Mom

August 2, 2016

"I wish I had cancer, I wouldn't feel so ashamed. When people have cancer, they wear pink ribbons for you, and go on long walks and raise money and you don't have to feel like some kind of social...I can't remember the word." - Julianne Moore's character in Still Alice, on the struggles dealing with early onset Alzheimer's.

I'll never forget the phone call.  After passing through the Warsaw airport security with Jay and Zosia, I picked up my phone and noticed several missed calls from my dad.  My brother had also left a Facebook message asking me to call back.  It was odd that they both needed to talk to me so urgently.  We were on our way to Georgia (the country) to meet some friends, and while Jay and Z (not the rapper) were gathering their things, I called my dad.  His tone was calm but concerned, sad, but matter-of-fact.  He took a deep breath and delivered the news.  My mom had passed away that morning.

July 7, 1948 - August 2, 2016

It's been a few months since it happened, but a wave of emotion grabs me every time I think about that phone call.  And on every trip back to the airport since that day, my eyes involuntarily fill with tears.  I can only imagine what will happen this week when I go back to the airport on my way to Hawaii.  It's going to be strange there without her.  It's still not quite real to me.  I miss her every day; in my mind she is still back home in Seattle, sitting on her favorite chair, playing games on her iPad, or staring out the window towards Mount Rainier.  I feel guilty that I'm thousands of miles away, but my dad and brother are back home, living with a reality in which they see her favorite chair, sitting empty every day.

Haleakala, Maui

I can't pretend to understand everything about dementia...in fact probably nobody does.  I guess there are many different brain diseases which are considered a type of dementia (like Alzheimer's, which Julianne Moore's character dealt with).  My dad's mom also suffered from dementia for several years before her death just a couple years ago.  There's a difference between becoming forgetful as you age and being diagnosed with a physically deteriorating mental illness.  I can't really say it's funny anymore to see an old person get senile and lose their bearings (though sometimes you can't help but make light of the situation)...it could be harmless, but could also be a sign of something really bad to come.

I had been living in Poland ever since my mom was diagnosed, so I didn't notice how things changed day to day, but it seems she was "slowing down" for the past several years.  Doctors were giving her medication and supplements, she was doing brain exercises and trying to stay active, but it wasn't working.  She stopped going to yoga, didn't feel like cooking, and for the lack of a better word, started getting lazy in that she didn't want to do things that she used to.

Mom and Dad in Poland, 2011

Rafting in the Grand Canyon, 2010

In the November 2014, less than 2 years before her death, she started having toilet accidents.  I obviously don't mention this with the intent of embarrassing her; I mention it so people know the reality of what she, and many others, live with, in their final precious years (or months, or weeks).  Jokes about peeing in one's pants have always been part of our culture; I personally love toilet humor.  But I guess these jokes go through phases from when they're not funny (when you're a kid and you're the one peeing in your pants), to being funny (when you're an adult and can say "I haven't done that since I was a kid"), to not funny again (when it's a reality you have to live with for the rest of your life).  She knew the accidents were happening, but couldn't stop it.  Of course she was embarrassed, but after a while, she just laughed when it happened...like "oh well, there's nothing I can do".  Dad had to make adjustments to how he cared for her.  Simply put, she was becoming a child again.

She started moving slower, her conversation was limited to short questions and one-word answers.  But she seemed to still understand my jokes, since she laughed a lot (and of course they were super funny).  This was probably the most noticeable thing for me; she was always in a good mood.  Even with all the internal struggles she was dealing with, especially in the early stages when she was depressed and struggling to accept the situation, she was always smiling.  She was pleasant, obedient and affectionate.  As it got worse, we had to tell her everything she was supposed to do: take your pill, put on your pajamas, swallow your food.  But one thing she didn't need help with was showing affection.  She held my hand more than she ever did before, and dad said that she'd wake him up in the middle of the night, playing with his mustache, touching his face and just staring at him.  She couldn't say it, but we knew how much she loved us.

