Making Friends in Exotic Places

Last fall, we made a sort-of-last-minute trip to Athens, Greece to take care of an eye condition for my younger son, Tian Tian. When you think of medical tourism, Athens isn’t the first place that comes to mind. In fact, people there often raised their eyebrows and said, “We usually go to your country for that.” But for our son’s condition—keratoconus—one of the best corneal surgeons in the world happens to work in Athens. I’m glad he works there and not, say, Syria.

Our neighbors in Athens

We found an apartment through Airbnb and chose to live like regular Athenians, or rather Athenians that couldn’t speak Greek. It was fun living in a normal neighborhood, shopping at the supermarkets and bakeries, and acting like we’d lived there our whole lives—except we got lost a few times. Plus, it was a lot cheaper than a hotel. During our ten days there, nearby shop owners and residents started to recognize us and wave at us like old friends. It’s the kind of place I could definitely live long term, though the air quality was a little iffy.

After Tian Tian’s eye procedure, the doctor wanted to see him every day, which meant we couldn’t take any trips to the beach or the countryside. But we had a little free time, and Tian Tian recuperated quickly, so we decided to visit the local sites—you can’t go all the way to Greece and not do at least a little sightseeing. One afternoon, we went to the big Acropolis Museum, the Parthenon, the Theatre of Dionysus, the Roman Agora, and other ancient and very Greece-ey places.

It seems you can’t take more than a few steps in Athens without tripping over something ancient. One restroom had a ruin right in the middle of the floor—they just built a glass ramp over it so you could bask in the glory of Ancient Greek culture while taking care of other business.

After spending the afternoon visiting lots of old stuff, we decided to head back to our little apartment and cook dinner like normal, non-tourist folks do, so as to not strain Tian Tian too much. Before heading to the bus stop, we found ourselves in Monastiraki Square as the sun set and the full moon rose, surrounded by tourists, locals, and the sounds and scents of Greek culture and food. It was tough to leave such an exotic and beautiful scene, so we bought chicken gyros, barbecued corns-on-the-cob, and drinks, then sat down on the steps to enjoy the atmosphere.

A very talented young man started a live concert, playing about a dozen different types of flutes. The ethereal sounds of his music floated through the crowds and echoed off the buildings. The full moon brightly lit the busy square. The Parthenon glowed on its perch above us, overlooking the city like a friendly sentinel. And the gyros and corn tasted great.

Tian Tian's New Best Friend from Somalia

As we sat there listening to the music, a small crowd of African immigrants slowly gathered on the stairs around us, also enjoying the concert and drinking a lot of beer. One man in his thirties started a conversation with Tian Tian and the two became instant friends—our son seems to have that affect on people. We couldn’t understand all of his English, but he told how he was orphaned in Somalia when younger, and later came to Greece looking for work. (He picked a rather inopportune time, given Greece’s economic issues.) He had a brother with a disability similar to Tian Tian’s, who has Down Syndrome. I don’t know how much of his story was true, or how much of it was the beer talking, but he was a very friendly guy and helped Tian Tian forget the problems with his eyes and how tired his legs were.

Given that we were in a foreign country, surrounded by immigrants of another culture and language, and it was well after dark, I think some people might have been nervous in a situation like that. Well, maybe I’m just naïve and like to see the good in people, but I felt very safe and comfortable there. In fact, if Tian Tian wasn’t so tired, I would have wanted to stay there all evening, listening to the flutes and talking with our new friends.

We eventually took a very harrowing taxi ride back to our apartment and retired for the night. But I’ll always remember the evening our family of three from America joined a small crowd of Somalis in downtown Athens listening to flute music under the full moon.

Urban Jungle Assault

Did you know the Tropic of Cancer runs through the country of Taiwan? That simple fact placed the sun at it’s northern-most latitude—directly above Taiwan—right when we decided to visit our extended family there last June. In fact, I think the sun followed us around whenever we stepped outside.

Taiwan is an island nation which by definition means “surrounded by lots of water.” And that water comes up from the south as part of the warm Kuroshio Current. We definitely noticed the sun and humidity. Near-100-degree (37c) temperatures and near-100-percent humidity make for a climate very different from the high deserts and alpine mountains in northern Utah. But despite coasts that are, obviously, at sea level, the central mountains rise up nearly as high as those in Utah—13,000 feet (4,000m). So imagine going from sea level up to 13,000 feet and back down in the space of 90 miles (145km). That would be a tough bicycle ride.

