12 December 2014
365 / 365
Last year's experiment with setting an athletic goal has gone rather well, so the temptation was there to have another go this year. Of course, a simple repeat of last year's quest to run 21km nonstop would have been rather dull - although it did get ticked off in 2014 as well.
Early in the year, a new challenge had to be found. I decided to think about it the way I often seek inspiration: I went swimming. And that's where it hit me: Why run around in the distance, when good things lie nearby? Like this pool at the YMCA I had just started using. I could come here more often.
Some mental math followed, and by the time that day's swim was done, an objective for 2014 was found. This year, I would swim one kilometer per day. On average, of course. But it still meant diving in frequenty, and keeping up the distance. A spreadsheet was created, and tracking started.
While I enjoy doing my laps, the new-found objective, and especially the steadily climbing target line on the time graph in my spreadsheet, certainly kept me motivated. Travel often saw me fall behind the required pace, while sunny summer weeks had me catching up quickly at parc Jean-Drapeau. Swimming out a lead over the "day of the year" line became quite satisfying. And this week, with just over 20 days in the year to go, I have reached my goal.
In 86 sessions, I've swam 365 kilometers. That's further than from Montréal to Québec or from Zurich to Milan. I prefer not to calculate how many laps it meant - but they certainly felt good.
Unlike running, which is a high impact sport and has left discernable pains in my knees in weeks of intense practice, I have yet to experience any negative effects of swimming, aside perhaps from a lingering scent of chlorine on my skin. It's relaxing, it allows me to think freely, and it is said to be good for me.
There will probably be a few more swims before the year is out, but I will allow myself a bit of a cookies-and-eggnog break for the holidays. A new year will be here soon, and with it a new challenge. I'll take the plunge!
N.B. Image for illustrative purposes only. Actual author may vary.
# posted by Oli : 22:31
23 June 2014
Potable
Even after five years in Canada, I have a hard time drinking unfiltered tap water. Not because I don't consider it safe. On the contrary: Because there is no doubt it is safe - given how much of chlorine it tastes. It's bad enough that I get the odd mouthful when I am in the pool. I certainly don't enjoy drinking it intentionally.
"You've been spoiled", she would then say. And it is on days like today that I come to realize how true it is. Since Saturday, I've been taking advantage of the warm and sunny summer weather to hike across the Swiss countryside. As I'd always taken it for granted, I carried but a small bottle of water in my backpack, filling it up again at every village's communal fountain.
When North Americans talk of a water fountain, they think of a small steel bowl with an upward-pointing faucet, used by cheapskates in shopping malls and airports to quench their thirst instead of buying a pop. Building codes require a few of these in public places, and they are frequently hidden in obscure corners, where they dispense the above mentioned chlorinated concoction.
In Switzerland, a fountain is a something completely different. It comes with a free-standing water pipe at shoulder height, a full sized stone trough, and often an old iron rack over it for supporting laundry or buckets. Every hamlet, no matter how small, has got at least one, but most towns have several. They are often decorated with flowers or wood carvings, many come with a second lower trough catering to horses and dogs, and most are centrally placed in town squares. Walking through tiny Theilingen, I came across three, whereas the city of Zurich has over 1'200, connected to their own supply grid. The incessant splashing and gurgling of fountains forms part of the acoustic background of every Swiss town. (Intriguingly, despite the fact that these fountains always run, the Swiss still use a third less drinking water per capita than the Canadians do. The presence of water counters in homes may have something to do with that...)
Most importantly, though, the fountains offer perfectly fresh, clean, and utterly drinkable water to everyone (the town of Scuol in the picture has even got a fountain with three faucets spouting three different mineral waters). And while villagers no longer wash their dirty laundry in public (well, at least not in the literal sense), they certainly still appreciate the fountains to quench their thirst on school trips, boyscout camps, bike rides, hikes, or simply during a quick roadside stop.
In Montréal, I had to buy a water belt to keep me properly hydrated during the training for last year's 21km run, with only one functioning water fountain along the Lachine Canal. I would not have had this problem in Zurich.