Mom, Lani and Scooter a long time ago

The other thing that was a constant was my dad's love for her.  He was by her side every moment of the day.  He literally couldn't leave her alone, because she might choke on her food, or wander out of the house.  One night in Hawaii she got out of bed, took a shower, put on her shoes, went outside and started walking towards the car.  Luckily we were awake and stopped her.  Dad cooked for her and fed her, took her for walks, gave her puzzles and coloring books to keep her mind working, arranged countless doctor's visits, and cared for her every waking minute of the day.  He didn't ask for any help; he actually seemed to shelter us a bit, like he didn't want us to see her in this condition.  When her condition started to worsen, he wouldn't let me talk to her on Skype for more than a minute, because she wasn't able to say much back to me.  It must have been tough for both of them to go to public places, like a shop or restaurant, when people tried to talk to mom, but dad would have to intervene.  He did this not only to avoid an awkward feeling for the waiter, when mom would seemingly ignore him or her when they asked for her order, but also so mom wouldn't feel helpless; knowing there was an interaction going on, but being unable to respond.  This must have been very frustrating for her, so dad simply started ordering food for her.

I think this is what Julianne Moore was talking about in the movie - that rather than receiving an out-pour of empathy from others, those suffering from dementia can often feel like social outcasts.  They aren't able to interact with us the way we would expect them to.  Think about the last time a stranger responded to an interaction with you in a way that you didn't expect: maybe they didn't respond when you asked for directions on the bus, avoided eye contact when you made small talk on the elevator, or simply walked past you when you stopped them on the street to ask where they got their scarf...we tend to get frustrated and assume that they are rude or that something is "wrong" with them.  On the other hand, if the person had a visible disability, maybe we'd understand their reaction (or lack thereof).  But when the disease is invisible, we tend to label them negatively, and unfairly.  This was happening to mom on a regular basis, because she looked "normal".  Dad never complained, he never asked for help, and he always kept a smile on his face, no matter how heartbroken he was.  And I'm sure it was exponentially difficult for him since his mom went through the same thing.  We're lucky to have him.

January 2016

Mom in Mount Rushmore

I kept some random notes of the signs mom showed in her decline, which I'd like to share here.  The only thing I can say is to cherish every moment you have with your loved ones, because you never know when it'll be gone.

- She asked me if I knew that our dog Lani died (which was like 10 years before).  It reminded me of when my grandma was visiting and she spent 10 minutes telling me a story about my dad when he was a kid, then finished the story by telling me that we were in his house and that I should meet him.
- I hadn't heard her say more than "yes" and "no" for several days, but there was a time when she spent 20 minutes sitting next to me staring at her toes, then asked me "do your toes bend sideways like this?" It was a silly question, but the fact that she was able to process a thought and ask a question made me very happy.
- When pressed, she could recite her siblings' middle names.
- When we would do something on the computer, she would often stand close and just stare at the screen, waiting for something to happen.
- She would sometimes shovel food in her mouth super quickly, but wouldn't swallow what was already there.  Once my uncle had to perform the heimlich maneuver because she was choking.  We realized we had to watch her when she eats.
- It was really hard to tell friends about it...and then it was awkward because people didn't know how to interact with her.  They wanted to be polite, but after being used to a very social Cheryl before the disease, mom wouldn't interact with them.  She did seem to understand when you talked to her...she just wasn't able to respond.
- When I gave her my hand to help her out of the car, she started to thumb wrestle me instead of getting out of the car, giggling, and trying really hard to win.  This happened multiple times and was the highlight of the day.
- She would sit in the passenger seat of the car, but with half of her butt hanging over the edge of the seat so the door couldn't close.  When we tried to scoot her over, she would just laugh and not move.
- Once she was doing exercises with dad and I went to the fridge to get a yogurt.  She was completely distracted by the yogurt and wouldn't take her eyes off of it, ignoring dad's requests to complete the exercises.  It was really sweet, like a child who wanted a treat.
- At Costco, we weren't paying attention at the checkout line and next thing we know, she was standing on the cashier's side of the counter, hands held behind her back, as if she was supervising the transaction.
- I really liked it when she held my arm while walking.  We had to basically drag her to make her move at a decent pace, but it was comforting that she was holding on.
- And the true sign that I knew she is my mom is that she always laughed when I'd fart.  This is proof that farting IS funny.  When Scooter and I were kids, she never used to laugh at farts, trying to be all serious.  But now I know that she really wanted to.

