where to drink, what to drink and when (if ever) to stop, just to wash away the memory… I planned it all well: as soon as she got out, I’d offer my congrats and scram! I would not even take a shower; I’d just leave the car somewhere and run to the first open joint to drown my sorrows. But reality tricked me yet again…

…and the child came screeching. Everybody was exulting greatly, rejoicing and celebrating, all under the spiteful eyes of the other pregnant laboring women, awaiting their own match (I’m not saying that women are defeated, on the contrary: they win, in spite of their battle scars but Mother Nature puts up quite the obstacle course). The father was thoroughly prepared, with a camera to (literary) flash in front of the newborn’s eyes, and he gave it to the doctor, who turned out to be a pretty good photographer.

First picture of the baby: shot by his personal photographer, chief surgeon doctor dude.

But, sadly, I was not spared: the midwife proudly presented the kid to its father, right in front of the OR, before taking it to the newborn ward. No sooner than she exited the OR and showed the kid to the father, she scanned her surroundings and harshly declared that there has to be somebody else that must see the baby. And her sharp eyes stopped when they identified me and acquired my identification features. I sheepishly obeyed and glanced in the direction of her protective arms, only to be shattered to my bones. She was holding ET!!! And he was brown. With bulging closed eyes. Completely. Brown. Puffy. With a strange sheen to its wrinkled, brown skin. I grimaced uncontrollably and tried to hide behind the husband from the merciless glare of the midwife-robot, who obviously wouldn’t tolerate such behavior and in a second would use her flamethrower to eliminate me, the enemy of the newborn, who does not appreciate The Miracle. I was relieved to see them go, kid trying to scream, midwife hovering protectively, like a mummy gorilla on her way to the watering area.

I gulped back sobs of horror and imagined breathing in a bag for the next month or so, but then something distracted me from my living nightmare. Next to the not fully aware husband, enter the wife, the mother, the (forever indebted) friend, riding head-first on a stretcher, being completely soaked, scared and still hurting! A nurse told us to try to calm her down and massage her belly to stop the contractions (say what?! yes! apparently the body is not aware that it gave birth right away; it will eventually realize that but it takes at least an hour to come to that conclusion, hour in which there’s someone who tries to get some sense into the body sooner by massaging it). Around this magical time the husband went green, and, shortly after, ghostly white like a muse-less sheet of paper and had to excuse himself to go retch or smoke or something. As much as I wanted to extend my congratulations (or rather, my condolences), I realized I had to stay and rub the belly, which is a little too much for me in terms of physical contact with people of the same sex, regardless of the friendship type. So I rubbed as instructed: clockwise, applying the same pressure, not stopping. My trials were not over but my own little heavenly cloud was definitely assured! And then, between fading sobs of pain and drug-induced states of peacefulness and calm, she said something truly breathtaking: “Remind me never to want to give birth again!”

Epilogue

Celebrating this day all my life, never to be able to get it out of my memory, this is to mark the second year post-the-most-traumatizing-day-of-my-life. Happy birthday, Aron!

Labour Day I

Have you ever wondered why the word “labour” defines both hard work and the excruciating pains that occur right before (and slightly during and after) the act of giving birth? Well, trust me, it’s because the acts are quite similar, in aspects so obvious you simply fail to acknowledge…

There they are, right in front of your (naïve, not yet fully aware of the magnitude of the situation) eyes, and you just cannot see them; women, especially tend to consciously ignore them, being socially and culturally programmed to believe that the act of creating life is the most wonderful, fulfilling, enchanting and meaningful gesture in the universe. Fulfilling is right, as it completely fills you (filling you with tears will be the least of your worries) in ways most human creatures – those who, fortunately, are blissfully oblivious to the miracle of life -- wouldn’t endure.

Men, on the other hand, don’t care so much about such details, yet still they’re bound to remember some days of their lives better than others, because of the unforgettable, monstrous and – ironically – natural event of the most beautiful day of their lives (or, at least, that’s what the birth days of our offspring are called): some say it’s a special day, a special event, a special feeling, yet I now know that this kind of special means only that people are polite enough not to say it’s mind-numbingly horrendous and not so hypocrite to say it’s beautiful.

I’ve been in labour and I’ve laboured through it. And trust me: it’s everything they say it is!