All of this makes for interesting geography and climate, which in turn make it an interesting place for outdoor activities. The humid heat drenched us as soon as we stepped out the door, but the low elevation in the cities and coasts made it hard to get much of a cardio workout.

Despite all that, my daughter Roro and I attempted to stay in shape through a regimen of urban jungle running. Our first daytime assault left us dripping wet before we even crossed the street, so we later decided to escape the daylight sauna and run after sunset.

On the stairs overlooking the Chiang Kai Shek Memorial grounds

The sprawling Chiang Kai Shek memorial park 中正紀念堂 is a couple blocks from my mother-in-law’s house. There we found a crowd of other runners circumnavigating the grounds each night. The outer sidewalk provided an easier run, but a guerilla strike through the tropical trees and koi ponds of the park’s interior proved much more interesting. A few times we forced a full frontal attack on the long stairs leading up to the memorial—Roro did much better at that than I.

On a short trip down the west coast, we tried another inner-city blitz in the morning rush hour streets of Hsin Chu 新竹. We ended up dodging a minefield of smog-choked traffic. That proved entertaining and we moved a lot faster than the cars did, but I think the damage to our lungs outweighed the benefits.

The thick foliage around Mingchih

Our best offensive occurred in the mountains near a small resort area called Ming Chih 明池. The elevation there was low by Rocky Mountain standards, around 4,000 feet (1,200m), but the lack of vehicles and soup-bowl humidity of the cities made it much more comfortable. We started just after sunset and weaved along a narrow road surrounded by foliage so thick you could never get through it without a chainsaw. Or napalm. The cicadas hummed their noisy songs in a deafening symphonic rhythm. Bats darted through the skies above us. Few scenes could be more peaceful and relaxing—until we startled a sleeping dog that howled and made us slam into each other.

All of this was an attempt to maintain some level of fitness so we could run the Spartan Beast a few days after we returned home. Going from three-and-a-half weeks living at sea level to running a 12-mile (19km) obstacle race at 5,500 feet (1,700m) ended up being a bad decision—the Spartan was very grueling!

Mist-filled mountains around Mingchih

Foreign Tooth Fairies

Proudly missing a valuable tooth

A number of years ago, we traveled as a family to visit my in-laws in Taiwan. While there, my younger daughter Roro had a loose tooth fall out. She immediately got justifiably worried because she didn’t think the tooth fairy would visit her in Taiwan. We explained how the tooth fairy visits ALL children, but that led to a big discussion because her cousins hadn’t received visits from the tooth fairy before, and in fact had never even heard of the tooth fairy—we had to explain the whole concept to them.

Roro got even more worried. She didn’t think Taiwan had a tooth fairy and even if she was there, she probably wasn’t very good because nobody knew about her.

But she went to bed anyway, and carefully placed the tooth under her pillow where the lame Taiwan tooth fairy would hopefully find it. She didn’t have much hope, though, and thought the tooth fairy would certainly leave her empty-handed.

Then a dental miracle happened.

It seems that Roro’s aunts were also worried the tooth fairy wouldn’t arrive, so they decided to help out. Without telling anyone else—including each other—they each crept into the room and added a little of their own money under the pillow. This went on all night, with people sneaking into the room and adding to the pile.

The next morning, as we all sat in the living room talking, we heard some very excited sounds coming from Roro’s room. She came running out with a big wad of cash in her hands.

With a huge smile on her face, she proclaimed, “The Taiwan tooth fairy is WAY better than the American tooth fairy!”

A Song of Hope

I was recently in the gym talking, coincidentally, to a guy named Jim, and the Styx song Come Sail Away played on the radio. Thinking about that song, it certainly hasn’t been a great, influential part of my life that inspired or comforted me, or even has great sentimental value. But as I told my friend Jim, it’s interesting how my mode of listening to that song has changed over the years.

I first heard Come Sail Away in elementary school on the little AM transistor radio I used to hang on my wrist. I liked the song because it mentioned starships, and I was really into anything that had anything to do with space. I was so cool because I knew lyrics to a pop song.

But that was just the beginning.

Not long after that, I recall going to a friend’s house and listening to Come Sail Away on his dad’s old 8-track tape player. Actually it wasn’t old at the time, and it was really awesome how some songs would suddenly fade out half-way through the music, then fade back in when it switched tracks. It was state of the art.

Or so I thought.

When I reached junior high school age, another friend had the song on a 45 record, which we listened to often. The good thing about records was how they’d get damaged, then skip and keep playing the same part of the song over and over. Few kids were as hip as us.