But there is hope yet, for at least our new office building has invested into a water filtering system that comes with taps in each kitchenette which finally offer a filtered, odor- and taste-free version of the local eau du robinet, and therefore something I'm perfectly willing to drink. It seems appropriate, then, that I will return to Canada with my own Swiss-made, refillable aluminium bottle. It may be red and white. But it is also very green.
Labels: Canada, health, Switzerland
# posted by Oli : 17:29
10 June 2013
Prevention
Knock on wood. I have no desire for the above to change.
And yet, the situation finally came to a head. Over the last few years, a growing number of friends and relatives started suggesting that I have a little check-up. Just in case. No harm, you know? I think it was when the analogy was drawn with my old car, which served me faithfully and which I had serviced regularly, that I finally accepted that I should go in for inspection.
My last one, it has to be said, was only two years ago. That examination was particular however in that it took place as part of my application to become a permanent resident of Canada. As such, it was performed by a physician retained by the immigration authorities, and although I was very much the subject at hand, the results were not actually shared with me. It is only by implication (I got my desired permit) that I believe not to carry any mortal condition.
Now, time has come to be sure. So I called the only clinic I have ever visited, and asked for an appointment. Without hesitation, I was told that all the clinic's doctors were fully booked, and no more appointments would be available for new patients. Confused, I hinted at the private health insurance provided by my employer. "Well, in that case", the tone suddenly changed. How would I like the coming week? And that would be $650 please.
Unsettled by the amount, I deemed it wise to check with the health insurer whether they would really pay. And they wouldn't. Why? Because I was healthy. No condition, no payment. However, I could always go see my family doctor, where annual physicals would be covered by the régie de l'assurance maladie. Other than that, it's either pay or wait until you get sick.
Family doctors are a rare breed in Québec, so much so that one of my favorite Canadian movies is about attracting one. Politicians like to claim that they can magically make more of them appear, but a recent study found that 46% of immigrants to la belle province have to survive without one. The fabled Canadian public health system is admittedly excellent at treating emergencies regardless of a patient's origin and financial prowess, but when I filled in the borough's form to go on a waiting list, it didn't lift my spirits. Thanks to my luxury problem, I answered all the questions promising a fast track (chronic conditions? recent accidents? drug abuse? smoking? family illnesses? pregnancy?) in the negative. As one friend succinctly put it, the best way to have a family doctor after four years in Québec is to start looking four years ago.
Imagine my surprise, then, when less than a week later, my phone rang and a friendly nurse from a private clinic down the street was on the line. I was baffled to learn that the government had forwarded my application, and I was kindly invited to come by this week for an interview with the nurse. Whoa!
Less than half an hour after I'd arrived at what seemed to be a bright, modern, well-run establishment, my initial examination was over, and the competent nurse started an apology. Due to the upcoming summer vacations, it would take her a bit longer than usual to get me my family doctor. At worst, it could take up to two months. Would that be acceptable?
Despite all the horror stories I'd heard, Québec for once seems to redeem itself. I'll hold my judgement until after I've actually met my family doctor. But as far as the two month wait is concerned, after a decade without one, I feel confident to say... I'll survive!
# posted by Oli : 22:35
03 September 2012
Insomnia
It was one of those nights. It was too short. And yet, it seemed so long. The next morning, I'd have to get up at 5 in the morning to catch the flight into my Labour Day weekend. It was 11 in the evening already, and I had just returned from an exhilarating concert of one my favorite teenage pop acts. High time, then, to get some sleep. Easier said than done. With my bags all packed, I rushed to brush my teeth, turn off the lights and wrap myself into the fluffy duvet. “Only a bit more than five hours before another long day starts”, I reminded myself as I squeezed my eyes closed. “Must sleep at once!”
Half an hour later, I had relived the best parts of the concert I’d just seen. Another half hour (or three cycles of the fridge compressor running, if you must know) later, I’d mentally walked through the process of getting to the airport the next morning – not that this is anything that requires particular cerebral effort. After that, as I was counting my flock of sheep, Dolly #47 veered off course and fell down some steep alpine cliff. And I was wide awake again.
It is ironic, Alanis Morrisette would undoubtedly contend. The harder you try to fall asleep, the less likely you are to succeed, regardless of the state of fatigue you’re in. After an intensive week at work, and almost a month’s worth of parental visits, I could certainly have done with the rest. But it was not to be.