So, it’s 1 pm and I get this call:

-       Hi! My water just broke, come take me to the hospital ‘cause my husband’s at work and cannot come for some hours.

-       Good god! Stay put, I’m on my way! Don’t worry! Everything’s okay!!! …!!! Sheesh…!!! Err… I’ll get you… err… umph… whatever! Don’t panic!!! Oh, yes! Breathe!!!

-       Relax! I’m making myself a sandwich and, by the time you get here, I’ll have already ate this and you can come help me to the car and carry my bag and my blanket and…

-       Yeah, sure, I’m coming, on my way!!! Don’t panic!!!

And I’m off. Never before has downtown Cluj seen such a small car with such speed and determination (and by this I mean that I aimed to scream/honk at anyone standing/driving in my way, while being totally diligent in not hitting the brakes at any cost, all of this with great care for the safety of the passenger-mother-to-be). By the time I got to her place she calmly made me sit and wait until she eats, dresses and takes all measures to leave everything shipshape. She almost insisted on tying her shoelaces all alone (although pregnant women tend to get some kilos in front of them, which usually leads not only to instability, but also to the inability of bending over, making simple everyday procedures nearly impossible), but relented when she realized that her labour could end sooner than humanity could invent the shoelace tying robot.

My five phone calls on my way to the hospital got me nowhere nearer to any form of assurance for my wellbeing, so I had nothing more to do than just stay there, look confident and calm and wait for a while ‘till the husband showed up. Or just until she got on the other side of the fence that divides the healthy from the (self-inflicting) sick (or just the too slow-witted to know better than to have children).

But oh, the inhumanity! When we got there we got the silent (and indifferent treatment) and the nurses ignored us and treated us like any other still-pregnant-but-by-now-in-labour couple who had shamelessly wandered in the hospital, seeking care and know-how in the special art of childbirth. It shattered my world! I wasn’t going to take this! I was going to get her to the starting point and then just stay on the side, maybe go further away and get live updates with no visuals (maybe even congratulate her at the finish line)! I was going to be the do-gooder but still keep out of it. I was going to give birth to a life, yet not have to be there to do it…

My doctor-resident-friend finally arrived to tell us that it’s not over yet, that we’ll have to wait, that we had a bed and everything, and that I should resign to waiting like everybody else does. I considered disappearing, pretending to go get coffee and just run away; I couldn’t. Seeing the pain and horror deeply engraved in my friend’s features, I decided to stay; to hold her hand; to encourage her; to (unsuccessfully) try to shut out the cries of pain of the other women around us and just concentrate on our own cries and shrieks.

Panic ruled just like a communist dictator. In just two wards women ready to pop, women who already had popped minutes before, and a fortunate few with acquaintances “on the inside” crammed together, spreading terror and anxiety like the black plague. Different cries of pain, many ohhs and arrghs clashed together in so many different voices and timbres that it was hard to be sure which one came from mine own throat. Not only were the future mothers-to-be scared of the impending pains and suffering, but the ex-pregnant women who came back to the wards on stretchers, bearing IVs hinted that the experience was not the least bit similar to a walk in the park.

The traffic was something terrible. All around us everybody wanted to get somewhere, preferably somewhere else than their current spatial positioning, which led to everybody (pregnant, un-pregnant, doctors, nurses, midwives) running around in different directions, but getting in the same place over and over again. It was like looking at some racing circuit: any single person that drove away eventually came back, only to start their own race (against no one in particular) all over again. But everybody was happy to feel important by just moving around.

And on top of everything else, going to clear my thoughts (and mostly my eyes!) on the corridor in front of the wards only subjected me to the horror of the truly nightmarish experience of actually giving birth (going even further away meant just getting to the newborn section which was certainly worse): opposite the wards was the operating (pain inflicting, urgent drug administrating) room, from where the vociferations of “Push!!! Now! One more time…” and “I CAN’T DO IT ANYMORE!!!” were mercilessly piercing right through my internal ear. The luckiest moments were when I also had a little, just a little (but enough to last me for a lifetime) visual contact with the activities undergoing behind the doors that made women screech like the breaks of a train on a rusty railroad track. And trust me: nobody wants to know that in any detail whatsoever!