I will remember her for being adventurous (she had a tattoo before I did, and we went ziplining together), friendly (she treated all my friends so well), funny (she was always goofing around, especially when playing tricks on me on April Fool's Day), and for teaching a lot of life lessons. I still remember when she went "on strike" from taking care of us at home because we didn't appreciate her and didn't do our chores...and ever since that day, I always (ok, mostly) listened to her.

Ziplining in her 60's!

My jumping picture inspiration

When I flew back for the funeral, my dad, brother, and I spent some time grieving with my aunt (who lost her husband a year earlier) at her place in Mosier, Oregon.  It was nice to get out into nature, hiking near Mount Hood and the nearby lakes, just to reflect on things.  The funeral itself was filled with both smiles and tears, and it was very touching to see so many family and friends that we hadn't seen in a long time.

We were so lucky to have all the support from friends and family, from all over the world.  It was comforting to cry in each other's arms.  When I think about all the aunties at the service, when they first approached me, looked at me with disbelief and a crushing sadness, and embraced for a good cry, I still get goosebumps.  I'm so grateful for their love.  The "public" comments on her online obituary, from people that I don't even know, is also much appreciated.  They had a lot of nice things to say.

Hiking Mount Hood with mom on our minds

Mom's service/celebration

Rest in Peace, Mommy

Before I went back to Warsaw, dad gave me a letter that mom wrote to me, years before, "in case something happens" to her.  It was a very powerful and surreal moment.  I had never cried so instantaneously as I did then.  I was actually in a good mood before he told me what it was, and within half of a second, I found myself face down in my bed, pillow soaked in tears.  I still haven't been able to open the letter.  I feel like reading it will be her final goodbye, and I just don't want that to happen.  

Damn, I miss her.

Lucca in Rome

May 27-29, 2016

When I go to Italy, the first thing I usually think of is the food.  That's closely followed by ice cream (it's a separate category from food, of course), then the history.  Then wine, then the beautiful landscape, then the funny way that people talk with their hands.  Then fashion, then stray dogs and cats, then leather, art, boys names that sound like girls names, and the Catholic Church.  Then after several more obscure things, I sometimes think of one famous Italian inventor.  I'm pretty sure the only reason I remember him from elementary school is because his name is so fun to say: Googley Elmo Macaroni.  Or something like that.  I only mention it now because every time I see BJ, we act like we're 10 years old, recycling the same jokes we've laughed about for the past 20 years.  Someone just has to say "Guglielmo Marconi" and we bust up laughing.  And our trip to Rome in May was no different.  Side note: May?  I went to Rome in May and am only writing about it in December?  This blog is pathetic.  My only defense is that I've written about Rome before, and I usually don't write about a location more than once.  But this time was different.  Zosia and I went to meet BJ, Quyen, and their little fashionista Lucca...who, by the way, is an Asian-American girl, not an Italian boy.

Zosia wanted to visit Rome before her old employers, Daniela and Mauro, moved from Rome to Cuba for Mauro's job.  Zosia was the nanny for their three boys when they lived in Warsaw a few years ago, but it had been a while since they had seen each other.  Since BJ and QP were traveling in Europe with their 1-year old in tow, we thought it was the perfect location to meet up.

Before BJ arrived from Paris, Z and I were able to spend an evening with Daniela and Mauro, for what I like to think of as an authentic night out with Italians.  Since they were leaving Italy the following week, we effectively crashed their going away party.  Both sets of parents and other family and friends gathered for dinner at a (surprise, surprise) Italian restaurant outside of the city.  It was very satisfying knowing that Italian families go to this particular restaurant.  It would be like knowing that American families go to TGI Fridays or that Chinese families go to Panda Express....oh wait, no, that's the opposite of what I'm trying to say.  Anyway, it was even more satisfying that several of the pizzas on the menu came without cheese.  NO CHEESE!  SEE!?  I'm not weird.  Cheeseless pizza IS a thing.  So to all of you waiters and waitresses who looked at me weird or said that cheeseless pizza is "not pizza" or that it's "not possible" to make (which I still don't understand...just don't put on the cheese), I will be accepting your apologies (or free pizzas).

