The Polarising Olive

Before I left Israel about a month ago, I had a conversation with my cousin about olives. We both love olives. One day, we plan on going on a trip centered around olives. So far, the list of places to visit is: Kalamata. 

But that day we were discussing a very different olive: the Souri. It is a common olive found in every hummus and falafel restaurant in Israel. These are cheap, small, green, bitter, sharp and do not have much meat on them. I love them. My cousin loves them. My girlfriend, who also likes olives, though not as much as me,  does not like them. To her, they are barely worth eating. 

The Souri: a polarising olive.

In moments of contemplation during my move back to Canada, I came up with a theory of why people love these olives. I think these olives are an acquired taste. When you visit hummus and falafel restaurants, the first thing brought to the table is a plate of raw onions, vinegary pickles, and Souri olives. Due to hunger, you consume the olives every time. After many visits, congratulations, you have acquired a taste for the humble Souri olive. This also explains why my girlfriend does not like them: she never goes to eat hummus in as hungry a state as my cousin and me.

When I shared my theory with my cousin, he disagreed that this was the reason. He suggested that it was a question of connoisseurship. In the same way passionate chocolate lovers gravitate towards darker, more bitter varieties, true olive lovers seek the bitter, sharp flavour of the Souri. 

I am unsure which of the two theories is correct. Maybe there exists another explanation. The next step would be trying to prove or disprove these theories, but I am not yet sure how I am going to do that.

This is England!

It was a hot August day. The summer was stretching Ruth and me thin, the unrelenting heat continuing day after day.

We don’t enjoy the summer; we fight it. Every weekend we brace ourselves to leave the apartment. Like many others, our lives are lived almost entirely in our apartment due to Corona. We sleep, eat, work and exercise in the same place.I like my apartment, but the walls are driving me crazy. I need to go outside, and not just to the soup, salad and juice place down the street to pick up lunch — regardless of how clever a pun Moshe found for his place: Mar Marak (Mr. Soup) on Marmorek St.

This particular day, we had a mission: Bialik square. As much as we had aimlessly wandered the streets of Tel-Aviv for the past few years, we never reached this square. Earlier, when we were looking at Tel-Aviv on Google Maps, wondering where would be a good place to walk to, this stood out. Looking at the pictures on the internet, Ruth asked me, “have we been here before? I don’t remember going but the pictures look familiar.”

We had been there before. When we visited Israel a year before we moved here, we explored Tel-Aviv and came across this square and the Ruben museum nearby. But we had never seen it since. so I’d started wondering if it was a figment of my imagination. While we haven’t walked every street, it seemed strange that we wouldn’t have stumbled on this memory since moving here.

Now armed with Google map proof, we set out to the square, down Ben-Zion boulevard, through Meir park, and into the neighbourhood of the square. I knew it was nearby, but was not sure in which direction. Is it possible for a place to not want to be found? Is it possible for it to exert a force keeping people away, a force that needs to be willfully overcome?

We wandered, took a few turns. We might have gone around in a circle. We suddenly found ourselves across the street from a coffee booth, standing in front of a wide staircase that stretched three stories up. We couldn’t see what was at the top, but it seemed fitting that we would need to climb these steps to reach the square: elevated, almost out of reach.

We climbed the stairs, and there was the square: the old city hall with its colonial architecture on one side, a fountain in the middle, and park benches that ringed the rest of the circular plaza, save for a section that bordered on a quiet street. We sat down on one of the benches under the shade of a tree, taking refuge from the midday sun. 

I philosophized insufferably about how this was likely much closer to what the European founders of the state had envisioned, rightly or wrongly, than what Tel-Aviv had become. It was quiet, orderly, with a few palm trees. Palm trees are still to be found elsewhere in the city. Quiet and order, less so. 

After about ten minutes, a car stopped on the side of the street that borders the square. Two shirtless guys in short shorts, the kind used for running, got out of the car. They started taking what looked like an entire home gym out of the trunk of the car: medicines balls, kettlebells, jump ropes. One of them started shlepping all the stuff towards one of the benches in the shade, while the other got back in the car, to go look for parking. I realized that what I had taken to be a foam roller from afar was actually a portable speaker. Typical Tel-Aviv Israelis, I thought, finding quiet, peaceful places and ruining them for everyone else.

A few minutes later, the other shirtless gentleman re-appeared: I don’t know how he found parking in this city so quickly. I overheard them speaking to each other. They were not native Israelis: they spoke English with a British accent.