But things got even hipper.

In high school, I attended an outing with a youth group where we took a bus to another city. Someone on the bus had the whole Styx Grand Illusion album on a cassette tape and played it repeatedly on his boom box while we all sang along. We had to wait after each playing as he rewound the tape, which was a good thing because it allowed us to catch our breath.

Then I took a breather from the song for a while.

Come Sail Away sort of faded out of my life for about ten years until I bought it on CD as a Christmas present for my oldest daughter. I was happy that she liked a song that I liked when I was young. We’d listen to it together and we’d finally reached the epitome of the digital age.

But I was wrong.

Several more years passed and my two older kids, who’d grown into teenagers themselves by then, joined a youth group outing just like the one I’d done so many years earlier. This time I was the driver in our 8-passenger Land Cruiser. My son pulled out his iPod Shuffle and we plugged it into the stereo via the cassette tape adapter. And once again, all eight passengers—two generations—sang along to the same old song. Come Sail Away had sailed full circle.

But there was still wind in its sails.

As I sit here and write this, Come Sail Away is playing on the same stereo that we used to listen to the CD when my daughter was younger. But this time, my phone is streaming the song from Spotify and it’s connected to the stereo via wi-fi. And my kids—the older and the younger ones— are singing along.

So where do we sail from here?

I’m hoping we can stream music directly into our brain from a satellite. Then we can just think of a song and it’ll play.

Perhaps this “song of hope” does have great sentimental value after all, as I think of childhood friends and the dreams we had.

Come Sail Away on iTunes

Village People

It’s been a while since I posted here, so I thought I’d re-start with a very intellectually stimulating story. A number of years ago, I participated in a humanitarian trip to a small village in eastern Indonesia. Our group of about twenty included retirees, teens, and many in between. We busied ourselves during the day helping install a clean water system for the villagers. In the evenings, we relaxed, spent time with the locals, and shared in each others cultures. Looking back at this experience, it was really a highlight in my adult life, especially the story I’m about to relate.

With no electricity in the village except for a small generator, the community center had the only lights, so we’d often gather there after dinner. One evening, I joined a couple high school kids from our group and we sat on a fence near the community center with several twenty-something men from the village. The villagers didn’t speak English and we didn’t speak Indonesian, but we had fun trying to hit things with rocks, attempting to stand on the fence posts with one leg, and other guy things.

Meanwhile, two high school girls from our group, who happened to be sisters, stood on the outside steps of the community center trying to teach a group of villagers an English song. They’d chosen the classic If You’re Happy and You Know It. I’m sure you’ve heard this one: If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands (everyone claps), etc. They struggled getting the point of the song across, since nobody spoke English, but the villagers all readily joined in clapping their hands, stomping their feet, flapping their arms, and other entertaining actions.

Those of us on the fence watched this after having eaten a large dinner that included some spicy beans. At one point, one of the kids with us accidentally made a rather embarrassing bean-related sound.

We all looked at him and his response was something like, “Was that out loud?”

One of the villagers who knew a couple English words, laughed and said, “Katoot. That’s katoot.”

We suddenly realized we had inadvertently learned a very useful Indonesian word. And it was way better than the English word for the same thing.

While this was going on, the sisters on the steps arrived at the verse, “If you’re happy and you know it, show a smile.” But the villagers couldn’t quite get the smile concept, despite the girls pushing the sides of their mouths up until they looked like The Joker.

One of the girls finally turned to us and asked, “Does anyone know the Indonesian word for smile?”

My buddy, who’d just produced the sound that helped us learn the new word, happily obliged. “It’s katoot.”

She thanked him and continued with the song. “If you’re happy and you know it, katoot!”

Of course everyone instantly smiled, so she and her sister assumed it was correct and started dancing while proudly telling everyone to katoot. Soon the whole village was laughing and the girl finally realized something was wrong.

She turned back to us. “Hey, what does that really mean?”

By that point, we’d fallen off the fence, unable to respond.

Happiness is a Flat Pillow

I have a character flaw.

“Just one?” you ask.

Before I reveal the shocking secret about what it is, here’s a little background. While on vacation once, I discovered I slept much more soundly than at home. It wasn’t because of the quiet, well-insulated room. It wasn’t that we’d been walking around Disneyland all day and I was worn out. It wasn’t that we were on a relaxing vacation that we’d paid for months earlier. It wasn’t because we’d chosen a time of year when the lines at Disneyland were actually bearable.

No, I slept well because the pillow was comfortable.