It was really fun to meet a real live loud Italian family...complete with very few English speakers, a grandpa who carried around a cigar with him, and enough joy and energy to power a small city.  It was so heartwarming to see how much they loved Zosia, and how excited she was to see Alessio, the youngest of the three boys.  Zosia got to know most of the family over the years, even those who lived in Rome. The reunion was just like watching someone reconnect with their family.  It was easy to forget that they're Italian and she's Polish, from the way she rattled off Italian as if it was her native tongue.  Apparently there is much more to speaking Italian than just waving your hands around the air.

Dinner time!

The family

After a nice dinner and lots of hugs, we went to meet BJ and QP, who had arrived late that night.  When we found the restaurant at which they were eating, we could already see how much attention Lucca was attracting.  She is so well behaved, happy, social, dance-y, and pinch-her-cheeks cute, that strangers can't help but say hi, talk to her in a high-pitched voice, then stare for several minutes.  She is already an international celebrity and she can't even pee in a toilet (though maybe she actually can do that).

Lucca selfie

The five of us spent the next couple days walking around the city, looking at the main stuff, but not going in any buildings unless they served ice cream (since Lucca doesn't waste her time with museums).  This was actually perfect for me, since I've been inside most of the main sites and didn't need to do it again.  It was a weekend filled of wandering, eating, taking pictures and enjoying the company.

Lucca has her own slave to carry her around

Taking care of some business before heading out

Yep, these strangers are staring at Lucca

BJ and QP introduced Zosia to Butterfingers (2 bags' worth)

I have to say that I'm a bit jealous of Lucca's photos.  She has much cooler pictures that I do, and she can't even speak full sentences (which I can do, by the way).  But I'm not mad, I'm happy that I can say I know her.  She even held my hand once, which is my claim to fame.  And by the way, by the time I finish this blog, she will probably be able to do everything, including her own taxes.

This is my picture in front of the Colosseum

This is Lucca's picture in front of the Colosseum (I can't compete with this)

On our last night, we were able to meet with an old friend, Angelo, whom I met in San Jose.  He brought his son and his mother (his son's mother, not his own mother), and we went out for pizza and a stroll around.  I remember when I first met Angelo, he said that he was assigned to the project in California because he spoke the best English in his (Rome) office.  And it took him 3 times to say that sentence until I understood him.  He's a great guy and his kid was adorable...I think his son fell in love with both Quyen and Lucca at the same time.  Those Italian boys don't mess around....breaking hearts without any concern for age, language barrier, or the fact that they are a mother and daughter.

With Angelo and pizzas

Ladies man

We headed back to Warsaw after about 10 cheeseless pizzas, 50 lactaid-pill-assisted gelatos (that's probably not the right way to pluralize it but oh well), dozens of miles of walking, and countless laughs and smiles with good friends.  It was my 6th time in Italy and I think it's now a scientific fact that it's impossible not to have an amazing time in this beautiful country.  So anytime you want to go again, I'm ready. 

Drinking Pilsner in Plzen

June 11, 2016

I'm lucky enough to get a paid work trip to Prague every year, to deliver training.  Although I enjoy walking around the city and doing touristy things, I'm getting a bit snobby about the crowds there.  There are waaaaay too many people on the Prague streets in the summer; literally billions of tourists (yes, "literally", in the American definition of the word, which means "not literally").  So this year I thought to try something I hadn't done before: leave the city and visit the birthplace of Pilsner beer.

They brewed the first blond lager ever, a beer known as Pilsner now, in the town of Plzen.  Pilsner style beer makes up over half of the beer in the world now, though with literally billions of microbreweries around the world, that will probably change. Plzen was part of the Austrian Empire when it started brewing Pilsner in 1842, but generally the city had been brewing beer since the 13th century.  The word Urquell comes from German, meaning "ancient source".  I still can't figure out how to pronounce it, because some say "Ur-KELL" (like Steve Urkel's alter ego), while others say "ur-kwell".  It was hard to clearly distinguish the pronunciation of the word during the brewery tour, because they all said it in a quick Czech accent.  Maybe nobody actually knows how to say it, so they say it quickly on purpose.  So I've adopted the method of coughing when saying it: Pilsner Urq-COUGH-ell.