They started doing some warmup squats and jumping jacks, music blasting and echoing across the square. We got up to leave, disappointed at these English people who had seemingly adapted too well to living in Israel. Or maybe I was just jealous that they will probably last here longer than me. Just then, the song they were playing reached its chorus: ‘This is England! This is England!’.

Why Do Mondays Go on Forever?

I was recently discussing my theories on the Israeli workweek with a friend, and I thought to myself: this is so genius, I need to write it down.

I’ve been living in Israel for a year and a half. There are certain things that I enjoy, and others that I am still having a hard time getting used to. One of the struggles is the Israeli workweek. 

In Israel the week starts on Sunday and ends on Thursday. My mind had been conditioned for twenty-five years to believe that the week starts on Monday and ends on Friday. The difference between the two systems causes me a lot of internal conflict. This is what each day of the Israeli week feels like to me:

Sunday - Obviously this feels like Monday. It’s the first day of the week.

Monday - At this point, the realization has dawned on me that the weeks work differently here. So this feels like Monday. Again.

Tuesday - Everything is right with the world. Tuesday feels like Tuesday.

Wednesday - Smooth sailing. Wednesday feels like Wednesday.

Thursday - Things start getting wonky again. This is the last day of the workweek. The last day of the workweek needs to be a Friday. Therefore, this is a Friday.

Friday - Does this feel like Saturday? Of course not! This day has a Shabbat dinner, which is a sort of North star pointing out that this day is, in fact, Friday. 

Saturday - Back to the regular schedule. Saturday is Saturday.

To summarize, instead of the week being:

Sunday-Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday-Thursday-Friday-Saturday

It becomes:

Monday-Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday-Friday-Friday-Saturday

You might have realized that the week is missing two days. My concept of the Israel week is missing Thursdays and Sundays. I think they were taken from me when I passed through customs, and will be returned to me whenever I leave.

But Elliot, you might say,  it’s been over a year. Surely you are used to the way the week works by now?

I am not. Every week I am surprised by the interminable Mondays, and dismayed to find out that all that remains of a weekend is Saturday.

Cause of Anxiety #53

One summer several years ago, I was living in Ottawa. I had quit my job in Montreal and had moved in with Ruth. As I figured out what I wanted my next career move to be, my routine began taking shape. I divided my days between applying for jobs, studying statistics and improving my coding. 

To maintain my motivation and productivity in both my job search and studies, I created a routine, an integral part of which was exercising. I would alternate between handstand practice in the living room and working out with a kettlebell in our apartment’s backyard.

Our apartment was located in a residential area with detached homes. Our building was unique in that it was subdivided into a few apartments.

The owners of the house next door had two little pugs. What they lacked in size they made up for in volume. While I was exercising in our yard, they would stand on the neighbour’s wooden deck, barking at me. It would usually start with one of them, the other joining after rushing over from another part of the patio to see what caused its compatriot’s vexation.

Their barking always made be uncomfortable. I tried to be rational, telling myself that there’s a fence between us, and anyway, they are too small to do anything. This was how I soothed myself to be able to continue my activities through the yapping. 

Until one day. 

I had carried the kettlebell down the stairs at the back of the house and set it on the ground when the barking began. This time, the two dogs had grander plans. They made their way down from the patio to the fence between the two homes. I can continue, I thought.

But then, they slipped under the fence. 

They raced over on their short legs, barking the whole time. They circled around me. At this point, I abandoned the kettle bell and backed away slowly. They followed me. I started climbing the stairs. They were most likely afraid of stairs, as I was not pursued. 

I closed the door, the barking growing fainter and less frequent. After catching my breath from this near-death experience, I decided to look outside to see what had happened. I opened the door and took a peek. 

The dogs were still there. They saw me and started barking again. I didn’t know what to do: I couldn’t just leave my kettlebell in the yard. Anyone could grab it (though the chances of someone coming into our yard from the street, seeing a kettlebell, and taking it were slim). 

Eventually, the neighbour emerged and commanded his dogs to come back inside. I didn’t know whether I was safe, but I knew that I couldn’t let these dogs derail my workout.

I completed my workout that day, and had many more workouts in that yard for the rest of the summer. The fence must have been fixed, as the dogs never made it to my side again. But from then on, my workouts were tainted by pug-induced anxiety.

House of Khakis

“The reviews on this place are amazing.”

I was standing in line with dozens of people in front of me, the queue snaking up a black metal staircase all the way to the front door of an apartment in Little Italy. The apartment had been converted into a pop-up museum. Montreal had taken the pop-up museum to a new level, as only a city pulsating with hipsterism could. Pop-up museums had quickly gone from public to private spaces, with people hosting museums in their apartments.

