Vacay: In Sum

So my last post sounded super Debbie Downer, and seriously? Vacation? Not working? Free food and bevs? Perfect weather? Yea, no room for complaining. In all honesty, I was disappointed not to work because I really do love personal training, I love big shiny gyms and I like people. I was kind of looking forward to working with a new batch of ‘em. But all in all, everything turned out okay despite having to accept not working (seriously?). I mean, I did have to “show up” for work each day at 8 am but after 20 minutes of blundering through Spanish with terrible acoustics my first day I asked Hector if I could just work out as long as no one needed training. He agreed that would be fine, and this is how it came to be that I took a vacation where I was paid to show up at 8 am and workout for an hour every day.

I know, guys. Pity me.

After we’d work out, we’d go to breakfast where I fell in love with the omelet station and the pineapple bar and I’d stuff myself silly on these two items. Afterward we’d go back to the room and slather up with SPF 30 before setting up camp at the pool. Oh, the pool. I stayed poolside from about 10-2, with at least 3 more SPF-ings, voraciously reading. I quickly learned there was a “leave a book, take a book” and went through at least one whole fiction novel each day. Matt earned himself resort wide recognition playing beach volleyball and/or life-sized chess games. (Pics to come.) We’d take a break around lunch, and then call it quits again around 4. We’d head back to the room for a nap or to watch the only English channel, CNN (for me, nap > CNN) and then shower before heading down to the bar. On one day, I’m pretty sure we laid down for a nap around 2 and didn’t stir again til 6. We slept. A lot.

I know.

Matt had stayed late night at one bar watching an NBA game and befriended a bartender – a local with a penchant for tossing Grey Goose bottles high into the air and catching them moments before they crashed into the ground ` and so we quickly became regulars at this entertaining lobby bar. We’d have a drink or two, wander off to dinner, and then meander our way back to our still-warm bar seats. Here we’d chat with Teo – our bartender – learning much about his life, the traditions of the island (what mamajuana is, and is not) or meeting other hotel guests, sharing our TV and pistachios with them. Around half-time, we’d head up to our room with a “roadie”, where Matt would finish up the basketball game and I’d quickly be studying the back of my eyelids. 9 hours of sleep became a regular habit for me.

I know.

Tough life, huh? I tell you what, you hardly appreciate it while you have it. Before you know it you are walking back through the customs terminal at Charlotte International, looking at your cell phone light up with missed voice mails and emails and wondering why it isn’t possible to store up all that extra sleep and sun like a debit account for later withdrawals. Our vacation turned out to be exactly what we ordered: relaxing, detached, unscheduled and drawn out. The perfect fulcrum point to a hectic end of medical school and a sure-to-be-hectic beginning of internship. We’re both now wondering if the florescent lights in our workplace will give off UVA/UVB to help keep us in the carefree, happy place of this last week. Somehow I think I know the answer to this, but I’ll wear SPF 15 this week just to be sure. At least something will smell like coconuts this week, because my beverages certainly will not.

Pics to come.

Not My 9-5

I have been surprised at the language barrier here and how many of the staff – from concierge to gym staff – speak little to no ingles. I also have been surprised at the relative ease at which my Spanish has, thankfully, found its way back to me, after being tucked away in my subconscious for nearly six years. So, as mentioned, I’m here to personal train, right? Right. (And, y’know, test all the daquiri flavors.) I had visions of a shiny resort gym, a sign-up board with appointments, giving my trainees my best Jillian-esque workout, maybe even doing some on-the-floor weight loss coaching, converting their vacay into a mini Canyon Ranch in their one hour with me. Lovely, right? (I’m good at this vision work stuff.)