Plzen is a pretty small town, but nice to walk around for the day.  In addition to the brewery tour which showed us how they make the beer, we also did the underground city tour, exploring some of the 8 km of cellars used for storage of food and beer, as well as for protection from medieval invasions. My favorite part was the giant refrigerator room, in which they dumped ice to cool the beers.  Smart people!

That's enough facts and history...here are some pics.

Not sure what this means...no lederhosen allowed?

Ignoring lunch while making picks for the Euro 2016 soccer tourney

Still making Euro picks (this is before Pokemon GO)

She can't wait to go back above ground for the internet connection

Plzen center

Gate into the Pilsner Urquell brewery

The main brewery

They have a different production line for re-used bottles

Probably spitting in the beer

Cool (both in temperature and hipness) cellars under the city

Trying some fresh beer straight from the barrel

We also spent a day in Prague, of course, and this time paid money to access the "Golden Lane" near the castle.  I had never been before because I'm super cheap and don't pay money to walk down a street, but I made an exception to impress Zosia (she was impressed!). The street is where the alchemists supposedly lived during the 15th/16th century. The houses are super small and now consist of shops and museums.

Golden Lane in Prague

The rest of Prague, well, you've seen it before.  Here are a couple more pics.  

Water and beer are the same price

Prague is beautiful, even with the crowds

Of course these beers with straws belonged to Polish girls (for real!)

Pays d'Aix 70.3

May 1, 2016 

IRONMAN. 

What do you think about when you see that word?  A Marvel superhero?  A person with the strength of 1,000 horses?  Someone who's good at taking wrinkles out of shirts?  Personally, I think of the ultimate triathlon. Even though I love the Marvel movies (Captain America: Civil War was amazeballs), when someone says the word "Ironman" without any context, I think of Kona, not Tony Stark.  Maybe because I surround myself with people who like to do triathlons.  Or maybe it's the power of triathlon branding.  We even refer to races which have nothing to do with the Ironman brand by using the word Ironman. A race that is half the distance of an official Ironman race is a "Half Ironman" in my world. Not even the Ironman brand refers to such races in this manner.  Officially, they're called "Ironman 70.3", which refers to the total mileage of the race (which translates to 1.9 km swim, 90 km cycle, and 21.1 km run), half of the full Ironman. But somehow, their brand name has found it's way into our every day vernacular. 

Thus the strange title of this post:  Pays d'Aix 70.3.  It looks like the default password your new wireless router might come with, but in fact, it refers to the Ironman 70.3 race in the region of Aix en Provence.  

So to sum it up for people who don't speak triathlon: Ironman is the most famous brand that organizes triathlons, most notably the World Championships in Kona, Hawaii. Generally they have two distances: the full Ironman race (3.8 km swim, 180 km bike, plus a marathon) and half of the distance in each discipline (aka a "70.3").  A "triathlon" is any race that includes any distance of swim, bike and run.  Often these triathlon distances are some fraction of the Ironman distance (for example 1/2, 1/4, or 1/8 of the full Ironman distance - though as I mentioned, these are not Ironman branded).  Alternatively, a race could be an "Olympic" or "Sprint" (half of Olympic), which are based on the distances used in the Olympics, which are different than Ironman.  So an Ironman is a triathlon, but a triathlon isn't necessarily an Ironman (the brand), nor an Ironman (the distance).  

So now that it's perfectly clear, let's move on.  

Many (crazy) people dream about doing an Ironman race; not only because of the mental and physical challenge of doing the distance, but because the races specifically organized by Ironman are prestigious, well organized, and they give good loot in the start package. We do a lot of Garmin and Volvo sponsored races in Poland, which are great, but they're not "Ironman". People travel all over the world to participate in, and just watch these Ironman races. 

So when we heard Jay and Iza were planning to enter the IM 70.3 race in Aix, Zosia and I wanted to go with them; not to compete, but to support our friends and see what the hype was about. 

I hadn't been to France in about 15 years, since I went to Paris with Leta and Smelly when Smelly moved there for the first time. I honestly felt pretty neutral about Paris, and didn't have any strong feelings about French food either (though eating escargot was pretty fun).  Still, I was still excited to visit the south. Of course, I knew it was the south only after looking up Aix on a map. 