This was the best one. It was only supposed to be open for a week, but it had been open for three months, and the enthusiasm surrounding it had not abated. I was in town visiting friends and they raved about it. I was skeptical: how can a museum about khaki pants be interesting?

I finally got to the front door, where to the left of it read a sign: “house of the torn khakis”. I payed the 5$ admission to a thin man with the biggest smile I had ever seen. 

“Welcome!” he said, his good cheer infectious. “I hope you enjoy my humble museum.”

I went inside. The first thing I saw were a pair of light khakis, with the bottom of one of the pant legs completely frayed, mounted to the wall. Surrounding it were various pictures of the big-smiled man at different events, taken with an analog camera. Here he was, enjoying the last days of autumn warmth in Parc Lafontaine. There, he was studying in a library. In each picture, he was wearing the mounted khakis.

Then I turned right, into the bedroom. There were three different khakis, each a different shade. Along with more pictures, both posed and candid,  there was a poem titled, “50 shades of khaki.” It really made you think about finding the small differences between people in increasingly similar social circles.

Finally, I went into the space that was both kitchen and living room. Some khakis were draped across a couch. A burnt pair were located on the stove. On the dining room table were the pages of a journal from the owner of the khakis. 

Some of those pages were in English and some in Spanish. The pages detailed his first days in Canada, adjusting to his new environment. On one page he talked about people he met. On another, he mentions classes he attended at McGill, some interesting and some less so. It felt uncomfortably intimate: a strangers life, strewn across a table. But it resonated with me: the idea that everyone, irrespective of background, experiences the same emotions, the same uncertainty in new situations. 

I now understood the appeal, and genius of the museum. Khakis, a workhorse article of clothing worn by so many people are the perfect vehicle to turn the personal into the universal. The focus on one person’s mind-boggling variety of khakis provoked the visitor to feel the joys and sorrows of all the strangers around them: each stranger a world unto themselves. 

Bad Dog

Back when I was in the army, I was listening to someone more experienced than me, someone who’s butt I just sniffed, dispense sage wisdom.

“Shit anywhere you like. And when you’re a dog, they let you do it. You can do anything.”

I did not want to argue. He spoke with such confidence. But it couldn’t be true. 

It stuck with me. For the rest of my army service, I could hear him in my head. I never wanted to test what he said. There was a lot of discipline, and I was afraid of what they might do to me if I broke rules, whether those explicitly stated or implicit. 

My time in the army came to an end, and I became a regular civilian, living with my human partner from the army. After a few weeks, I realized that the rules were less strict for civilians. I could roam around more freely. I did not have to stay as still as food was scooped into my bowl. 

I stayed at home most of the day, but at least twice a day I would be taken on walks, and to relieve myself. At first, I would only poop in the same place everyday: on a sandy patch that would make it easy to clean up after me. But then, one day, my partner walked me along a different route. I really had to poop, but there was no sandy or earthy spot to stop on. I could not hold it in anymore. I squatted, hind legs wide in the middle of the sidewalk, and did my business. I braced myself for the punishment, but it never came. My partner simply scooped the poop and threw it in a nearby trashcan.

I tried my luck again on the next walk, this time stopping near a car. Again, no punishment. I felt liberated. No longer did I wait to reach a certain spot. I didn’t have to hold it in on a walk. I could just go, with no consequences. 

This went on for a while, as I relished my new freedom. But then came the day I was left alone in the apartment. My partner was out for the day, and I desperately needed to relieve myself. Maybe it was food poisoning. For over half the day I suffered. But eventually, I broke. It’s fine I told myself. My partner lets me go anywhere I want outside, so why not inside too?

When he came home, he made a disgusted face. He yelled at me, sounding extremely upset. He spent over half an hour cleaning my mess, and told me “Poochie, no! Bad dog!” multiple times. I gathered that I had taken it too far. 

What I had heard it the army wasn’t true. Even dogs have their limits. 

The Squatter

I was in a cab, on my way from the airport. The sunlight was harsh on my bloodshot, tired eyes. The cab driver spoke English poorly, but well enough to tell me how the government was doing everything wrong. If only they weren’t so worried about the opposition, he said.  The opposition is weak, and should be ignored.  What they need to do is go back into Gaza to weaken Hamas. 

I was barely listening. I had flown in from Canada overnight, landing in Tel Aviv at seven a.m. The purpose of my trip was to find the squatter. I needed to meet the Squatter. A very niche corner of the Internet was alight with conversations of the Squatter, and how he had changed lives with his novel perspective of healthy movement. People came from all over the world to squat with him. His sayings were analyzed and interpreted in many different ways.