Reality? Not so much. Why I was way off:
1) It took me 2 days to merely figure out who scheduled people to be working in the gym. In these 2 days Matt and I learned that it also takes an act of congress to get towels or make a dinner reservation. Laid back? Um, you bet. When I finally found “my boss,” I’m not even sure he really knew I was supposed to be here. Then he asked if I could teach “aerobics in la piscina.” Luckily “no” needs no translation.
2) The gym looks exactly like my high school gym which was geared towards wrestlers and lineackers. The only thing “shiny” about it is the perma-stains of sweat on the weight benches.
3) The gym is run by Hector who speaks no english, thinks Matt plays for the Braves (did I mess something up in translation?), works from 7a to 7p for a wage that makes US minimum wage look like a make it rain kinda salary, and told me he’s is mucho bored. So, no sign up boards.
4) I saw 2-4 guests use the gym. Most of the occupants are employees of the resort, and clearly not interested in a training session. I guess this is how Hector survives – companionship.

I felt somewhat awkward and useless today in my first “working” day. I spent 20 minutes talking to Hector, but the acoustics in the gym were so bad that every 3rd or 4th response was lost – add to that I was trying to salvage my rusty Spanish skills and it ended up being my brain getting the biggest workout of all. Don’t get me wrong: I ain’t complaining! I’m in a tropical paradise, working 1 hour a day, and the pina colada machine never turns off. I’ll figure out a way to live with all this let-down.

The Proper Choosing of Language

The best part of floundering in a new language is the absolute thought, care and devotion dedicated to the choosing each world. Each “please” and “thank you” is a bridge between two worlds and the look of comprehension in the recipients eyes when the right tense is combined with the right verb is like the giving of no other gift.

Tonight we met Danny and Angela, siblings from Boston, who slip easily from Spanish to English with a mere flicker of thought. At one point, I asked Angela the best way to say “I would like” when ordering – knowing one could say “Quiero,” “Pido“, “Me gustaria” and so many other choices. (Imagine: in English… I’d like, Can I have, Bring me, Yea I want the… Gimmeah….). Her answer, “Deseo“, was not one I had considered and my joy at using just the right word in the future is just so tangibly unique to any other experience.

What a strange and separate world it is to know just a sliver of a language. Enough to “act as if”, but when the waterfall of worlds tumble out in response I back away, hands up, pleading “Mas Despacio!” And then as if the water was not cold enough the first time, I plunge back in.

Estamos Aqui!

We have arrived in Punta Cana! We are just sitting in the main lobby of our hotel now, awaiting our room to be ready. Ya’ll, it is HOT. Like, North Carolina in August minus the option of air conditioning plus the stupidity of wearing jeans because I was traveling on a plane and plane are always cold HOT.

The deal is that I’m contracted as the personal trainer here at this lovely resort for up to 3 hours a day, in exchange for us getting to stay here – room, food, drinks – for the mere cost of one night’s stay, 2 plane tickets, deportation tax, and the taxi ride from hell. Not a bad deal, if you can arrive here without losing your lunch in the taxi. I swear, the ride here made a Manhattan taxi ride look like a Sunday drive with Nanta and Pa. There are no lines on the road, stop signs apparently are optional, motorcycles are merely temporarily distractions to swerve around, oncoming traffic is No Big Deal when passing, and PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE tell me that speed limit is in kilometers? After awhile, I just shut my eyes and prayed that if we crashed, the ER doc sitting next to me would still be conscious because I’d rather take my chances on him saving my life with something out of our toiletry kit than go to the Punta Cana hospital – if there is one.

But we made it, and we’re here waiting and the resort looks gorgeous. The resort is kind of u-shaped facing the beach, and there’s two pools. One is the quiet pool, probably more family-friendly, and the other currently has Jock Jams pumping and the swim-up bar is jam packed. The resort is more international than I thought it would be – I just sort of assumed (estupida americana) that all the staff people would habla ingles. Not so much. Fortunately, my Spanish is reliably coming back to me.

Now, if we could just get in our rooms (and a/c) and get into bathing suits… it’s vacay time!

Big Family. THANKFULLY, Even Bigger House.

It’s been a little windy the last two days, so we’ve been at our pool rather than on the beach but hey, turns out you can still get a wicked sunburn without getting any sand in your swim suit. I SWEAR I USED SPF 30. Small children clambering on you = stealthy sunscreen removal process.

