Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | April 15, 2010

Around the World in 80 Bidets

Someday I would like to write a book about bathrooms in other countries, a sort of guide to loos around the world. Walking into a bathroom on foreign soil exemplifies the experience of traveling abroad. You can figure out the major components, but details can confound you. Bathrooms abroad are familiar and strange at the same time, creating that unsettling juxtaposition that makes traveling so worthwhile.

One of my most vivid memories from my very first trip to Europe was standing in a bathroom in Ireland puzzling over a chain attached to a tank mounted high up on the wall. I was pretty sure I should pull the chain to flush the toilet, but I was not absolutely positive. I stood there agonizing over what to do. Should I pull the chain? What if I’m wrong and it causes a big flood? Should I go ask someone for help? Too embarassing! Leave it unflushed? Too rude. I finally took my chances and pulled the chain. It worked just fine.

That was the first of many bathroom dilemmas over the years. In addition to mastering the pull-chain, I quickly learned to look for flush handles on the top, not front, of tanks. Some had buttons to push, others had knobs to be pulled. In Scandinavia I first encountered the sleek tankless toilets with small flush buttons mounted directly on the wall. More recently, I puzzled over those water-saving dual flush mode toilets that now seem to be in vogue everywhere except the US. I have strugled with doors that wouldn’t lock in Mexico, timer lights that cut out on me in France, and a bathroom that appeared to have no sink in Belize (the sink was outside, around the corner). I remember them all quite well, an integral part of each trip. So it is fitting that my first cultural experience on this trip occurred in the ladies room at Narita airport.

This is my first trip to Asia, a completely new adventure for me. What’s more, although our vacation is a bike tour in Laos and Vietnam, it seems as if we are doing a tour of major airports in Asia first. Our itinerary calls for flying to Tokyo, then Hong Kong, then Bangkok, and finally on to Luang Prabang in Laos. And yes, we really have one night in Bangkok, just like the song title.

I arrived at O’Hare as giddy as a kid on the way to Disneyland. I was excited about going to Asia but also about the mode of transportation: a fully decked out long-haul 777. I settled and started exploring what would be my home for the next 14 hours. I think my seating area on the plane was bigger than my dorm room in college. I watched a movie, fell asleep and woke up in Tokyo.

Flying presents the traveler with a quick and abrupt culture shock. This is not the gradual immersion that Theroux chronicled in The Great Railway Bazaar. Of course, Theroux had all the time in the world to gently steep himself in cultures that brewed stronger with each passing day, acclimating himself gradually to the increasing foreigness around him. It’s one of the luxuries of train travel. Air travel, however, strips you of that gentle steeping. I went right from my very American environment on the airplane straight into a foreign bathroom in Tokyo.

Fortunately the “foreign” aspect of the Narita ladies room was nothing more than amusing. I walked in to find, around the toilet, what appeared to be an armrest. I wondered briefly if I’d gone into the handicapped stall. On closer inspection, I discovered that the “armrest” was actually a control panel for a built in bidet. It was certainly the most extensive set of electronic controls I have ever seen on a toilet. It was more complicated than our TV remote at home. The buttons were as follows: stop, spray, bidet, flush sound, water pressure, and deodorizing. I wish I’d taken a picture but silly me, I hadn’t brought my camera into the stall (and just typing “camera” and “stall” together in the same sentence makes me uncomfortable). Most of the controls seemed self explanatory except “flush sound.” I just had to press it. And sure enough, from a speaker mounted in the side, came the audio of a toilet being flushed. It did not actually flush the toilet, mind you (I had to search around a little more for that button). No, the “flush sound” is exactly what it says. And I have no idea why you would need it. As the kids say these days, let’s not go there.

So I left Tokyo’s bathrooms behind (no pun intended) and began the next eagerly awaited aspect of this trip: my first flight on Cathay Pacific. It was everything I dreamed of, in my little pod with fully flat sleeper seat. I think perhaps I will sell the house and just live on Cathay Pacific flying between Tokyo and Hong Kong. Or maybe I can get a job as a flight attendant. Although as I look at the stunning and petite beauties hustling about the cabin, I can once again hear ‘”one of these things is not like the others” in my head (see previous post “Why Tri Harder”). I don’t think Cathay would have me. But at least I can dream about it in my fully reclining sleeper seat in my very private pod. A girl could get used to this. Perhaps in time I could even get used to the whole bidet/fake flushing sound thing. But I doubt it.