A few years ago, I came upon an article that mentioned him in passing. The brief description of him intrigued me. I did more research. There were articles and forums that discussed his life story and his teachings. People practiced and lived by his teachings all over the world. His philosophy was quite simple: squat as much as you can, every day. It would solve both physical and psychological issues; I read multiple articles from people who claimed squatting helped cure them of anxiety and stress. 

I became aware of the power of squatting when I was still in high school. Bodyweight squats were a staple of training for sports and general fitness. But I always felt that there was something more to squats. We weren’t doing enough of them, or weren’t spending enough time sitting in the bottom of the squat. I was not sure what it was, but I knew that there was something more to be had.

In university, I started lifting weights, and squatting was a big part of it. It was exciting to explore a new dimension to squats, but again, something was missing. I wondered if I was crazy. My friends eyed me warily when I talked about squats in an almost spiritual manner. I was prepared to drop the idea, and to try to be normal.

But then I read about the Squatter. Everything his fans claimed he said resonated with me. He seemed to see squats as a key to the puzzle that is the meaning of life. I started practicing more squats, spending more time in a deep squat as I went about my day. I built a very low table so that I could even squat while I was on my laptop or writing. I felt happier than I ever had before, and more in control of myself. The changes were drastic. 

Eventually I decided that I had to meet the Squatter. I had been following his teachings, but had not learned from him personally. What if what I practiced was a bastardization of his true philosophy?

The only problem was that everything about the Squatter was mysterious, including where he lived and practiced. No-one seemed to know his name or where he came from. 

Eventually, after countless hours of searching, I found a forum post mentioning that he might be in Israel. That’s how I ended up in Tel Aviv, listening to a cab driver’s political musings.

That night, I crashed on my friends’ couch. Knowing how much finding the Squatter meant to me, they said I could stay for as long as it takes. I suspect they thought I was going crazy, having been unemployed for too long. To them, my Squatter search was a distraction,  something I could move forward with while my job search seemed to stall. 

To begin my search, I went to gyms all over Tel Aviv. I asked if they knew about the Squatter. Everyone at very commercial gyms said no. Some people at Cross-Fit and functional training gyms had vaguely heard of him. But no one knew more than I did. Some were surprised that he lived in Israel: they had assumed he would be in India, or Nepal. 

After a week, I was starting to feel disheartened. The gloom of my unemployment started to return. To shake it off, I went to Frishman Beach for some restorative squatting. Sand always made squatting extra effective. As I stared pensively at the Mediterranean Sea, a man came up to me. 

“Do you mind if I join you?”

I looked up to see a short man in his late sixties with unruly white hair and a large kippah that did not quite cover his bald spot.

“Sure.” 

I did not know what he meant, but soon found out as he squatted down next to me. His squat was smooth, and bio-mechanically sound. He did not grunt, nor show any discomfort getting into the position. 

“My name is Shragai,” he said.

“I’m Daniel.”

“Are you American?”

“No, I’m Canadian.”

“What brings you to Israel?”

I told him about the Squatter, and that I was desperate to meet him, how I had been searching in vain all week  I did not want to go back to Canada without meeting him, but I was not hopeful.

“Why do you want to meet this man?”

I explained his philosophy and how it had immeasurably improved my life.

“I don’t know anyone known as the Squatter. But it sounds like you are describing my friend Doron. All he does is squat all day. Occasionally people come to him to ask for advice. He’s the  one who taught me to squat a few years ago.”

I lit up. I could not believe that I might be squatting with a friend of the Squatter.

“Would I be able to meet Doron?” I asked, trying to contain my excitement.

“Absolutely. He loves meeting new people. I am visiting him this weekend. You can drive down with me. He does not live near Tel- Aviv though, so it’s a pretty long drive. He lives in Be’er Milka.”

“I would love to drive down with you.”

We exchanged phone numbers to coordinate the drive down, then he smoothly stood up and continued his stroll down the beach.

That evening, I told my friends about meeting Shragai, and how I was driving down with him to Be’er Milka.

“Where?” they asked.

“It’s very close to the Egyptian border.”

“Why is the Squatter there?”

“I don’t know.”

“How do you know this Shragai can be trusted? He could be taking you to the middle of nowhere to murder you.”

“I saw his squat, and it was beautiful. I don’t know if I can trust him, but this is my only lead. I have to follow it.” 