Baguette: my favorite French food (and word)

When we landed in Marseille, we could already feel the excitement for the coming race. There were packs of skinny guys with bike boxes and sports bags, with Ironman tattoos and earrings, and virtually everyone looked pretty fit (I didn't notice any Garmin or Volvo tattoos though).  As I watched people struggle to cram their bike boxes on the buses, I realized how nice it was to not have to worry about racing. No worries about what to eat and what to not drink, needing proper equipment or mental race preparation. I simply enjoyed the weekend.

We took an hour-long bus ride from the airport to Aix, which I spent trying to figure out how to pronounce "Aix".  I finally settled on something like "axe" but also a bit like "ix" at the same time.  En Provence simply means it's in the area of Provence. Clever French. Maybe it's similar to saying "Seattle in Washington".  

We rented an Airbnb apartment in Aix, which is a small-ish 2,000 year old former Roman city, filled with quaint streets, outdoor restaurants and French people. Besides the locals, it seemed that everyone else was there for the race. But even with all the athletes and families, it still felt uncrowded and comfortable. It reminded me how much I love visiting small towns without millions of tourists. Suddenly I started to really like France. 

A not-so-crowded square in Aix

Tourists

While Jay and Iza were preparing for the race and setting up in the transition zone, Z and I wandered around the city. We shopped in the Ironman village, a long street filled with gear, shirts and souvenirs, though I didn't deserve to buy any branded clothes without actually doing the race. We stumbled across a farmers market, where you could buy nice smelling breads, cheeses, meats and produce; I was surprised not to see baguettes with the IM stamp on it.  People were super friendly everywhere, not only the guys trying to sell us jams or raspberries. Other businesses were nice and helpful as well; the wine shop, waiters, even the taxi drivers. I almost didn't trust them because they were TOO nice. 

Jayza (Jay and Iza, for those not keeping track) were carb loading most of the weekend, while we found ourselves gorging like we also needed the calories (the lack of a big calorie burn is the downside of not racing). We did a couple short runs to feel better about all the wine and food.

Much-needed calories

Not-so-much-needed calories

On the morning of the race we were excited to watch, and even more excited not to have to wake up at 4am to head to the lake like Jayza had to. Unfortunately the lake was far from the city so we weren't able to watch the start.  There was no transportation provided for the spectators, and the public buses were also closed because it was a national holiday.  At first, we were bummed we wouldn't be able to watch the swim, but thanks to the power of social media, we found out that the organizers completely cancelled the swim due to the cold and windy weather. It sucked that part of the race was cancelled, but we felt better that we didn't miss anything!

This got me thinking...I usually dread the swim of my races, simply because it's so stressful and chaotic with the bodies and limbs flying everywhere for the first few hundred meters. You spend more energy avoiding being kicked in the face (or other parts) and preventing others from pulling you under water, rather than advancing towards the finish line. However, swimming is usually my best part of the race, relative to the other competitors.  Since I'm super slow on the bike, I need all the help I can get before the cycle starts, so the swim leg actually lets me get ahead of a lot of others. Plus, I would feel that the finisher's medal would come with an asterisk if one of the disciplines was cancelled; the t-shirt says you finished, but without having to swim. This has to be tough for people who were working so hard to do the full race. 

Anyway, after an extra hour of sleep, we headed down to watch the bike and running legs. Watching all the bikes zoom by and the hundreds of fans gathered everywhere, I got a shot of adrenaline that finally made me wish I was racing. There's always a lot of energy watching a race, and this was no different. Though Polish fans might be louder and more supportive than the people I was around in Aix. People in France were more polite and reserved.  After the race we saw a lot of happy and relieved (and tired) faces all over the city. Athletes walking slowly and gingerly, but eating tons of food and finally enjoying a beer or glass of wine.

Taking a selfie during Jay's run

Happy finishers

The day after the race we decided to go for a swim in the lake which was supposed to have been part of the race. The lake had a nice blue-green color, which hopefully meant it was clean. We touched the water and I couldn't believe it was actually wet...scientifically it should have been frozen because it felt so cold! I'm serious, somehow this water was less than 32 degrees!  I immediately understood why they cancelled the swim. The air was warm and people were sun bathing, but the water made my toes want to fall off.