(NB: I will be posting when I can from my phone, so please forgive me in advance for grammatical errors, poor syntax, lack of proofing and bizarre spelling auto-corrects.)

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Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | April 14, 2010

Why Tri So Hard? Bad is the New Good.

In the locker room at the pool yesterday, I overheard references to someone qualifiying for Kona and someone having been to World’s.  I am pretty sure the Kona quote was “I qualified for Kona,” although it might have been “she qualified for Kona.” In either case, I thought “WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING HERE?”

For the uninitiated, Kona is the Ironman Triathlon World Championships.  Kona is like the Boston Marathon, the queen of her sport, and you can’t simply go visit the queen. You have to qualify. You have to earn the right to go to Hawaii and swim 2.4 miles, then hop on a bike for 112 miles, and then top it off by running a marathon, all in one day. Hour after grueling hour. No stopping for a nap, no lunch break, no little side trip to get your nails done. Simply thinking about it makes my legs hurt.

So when I heard the Kona reference in the locker room, followed by the World’s reference (and really, that needs no explanation: Swimming World Championships, as in these people do not need water wings even in the deep end), I was quite intimidated.  Merely being in the presence of these women was outside my comfort zone.  As I stuffed my rather, shall we say, “soft” body into my Speedo, I heard the song from Sesame Street in my head: “One of these things is not like the other things. One of these things just doesnt belong.”  Who am I, how did I get here and can I leave now?

A few months ago, I decided it would be fun to do a triathlon.  Not only that, I decided I should do several triathlons: a sprint distance, an Olympic distance, and a Half-Ironman. Before I knew it, I found myself publicly declaring said goal on Twitter.  Unfortunately, I had overlooked the fact that triathlons have a swim component and I don’t swim. Yes, I can bike and run as far as the day is long, but the only time I get in the water is to hit the swim-up bar while on vacation. My favorite stroke is the kind that doesn’t get my hair wet.  Sure, I was a star in my Polliwog group at the local YMCA back in the day, but by the time I was 8, I had hit my peak. Quite simply, water is not my thing.  It is lovely to look at but not something into which I want to submerge myself. It is generally cold and it is best enjoyed from above, while in a chair, perhaps with a drink.

Yet a part of me really wanted to do a triathlon. I was ready to embrace a new challenge. What’s more, I had publicly declared my triathlon intention to all my friends and my 600 Twitter followers.  I had to go through with it or else, to borrow a phrase from Ricky Ricardo, I’d have a lot of ‘splaining to do. So in January, I started working with a fantastic tri coach (Nina) who assured me that yes, I could do this.  I neglected to mention to Nina that I hated swimming and hadn’t willingly swam more than 10 feet in about 30 years.  Ah, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it, I figured. Before I knew it, January was drawing to a close and Nina was asking me about doing swim workouts.  Fortunately, a friend of mine (Liza) recommended a great pool nearby.  I was out of excuses, the time had come to enter a foreign realm and get in the pool.

So, one cold January day, I hopped in my car and drove to the pool. I parked the car, then immediately chickened out, slammed that car into reverse and and high-tailed it the heck out of there. I drove for about 10 minutes, told myself I was being stupid, turned around and went back to the pool. I parked in the same spot and sat in the car for 20 minutes. What would I do if it was crowded? How do you share a lane? Do I really have to take a shower before entering the pool area, like all those signs say? It was overwhelming. Once again, the flight mechanism kicked in and I threw the car in reverse.  I pulled out of the parking lot again, although I immediately decided I was a complete idiot and did a u-turn right back into the lot. I parked in the same spot.  For the third time. It was starting to feel like home. Finally, after another 20 minutes, I mustered up the courage to get out of the car, mainly because it was getting late and the thought of explaining to both Nina and Liza why I hadn’t gone swimming as planned was too embarrassing to contemplate.  Also, I was worried security might start to get suspicious about the woman sitting in the parking lot talking to herself. As timid as a rabbit, I went in the building and asked for directions to the pool. Everyone was delightfully nice (and I didnt even have to drop Liza’s name once). No one laughed at me or pointed at me or called me a swimming loser. The pool was empty. It wasn’t that cold.  I swam. It was the least painful part of the entire day, by far. I may have looked like a cat flailing to get out of the bath, but at least I didn’t drown.