The fam that eats clams together stays together.
(Because there’s only one butter dish, so you have to huddle together real close.)

*Family factoid: At the age of 25, this was my Grandma’s life. 5 children under the age of 5. Oh, and she couldn’t drive a car. Suddenly, the biting sarcasm and penchant for Dewar’s is much, much better understood.

Just five of the seven siblings. (#’s 1, 3, 5, 7 & 4.)

Blog: The Beach Version

Things that Go Bump Down the Stairs

Our first night was pretty much TMZ-worthy. Every year when we get here we have a big clambake and there’s an astonishing amount of beer consumed and then we all play Kings. This is a great recipe for someone to do something embarrassing and be added in to the stories that will be retold at Christmas, Thanksgiving and the next decade’s worth of beach trips. This year my sister’s boyfriend looked like he was itching for that title – by the 3rd round, he had instituted a rule that whenever anyone wanted to address him they had to call him “Mister Master” only it came out “Mishter Mashter.” Katie was pretty thrilled. The next 2 rounds he would interject with random outbursts like “I didn’t work hard all week to act like your sister!” or “Positive Mental Attitude Katie, Positive Mental Attitude!” After round 5, Katie put him to bed.

One would THINK Dylan would enjoy the embarrassment of the next day. But oh no, it got worse. We all went to bed around 2. Katie & boyfriend, husband & I were sleeping in a downstairs room right near the stairs to the kitchen. Around 4 am, Matt said he woke up to a noise that sounded like “Shelves holding a 100 lb of stuff collapsing.” Only he did not investigate. (Matt & Meghan: Not Ready for Parenthood. I don’t wake to loud noises, he wakes but assumes “eh… must have been nothing.”) Turns out that nothing was my aunt taking a nosedive down the stairs. She went to the powder room next to our room and tried to clean up…then finally gave up and went and got her sister. Her sister, alarmed by the SKULL she could see through her gaping head wound, called 9-1-1. Matt awoke again to the noise of the paramedics hollering “Hello!” into the hallway next to our room, and finally went out to investigate. (Me: still sleeping.) She had a huge gash in her head, and they ended up taking her to the hospital. (I did finally wake up when Matt came back in our room and started rifling through my purse to get my keys.) She ended up having stitches down from about the middle of her forehead back to behind her ear. (And apparently the doctor’s demeanor towards her changed drastically when she pointed out she was here with “her nephew, the doctor.”) *Um, he’s not a doctor just a student doctor, but that can be a moot point when you want someone to stop explaining things to you in “poor stupid drunk lady” terms. She’s okay now, and in fact the stitches come out today.

Yesterday I was uploading pictures to my computer and her daughter (the 5 yo) came to sit on my lap. We were flipping through pictures and she looked at one and said “That’s before Mommy bumped her head!” so she clearly gets the concept of where the stitches come from. (Another great comment as we flipped through pictures…. “Lets count the beer cans in this! 1….2….3….10…11….12….12 beer cans! How many people drank those beers?” Can you do long division, sweet child?)

We are happy to know that for all future family vacays the answer to “Is there a doctor in the house?!” will always be a resounding “Yes!” (And by resounding, I might mean resigned. He’s kind of stuck with us.)

Charleston: Easter Weekend 2009

My To Do List: The Beach Version

Today I woke up in Myrtle Beach, SC. *Cue the Hallelujah chorus.*

Myrtle Beach has been my family’s traditional vacation forever – starting with my mom going with HER parents. (Then: camper. Now: 3 story house on the beach with kegerator by the pool. I like my version better.) It is so much a part of our family’s tradition that I threw an all out fit when I was in 3rd grade because my parents planned a family trip to Hawaii instead of our usual MB vacay.

Yes, that’s right, I was enraged at the idea of going to Maui over the Redneck Riviera. What can I say, I’m a suckah for tradition. And oh yea, I was 7. What did I care about volcanoes and mai tai’s?