This water will freeze your balls off

We threw on our wetsuits and tried to adjust. My teeth were chattering and my feet were numb. I tried to swim a few hundred meters but after about 5 minutes I had to literally run out of the water. But when I tried to get up, I stumbled back down because my feet lost all feeling and I couldn't stand!  Jay went on to swim for several minutes, but Iza was the smartest of all, and laid out comfortably in the sun, watching our bags. I guess someone's gotta do it.  

After a bit of walking and another evening watching Vikings by the fireplace, it was time to head back to Warsaw. At the Marseilles airport we saw a lot of the same bike boxes and IM tattoos that we saw on the way, but there was even more gear which was purchased during the weekend. 

Our dollhouse apartment

I was happy to watch, happy to see Jay and Iza do so well, and happier that I was able to relax the whole time. I still haven't done an "Ironman" branded race; maybe someday...I just hope I'm not tempted to get any Ironman tattoos or earrings. 

Scotchy scotch scotch.

December 24-29, 2015,

"I love scotch, scotchy scotch scotch. Here it goes down, down into my belly". - Anchorman 

Why do we call it scotch anyway? It should just be called "whisky" (though spelled "whiskey" in Ireland and the US). There's scotch tape and scotch eggs, but we don't define those things as simply "scotch". So why do we call scotch "scotch"?  It would be like calling American beer simply "American". Though we already do do that with Budweiser, so maybe it's not a good example. And I just said "do do"......hehehe, that always makes me giggle. 

So maybe it actually does make sense to call it whisky.  Whisky is probably the most famous thing to come out of Scotland, besides William Wallace. And I guess there are other things in the world which are referred to based on the country of origin.  "China" refers to fancy table ware, a "Brazilian" is something you might get before a beach holiday, and "Turkey" is what we eat for Thanksgiving dinner. 

Anyway, I'm getting off track. It seems like ages ago I went to Scotland during Christmas break, so it's about time I finish my post about it. 

I've known for a long time that Zosia and Tomek like Scotland. So I wanted to make a trip before Tomek moved back to Poland. And as usual, Jessica Schwartz stalked me, found out about my travel plans, and promptly booked a ticket to join us.  

Of course no holiday trip is fun without some problem at the airport passport control. I know they deal with thousands of people every day, including many dummies that don't realize they are doing dumb things, but it doesn't mean they (I) deserve a rude attitude. Before the trip, I was waiting for my new Polish residence card, which had expired and the slooooooooow-moving Polish bureaucracy kept me from getting a new one before the trip. It was over a month after the expiration of my old card, and I still didn't have a new one.  The Polish government put a stamp in my passport that said my residence card was approved, hoping this would help during my travels.  And of course, this stamp was in Polish.  So when the border control decided to have a go at me (I can't believe I just used that phrase, which I think is British...too many Brits in Poland!), I was stuck.  I didn't have a valid document showing I could stay in Poland, and of course the lady didn't speak Polish so she couldn't read the stamp.  She kept saying "I don't speak YOUR language, so how can I know what this says".  Which is a fair point, as I don't know why I thought this stamp in Polish would help at all.  I kept reminding her that my passport says I'm American, I just live in Poland, so Polish is not MY language.  Surely Americans are allowed to come to London without some special document, right?  The lady was very curt and rude and flaunted her power, acting like I didn't deserve to come into her beloved country. 

Then for some strange (but welcomed) reason, she suddenly became nice, and explained why she was asking these questions.  She said that they need to check that people who enter the country have the right to go back to where they came from (in my case, that I had the right to go back to Poland). If, when I leave the UK, Poland doesn't accept me back (because of overstaying my stay in Europe without a residence card, for example), Poland would send me back to the UK and I'd be the UK's problem (and cost).  So, then it made sense.  I wish she had just started with that.  Eventually she let me through, and we became Facebook friends (not).  

So it was off to Tomek's for a traditional Polish Christmas Eve dinner, with a bunch of Poles living in London.  Well, Luton to be exact.  Tomek was working at the Vauxhall factory in Luton for a while. His roommate and other friends and family were there too, even Santa, and dinner included all the traditional fixins: carp, ryba po grecku (fish greek style, which doesn't make sense for Polish Christmas, but hey, it's a tradition), and a bunch of mayonaisey salads.  One surprise is that there was no alcohol.  A dinner in the home of two 20 something Polish men, and there was not a drop of beer or vodka.  I thought I was in the Twilight Zone.  Turns out, a lot of families stay away from alcohol on Christmas eve.  But not everyone follows this rule. When I had dinner with Ewa's family a few years ago, I think I was drinking all night (to help me speak better Polish with the family).    