My friend Liza helped me get the name of a swim instructor and the next week I started lessons.  The day of the first lesson, I once again I found myself in the parking lot (different parking space) trying to talk myself into getting out of the car and going inside.  It was a bit easier this time because I had an appointment, although being a no-show certainly crossed my mind. More than once, in fact. But good manners and good sense prevailed and I finally got out of the car and into the building. Fortunately, it turns out my instructor, AJ, is a great coach and she has never made me feel as if I should just give up and go home.  She also has never suggested I wear water wings, although truthfully, I think they could help me immensely.

The challenge for me is that AJ swims with a group of incredibly athletic and talented women, and every now and then when I am on my way to my lesson, I encounter them in the locker room.  It happened yesterday, as mentioned above. They have never been anything less than kind to me and they seem like a fun group. Still, in my mind I hear Cookie Monster singing “one of these things is not like the other things” every time I find myself  with them. But the more I think about it, the more I think it is ok not to “be like the other things.” No, I will never get to Kona, or Worlds, but there is nothing wrong with that.  It is ok to be new, and most importantly, it is ok to be bad. After all, would American Idol be such a hit were it not for the bad people? No, I say. It is the bad people who make the world go round.  Bad is the new good.  Those of us who lack talent and experience are downright essential.  We make the competent people shine. We are like the chipped gilt frame around the masterpiece, our flaws highlight the perfection. My drowning-cat-like flailing makes their strong and beautiful gliding even more lovely.  Or at least that is what I tell myself to drown out Cookie Monster’s singing in my head. Hey, I’ve got an idea: maybe I should try out for American Idol. I know just what song I should sing and how badly to sing it.

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Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | April 6, 2010

Living Large in the Lone Star State

I am willing to concede that perhaps I sign up for too many sports-related events because my friends assume every time I leave town I am doing a run, ride, etc. Just to prove that I am not completely unbalanced, I’d like the record to show that I am in Texas simply visiting a friend. No marathon, no century ride, no crazy overnight relay. It is just a plain ol’ getaway, like a normal person might take. Yes, I went for a run, but normal people do that, right?

So I am not here doing some daunting activity that challenges me and makes me wonder if I have briefly taken leave of the little good sense I have left. But I find myself wondering if simply going to Texas constitutes stepping outside the comfort zone. As with most things in life, the answer is a resounding “It depends.”

Texas is the land of cowboys, and as a part time Montanan, I feel well-versed in cowboy culture. I know what PRCA stands for. And no, not because I Googled it, but because I have actually been to the rodeo. Several times, in fact. I like to think I have cowboy street cred. But I doubt cowboys use the term ‘street cred.’  Okay, let’s face it, I am a born and bred New Englander, as East Coast as they come. The only cowboy boots I own are a pair of Joan and Davids circa 1995. While they were quite a bargain and very stylish back in the day, they have never been anywhere near a rodeo, or even a farm. The closest they have gotten to livestock would have been in a horse-drawn carriage ride around Back Bay. So while Texas may not be completely out of my comfort zone, it is certainly not familiar territory. I don’t even like barbeque.

But generally speaking, going to Texas isn’t exactly stepping into a different culture. Yes, they sell sparkly pink cowboy hats that are, like everything else here, oversized and hard to miss. But they also have a Starbucks on every corner. What puts it outside the comfort zone is when you think of it not as a vacation spot but as your new home. That is exactly what my friend Beth is grappling with, and yes, she is living outside the comfort zone. She has moved to San Antonio. Home of the Alamo, hot summers and mosquitos the size of small birds. Where the men are men and the wildlife on certain designated hunting ranches are nervous. And did I mention the hot summers?

Truthfully, though, I think Beth will be fine. She is off to a great start, and San Antonio is a wonderful city. But moving someplace new and starting over is hard. It’s not easy to extract yourself from the life you know, the friends you have, the daily routine that soothes you like an old soft blanket.  Or to put it in the modern vernacular, it is hard to go someplace new because familiarity is the Snuggie of life.