So when we returned home after the vacation, I needed to get a new pillow. I went to Mervyn’s department store and looked at the expensive goose down pillows. They were fifty dollars, so I skipped those and bought a pair of synthetic down pillows for thirty dollars each—one for me, one for my wife.

I was so excited to sleep on my new pillow that I went to bed extra early. But unfortunately, the new pillow was only slightly better than the worn-out pillow I already had. It was way too hard. It felt like I was sleeping on a large yam. Raw, not cooked. I tossed around all night. My wife couldn’t tell the difference between the new and the old either and questioned why I even disliked the old. The next day I took the two pillows back to Mervyn’s.

It’s nice that many stores will let you return almost anything and Mervyn’s graciously took the pillows back. So I bought the fifty dollar real down pillows and returned home with a happy heart.

I went to bed even earlier this time. Unfortunately, I felt like Goldilocks—this one was way too soft. My head sunk all the way to the bed. It was like sleeping on an empty pillowcase with two large mounds on either side of me. I nearly suffocated. My wife switched to the old pillow partway through the night. Once again, I returned the two pillows to Mervyn’s. I think I might be the reason Mervyn’s went out of business.

I gave up on Mervyn’s and went to Costco’s website where I ordered two premium Kirkland Signature genuine down-filled pillows. They cost seventy dollars each and arrived a few days later. These were so light and fluffy that the UPS driver owed me money for delivering them to me.

I think I went to bed around six in the evening this time. The pillow wasn’t yammy. It wasn’t flat. Unfortunately, neither was it much better than the original old pillow I was trying to replace. My wife promptly pointed this out the next morning.

Here’s where my personality flaw came into focus. And it has nothing to do with being picky about pillows.

Rather, I realized I’d just spent nearly one hundred and fifty dollars to sleep comfortably while there must be a billion people around the world that don’t even have beds. How many people can’t sleep because their neighborhood is getting bombed? How many children have nightmares all night from abuse, fear, abandonment, hunger, or disease? And I was worried about a comfy pillow. What was I thinking?

My flaw is that I have an overdeveloped sense of worry for all the bad things in the world that I can’t do anything about, and that aren’t my fault to begin with. I mean, can I really help it that a young girl in Nepal got sold into trafficking? Maybe not, but it still bothers me.

So I returned the pillows to Costco and donated the money to an acquaintance in Indonesia who’d lost her job and had failing health. Then I went to Kmart and bought a pair of seven dollar pillows.

And I slept better that night than I had in a very long time.

Live to Work – Work to Live

We probably all know people that just love to work. To them, an eighty-hour work week is a joy. After a fifteen-hour work day, they rush home so they can open their laptop and do more work. They could have retired years ago, but then what would they do? Watch other people work? The purpose of life is to work, dang it.

While I admire their industriousness, I’ve always thought it’s the other way around—the purpose of work is to provide you with a decent life. And how can you have a life if you’re always working?

To make our life work with our work life, we humans are always coming up with creative ways to schedule things. In the U.S., the standard forty-hour work week traditionally includes eight-hour work days for five days, or five-eights. Some have altered that to four-tens. Then there are four-nines with a half-day on Friday. Or eight-nines plus one-eight with every other Friday off. Or three-tens plus two-fives . . . (brain explodes here.)

I once tried to convince my boss to let me work two-twenties but he didn’t go for that. I’ve also tried to introduce the “diminishing work” schedule—one ten-hour day, then a nine-hour day, then an eight, a seven, and a six. That’s forty hours but you sleep one hour more and work one hour less each day. Maybe a better name is the “emerging life” schedule. Seemed pretty nice to me, but that wasn’t approved either.

Of course, people that don’t work in an office—like police officers, firefighters, train drivers, and others—probably laugh at all these attempts to change our schedules. They often work several days straight with little sleep. And the workaholics that put in eighty-hour work weeks scoff at the idea of working any less than that.

This weekend, the U.S. will switch from Daylight Savings Time to Standard Time by moving our clocks back one hour. Everyone gets an extra hour of sleep for one night. It’s wonderful. For a few days next week, people will actually arrive at work on time—and cheerful.

I think we should do this once a month. On the first Sunday of each month, let’s all set our clocks back one hour. For the first week of every month, we’ll all be much more refreshed and relaxed. After twelve months, we’ll all be going to work at 8pm, so at that point, we can just switch the AM and PM around and start over. We’d all get additional sleep and more importantly, perhaps we’d enjoy life more. Sound like a plan?