My favorite is "Ryba po grecku" (greek style fish), though not sure why it's called that

The next day we headed to Scotland, first to Edinburgh.  Just like in my dreams, it was a long, wet drive.  Just to be clear, my dreams were about a drive in Scotland that was long and wet; my dreams themselves were not long and wet.  Cars were spun around, there were huge puddles everywhere, but Tomek managed to get us there in one piece. At least we had various street/city signs to keep us entertained...we passed signs that referred to towns called Burnmouth, Eyemouth (not joking), and a river Eye Water (still not joking).  Not to mention Cockburnspath (or simply Cockburn), and Oldhamstocks.  I was giggling the whole time.  

When we got to Edinburgh, Jess was already there.  After some obligatory Indian food, we went home to rest up for the next days.  Generally we spent a lot of time walking in Edinburgh, which is a very beautiful city.  But since it rains a lot, the next best option was to stop in bars and have some whisky.  So this is exactly what we did.  Other than visiting the castle and the whisky museum next door, we decided that staying in bars was more interesting than sightseeing in the rain.  So we didn't leave.

Reunited, and as obnoxious as ever

Tomek needs a new camera

I managed one shot of a blue sky at the castle...Scotland's first blue sky ever

One of my goals was to "enjoy" some haggis, though I had no idea what it would taste like.  I know that it's gross animal parts, packed inside of a stomach casing, but I didn't know if it would be like eating a whole stomach on a plate (like when I ate a sheep head on a plate and a bucket of guts in Mongolia).  Luckily, the haggis doesn't look disgusting at all, and it's actually quite tasty.  We tried it at Arcade Haggis and Whisky House, and washed it down with some smokey whisky.

I don't know how we didn't die after eating this "breakfast"

(the haggis is the round dark circle above the sausage)

I really enjoyed a few different whiskies - Dalmore, Glengoyne, and Auchentoshan, among others. There were a few that were super smokey, like Bowmore and Argbeg, which you really have to be prepared for.  I learned a bit about the different regions in Scotland and the types of flavors they are famous for, but after a few drinks, I promptly forgot.

She probably stole that glass

We spent a couple days in Glasgow as well.  Glasgow is more modern and reminded me a bit of Chicago, especially around Michigan Avenue, with lots of shops and lights everywhere.  Ashton Lane was a nice area for drinks, but somehow we kept losing Jessica.  I guess the rest of us were too old and when we were ready to go home, she wanted to stay out and mingle with the locals.  She entertained herself (and us) by talking to random drunk guys and making fun of the way they talked.  

Another thing I really wanted to do was to see the Highlands and visit Loch Ness.  The Highlands always seemed like a mythical place, from books and stories.  And of course, we wanted to see Nessy. So we took a bus tour around the region, which was a nice way to see a lot of stuff in one day.

Somewhere in the Highlands

Ruins on Loch Ness

Selfie-stick fail, trying to get Nessy in the background

Another piece of history that I found interesting was the history of Tomek and Zosia's great grandfather.  He was in the military during WWII, and like many of the Polish soldiers fighting for the allies, he was based in Scotland.  But after the war, a lot of the soldiers weren't allowed to go back to Poland because of the Stalin regime, so he ended up living in Scotland. He is buried an hour or so away from Edinburgh, so they went out to see his grave while Jess and I drank all day. Some people paid their respects to their elders, and some people sat in a bar.  Something about that seems wrong...

Oh, and I'm still annoyed that "pudding" means dessert.  I ordered some pudding from a menu, expecting to get some custardy goodness, but it was just a normal cake.  When I asked the waiter if there was some mistake, he looked at me like I was an idiot.  "I'm sorry, but I ordered the pudding". "That IS pudding, you idiot".  "No, it's not".  "Yes, it is."  "No, it's not!" Reminded me of this classic clip from the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.    

Oh, and this is annoying too