When I moved from Boston to Chicago, I was surprised at how much I missed the small, everyday things. I missed running into someone at the grocery store. I missed knowing my way around. I missed Chet and Nat on the evening news (yeah, I know they split up, but I missed them anyway). I missed driving to my brother’s house for holiday dinners with my family. I missed knowing the stories and histories of the sports teams and the politicians. Reading the morning newspaper just wasn’t, and still isn’t, the same. I felt completely unsettled, surrounded by strangeness, stripped of my blanket.

That is not to say I didn’t love Chicago, I did most of the time, but there were times when I wasn’t sure it was worth the upheaval.  If familiarity is the Snuggie of life, moving is the ShamWow: sometimes you think it’s the best thing that ever happened, and sometimes you think you got short-changed. Sometimes you have both thoughts at the same time.

Finding your way around, turning strangers into friends, and exploring new places require effort and can make you feel unstable.  To borrow from Stegner, all of us are seeking that angle of repose, that sweet spot where we no longer feel like we are rolling out of control. No one wants to live an interim life, and moving certainly feels like one.  But like anything that pushes you out of the comfort zone, creating a home in a new place, carving out a life in unfamiliar territory, is rewarding, even more rewarding than running a marathon.  And, of course, it helps if you have a Snuggie to keep you warm and a ShamWow to keep things shiny clean. Turns out you can find all that in Chicago, and in Texas, too. It just takes time.

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Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | April 2, 2010

Fast Times in Belle Glade

Let me introduce you to Belle Glade, Florida, one of the highlights of my recent relay run across the Sunshine State. Belle Glade lies on the shores of lovely Lake Okeechobee, a 730 square mile shimmering jewel smack in the middle of the state. Or smack in the middle of nowhere, depending on your point of view. Belle Glade is sometimes referred to by its nickname, “Muck City,” which refers to the large quantity of sugarcane-growing muck in the area.  Or it could be a socioeconomic reference. I am not sure.

The city is small, only around 15,000 residents, and yet it has distinguished itself in notable ways over the years. In the 80’s, it had the highest rate of AIDS in the United States. More recently, the FBI declared that Belle Glade had the second highest violent crime rate in the country.1 Yes, that is second highest in the entire US, and we are not talking small things like property or identity theft. We are talking the big stuff: murder, assault, rape. Things that could get you sent to the Big House (and conveniently enough, there happens to be a prison nearby, making it easy for friends and family to visit).  So Belle Glade is not only a lakeside fisherman’s paradise, it is also ideal for anyone seeking violent crime, prostitution, poverty, and drug trafficking.

Belle Glade, it turned out, was one of the points we passed through during the Sunset-to-Sunrise Relay Run across Florida. Normally, the race route would stay on the Lake Okeechobee Scenic Trail, a bike/running path along the shores of the lake and away from the city itself.  However, due to construction, the race route was diverted onto local roads right through Belle Glade’s hottest neighborhoods. To top it off, we were passing through during the prime midnight-6AM shift.  An ideal time to visit a crime-riddled area.

Now, the key to visiting a place like Belle Glade is to blend in with the locals.  Try not to stand out.  Don’t call attention to yourself.  Unfortunately, race rules stipulate that participants running at night must run with a reflective vest, a blinking light, and a headlamp.  When running along the Lake Trail, as I had earlier in the night, wearing the headlamp was oddly comforting.  I would regularly turn my head to direct the spotlight off the trail, hoping to frighten away any lurking gators.  In the ‘hood, however, the headlamp seemed to be a shining beacon beckoning every would-be assailant within visual range.   In addition, race rules allow for overnight runners to be accompanied by a cyclist for safety, which seemed like a good idea in a place like Belle Glade.  So now we are talking two reflective vests, two blinking lights and two headlamps cruising down the street at 3 AM.  Only a strobe light could have made us to stand out more, or perhaps a disco ball mounted on the bike.  I could hear Marissa Tomei from the movie My Cousin Vinny talking in my ear: “Oh, yeah, you blend.”

So there I am, dressed like a geeky wayward spelunker on a bicycle, accompanying my friend Elaine who is running through the deserted streets of Belle Glade.  Our lights are blinking, our headlamps are ablaze, and we are sticking out like a UFO that has landed in an Iowa cornfield.  Fortunately, all the drug pushers and prostitutes must have had other plans because the town was largely deserted.  We made it through the center of Belle Glade and then turned to cross over the railroad tracks and head out of town. (I guess you could say we were on the wrong side of the tracks, but both sides seemed equally dodgy.)