Earlier that day, as Friday afternoon dragged on at the office, I had visions of my bed and imagined myself cuddle in the crisp white linen (in reality, my bedding is far less fancy, but hey, it’s a daydream after all!). But when the time came and went, I lay awake in bed thinking about the quagmires of work. Certainly, this couldn’t be what long weekends were supposed to be about?
At 5 o’clock sharp, the alarm went off. I must have succumbed to sleep eventually, but judging by the way I felt, it could not have been very long ago. Despite a cold shower and a double double from the Tim Hortons by the bus stop, I was barely able to keep my eyes up as I joined the security queues at the airport. Mercifully, they were short and moving quickly, for my vision still blurred passengers and sheep – and this time, they had an incredibly strong somniferous effect! (None were allowed to stray, either).
In a daze, I made it to the plane I was supposed to catch, and before the flight attendants even had a chance to ask if I’d prefer the greasy omelet or the chewy waffles for breakfast, I’d already reclined my seat, pulled down my eye mask and was off to the land of clouds.
As a dear friend, and recently departed traveller, once put it to me, he’d “always fared best by letting my body sleep when it wanted to, and staying awake when it did not.” May he rest in peace.
Labels: health
# posted by Oli : 15:24
19 October 2010
Inspection
If you want to import a motor vehicle to Canada, it will need to be inspected to ensure that it complies with Canadian standards. After all, who knows what the car has been through in whatever shady part of the world it comes from. Is there any rust under the hood? How about oil type and pressure? What exactly comes out of the exhaust pipe? And does it have permanent running lights?The inspections are not limited to motor vehicles. The same thoroughness also applies should you want to import - yourself. As part of the proceedure to obtain Canadian permanent residence (what they would call a "green card" in the States), applicants have to undergo a medical exam no less rigourous than the one administred by the department of motor vehicles. Yesterday, it was my turn. Armed with the required documents, passport pictures, health card, and a lot of reading material for the anticipated waiting time, I arrived at the clinic at the agreed time. It's the same place I have visited before, so I had expected them to already have a file for me. But that would just make it too easy: The records are not shared between the different departments of the clinic. So, for the first 30 minutes, I filled in essentially the same form three more times - once for the doctor's examination, once for the lab tests, and once for the x-ray. If I had been in any doubts about my own name and date of birth, they would have been quickly dispelled. A number of (certified Canadian?) trees were sacrified for the paper involved in achieving this certainty.
Just 75 minutes after my scheduled appointment, I was called into the doctor's office - where I was welcomed by a calm, gentle and yet assertive woman who strongly reminded my of my childhood orthodontist. To soothing classical music playing from a stereo, she walked me through a questionnaire on my addictions (no questions on chocolate, fortunately), and professionally examined me. In less than 10 minutes, I was done. Form 1 was signed and stamped.
Form 2 was dealt with 30 minutes later in the adjacent lab. For lack of motor oil, I had to volunteer other bodily fluids, vials of which were labelled with my name (I checked!) and will presumably be kept on record in Ottawa for the rest of my life. By late morning, Form 2 was completed.
And that made it time for me to gatecrash the so-called "private lounge", an open waiting room with a small snacks and drinks buffet. I still don't know what distinguished the patients in that section from us outside. It seemed a bit like in the old USSR, where some were created more equal than others. Whatever - that granola bar was exactly what I needed to boost blood sugar levels and tackle the last stop on this tour the force: Exposing myself to an extra dosis of radiation!
Downstairs in radiology, I had to take a number and wait my turn - again. And when it arrived, the receptionist's computer crashed. Eventually, the problem was resolved and I was duly processed in. A nurse quickly rebuffed my notion of posing for the required upper body x-ray with a bare chest, and asked me to change into one of these fashionable, one size fits none blue night gowns they like to dress the seriously ill in. I definitely looked drop dead gorgeous. For all the trouble, the authorities hopefully find this exercise insightful as the rays penetrated my lungs. Just under four hours after I got to the clinic, form 3 was signed, sealed and delivered to Ottawa.
So, dear Canada, you now know me inside out. I hope I comply with your exacting standards. And as for those permanent running lights, are you saying that I am not bright enough?
# posted by Oli : 22:32
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