In the last 8 years, other members of my extended family starting joining us, until gradually we grew from a family of 5 in one house to last year’s grand total of 20 in two side-by-side houses. This year we’re going for a major dice roll: 19 family members. One house.

Since college and this little thing called “employment”, I’ve only been able to come down and stay with my family at the beach for a long weekend. This year, the stars collided (i.e. I rearranged my teaching schedule) and lo and behold, I was able to get the whole week off. Pretty much, I could not be more tickled. I’d probably still at 26 years old, take an entire week at Myrtle with my fam over a few days in Maui. Although I do anticipate needing those mai tai’s with that many family members in close proximity.

My plans for the beach week include: reading approximately 7 books and 4 magazines, revisiting my neglected journal, using up an entire bottle of SPF 50, getting sand in my running sneakers, teaching my 5 year old cousin Amelia how to use my (old) digital camera, playing race cars with my 4 year old cousin William, playing princess with my 3 year old cousin Mae, getting sand dumped on my head by 2 year old Scott and trying to figure out a way to bottle up the precious new baby smell of 6 month old Charlie.

As you can see, I will be very busy this week.

Poop On A Plane (the less popular spinoff that Samuel L. Jackson wisely turned down)

While we were coming into Dulles on my flight back from Rochester, I had a 50 minute connection (stupid to do in Dulles, which is approximately the size of a small city.) 10 minutes before landing this little girl 2 rows up starts WAILING. She’s at least 3-4 years old. Not like a wee baby where you’re like “wow, poor moms” (because obvi at that age, you can’t really do too much of the logical talk and soothing things like “sssshh, the other people are starting to give me death looks thanks to your banshee wails” isn’t nearly as meaningful to a 5 mo old as they would be to a 3.5 year old right? I don’t know – no children, not sure at which age “logic” is apropos. Never? Is Never the right age?)

Anyways, I digress. So, 10 minutes to landing, there’s wailing, there’s a little bit of ineffective shushing going on, there’s passengers exchanging that look (you know the one, you’ve done it too) and all of a sudden the wailing turns into “I gottttaaaaa pooooooop.” Now this gets a good dose of nervous laughter from the fellow passengers around her. “I gotta poop and I caaaaaaan’t.” Ok, so the poor dear is constipated which according to many people is very uncomfortable. I would not know. (Thank you colitis.) We land. Late. 40 minutes til my next flight boards. I’m doing lots of deep yoga breaths to keep the nerves at bay as I glance at my watch approximately every 8 seconds. We dally on the run way – another plane is at our gate. 20 minutes til my next flight and the cacophony of pleas for use of the potty has not shown any signs of a ceasefire. Finally, she stops. The silence is so peaceful the entire plane exhales simultaneously.

“MOOOOOM I POOOOPED MY PAAAAAANTSSSS.” Immediately, a stomach-turning odor fills our end of the cabin, and of course, the plane is STILL. NOT. MOVING. Those little nozzles of air above your head do not dissipate poo smells very well, just FYI. 10 minutes til boarding and my heart is racing. Wailing, poop smells, no more sympathetic smiles from the passengers, and finally thankyouthankyouthankyou we’re moving again. As we pull into the gate, the attendant comes on the overhead and says “Folks, if I could ask your cooperation for a minute – if you could all remain seated while I get this young lady off the plane first – I think she might need to use the bathroom.”

YA THINK? Cos I’m pretty sure she just told us SHE ALREADY DID.

5 minutes to go, overwhelming smell, no one is getting off the plane and PS, Degree deodorant YOU DO NOT WORK.

The poopy passenger was whisked off and seatbelts came off faster than a freshmen’s pants on pledge night. clickclickclickGET OFF THE FREAKING PLANE ALREADY. 3 minutes til boarding, I’m never going to make it across the Behemoth That Is Dulles International in that huge pod on wheels.

But, by the Grace of God, I step off of Flight 349D at Gate 2C. Boarding next to me, at 3C was Flight 3489. To Greensboro. Halle-freaking-lujah.