Just after we made the turn, I suggested to Elaine that we cross over to the other side of the street so that we would be heading against traffic (easier for cars to spot our glowing headlamps!).  However, no sooner were the words out of my mouth when I spied a couple of large dogs coming out of an alley up ahead on the other side of the road.  Knowing that Elaine was scared of dogs, I suggested that we hop up and continue running on the sidewalk, instead of crossing over to run against traffic.  As I looked again, I saw that the two dogs had now become a pack of about 8.  Eight large, not-too-friendly looking dogs headed right towards us. Now, I can be a little naive, but it dawns on me rather quickly that this is a large pack of dogs roaming around loose at 3 in the morning.  This is not Fido and friends, whose owners let them off leash for an afternoon stroll.  This is not one or two rambunctious Marley-and-Me type Labs who escaped from a backyard and are out on a doggie joyride.  No, there are no collars, no evidence of trips to the groomers, not a wagging tail in sight. This is a pack of wild Belle Glade dogs and they will mess you up, sister, headlamp or no.  Fortunately, our support van had stayed nearby for our entire Belle Glade Odyssey. They saw the dogs, slammed on the brakes, and a team-mate hopped out with pepper spray.  Fortuitously, another team van was nearby and drove up to the intersection, helping to scare the dogs away from us.   But I like to think it was our blazing headlamps that did the trick.  Perhaps the dogs thought we were escaped miners and knew better than to tussle with us.  Miners can get nasty in a fight, after all.  The dogs moved off to our left, and although I still gave nervous looks over my shoulder for several minutes, we proceeded on our way.  Eventually we crossed “Hooker Highway” (and no, I am not making that up) which I assumed was the danger zone demarcation line, and we headed out into the quiet farmland that awaited us.  We had survived Belle Glade.  Only 60 more miles to go.

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Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | March 28, 2010

Wrapping Up the S2S Relay, or how I learned to stop worrying and love the headlamp

I learned many things from doing the S2S relay. Some I learned from challenging myself and pushing myself to my physical limits. Most I learned from being in a van with 5 other women for 30+ hours.

– It’s good for me to get over myself. Yes, I was driving around in a car with bras hanging off the mirrors and wipers. Yes, that would normally be considered an uncouth thing to do, and it certainly is excessively attention-seeking. But it was rather funny. I am not saying I advocate putting underwear on one’s car on a regular basis, but if it’s humorous and in the right context, go for it.

– Too much drama is a buzzkill. If you are doing something for fun, you should remember to keep it fun. Enough said.

– Women and men aren’t all that different. It turns out that we, too, swear, pass gas, and can be crude and blunt with each other. It just takes us longer to let it all hang out. And we prefer to let it all hang out in the privacy of our own van.

– A running relay is not just about running, it can help you in other sports. For example, after van-sleeping in a position worthy of a drunk contortionist, some of those wacky poses in yoga will be a breeze.

– Nighttime running is peaceful and beautiful, even if a small part of me still thinks wearing a headlamp is freakishly dorky. And I still have the urge to sing “heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it’s off to work I go” whenever I put on the headlamp. But having your own personal interrogation lamp strapped to your head is kind of fun.

– I am more afraid of a roaming pack of dogs than I am of gators. But I am even more scared of that sandwich I got at a rather unsanitary Subway. At least with the dogs I had pepper spray. At Subway, I needed some Lysol spray. The kind with bleach.

– Severe sleep deprivation can either make you crabby or punchy. I prefer the punchy people. If you are going to suffer physically, you might as well have something to laugh about to ease the pain.

– Life is more fun when you do stuff. But I guess I already knew that, since I am a signupaholic and will try virtually any interesting activity that comes down the pike. Doing the Relay was just a nice reminder of that. And it was a nice reminder of the simple joys in life, like a shower and a bed.

Yes, it turns out that staying up for 36 hours, running 15 miles, biking 10 (in the middle of the night) and exploring the back roads of Florida in a very fragrant van can be a fun experience. Believe it or not.

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