At 6:00AM on Friday, I stood outside the central bus station in Tel Aviv, waiting for Shragai. A rusted, off-white VW van pulled up, its diesel engine rumbling. Shragai’s car.

I climbed aboard, and we drove off. 

As we drove South, the urban landscape changed to rocky, hilly desert.

I was initially worried that I was being kidnapped, but Shragai’s banter put me at ease.

 At one point during our conversation Shragai stopped me. He did not want me to use the term the Squatter.

“Doron is not the Squatter. Doron is Doron. Why does he have to be more than that?” 

So I started referring to the Squatter as Doron.

We finally reached Be’er Milka. I was struck by how small it was. Even calling it a community was a stretch. There where a few trailers, and some mud-brick homes. On the outskirts of this settlement was a small house, large by mud-brick standards. This is where Doron lived. 

Shragai parked the van on Doron’s dusty, unpaved, driveway. We stepped out and approached the house. Instead of knocking, Shragai yelled.

“Doron! Are you home? I brought a guest.”

After a few seconds, the door opened. The man who stood at the door was in his fifties, had piercing green eyes and a freshly shaved head that gleamed in the early morning sun. He wore only a loincloth. He greeted Shragai warmly, then turned to me, introduced himself and invited us in. 

To my surprise, the inside of his house was modern. Though sparse, the house exuded warmth. And, as could be expected, there were no chairs or couches. The dining table was low. There were a few pillows stacked up in the corner.

We all squatted in the living space. After Doron and Shragai caught up for a few minutes, they turned their attention to me. Why was I here? I explained my background, and how I desired to meet the Squatter himself so as not to follow a bastardization of his teachings. 

Doron was confused. 

“What do you mean, teachings?” he asked, clearly confused.

I told him what I’d read on the Internet, on all the forums and how his name came up in a quasi-spiritual way all the time.

“There are no teachings. I only encourage people to squat. Nothing more. Any special feelings that come out of it are in the minds of other people.” Doron explained.

I was confused. What about all the benefits that I had accrued from squatting?

“I’m not saying that there are no benefits. But I tell people to squat more to feel physically better. I’m not a guru. I’m a data scientist. All I did was lead some hip mobility sessions at work during lunch at my last job, and look at what happened: the Internet blew things out of proportion.” 

“You are a data scientist? Then why are you living out here? Why not in the city?” 

“I used to live in Tel Aviv. Eventually, I tired of the pace of life, so I moved here. I work remotely now.”

I told him I was currently unemployed and looking for work in data science, and he offered to put me in touch with some of his contacts in Tel Aviv. 

We spent the rest of the day with Doron. We made lunch together, had tea and spent the day squatting and talking. I eventually felt comfortable to ask the question that had been on my mind since meeting him.

“Why a loincloth? Why don’t you wear regular clothing? You look a real guru.”

“I live in the desert, away from most people. I work from home. I squat all day. A loincloth is the perfect attire to squat in. And if I have to video call into work, I put on a t-shirt and make sure not to get up in the middle of the call. Have you ever worn a loincloth? I feel like if you did, you would understand.”

I admitted that I had not.

When we finally left, Doron told me I was welcome back anytime, and gave me his phone number and e-mail for if I ever needed anything. 

The Abbey

I walked down the long, tree-lined driveway towards the abbey. The weak, mid-afternoon sun was completely blocked by a canopy of leaves. Up ahead was a faded green door, bleakly lit by the sun. As I neared the door, the driveway turned into a gravel courtyard. The only audible sounds were the leaves rustling in the wind and the gravel crunching under my boots. With enflamed achilles, and still damp from that morning’s rainfall, I failed to appreciate the tranquil setting.

I stood in front of the green door, looking for a bell. There was no bell, nor any kind of door handle. Searching around the courtyard, I located another door off to the left that was locked, but had a bell. I rang and waited. 

Nothing happened, so I rang again. I waited a few minutes, but still no answer. The abbey should have been open, but it seemed deserted. 

I started looking for a third door, a main entrance that would be open. I cut across the courtyard and followed a path that snaked around the abbey. 

There was a gate, but it was open. As I walked down this path for another minute, I saw a car coming the other way. The car was a compact, European-style minivan. It looked to be at least twenty years old. 

The car stopped. In the driver’s seat sat a monk in full habit. He rolled down his window. He looked angry.

“Can I help you?” he asked in French.

“I rang the doorbell at the front, but no-one answered. So I was looking for another door.”

“You are not supposed to be back here. Didn’t you see the gate?”

“The gate was open,” I explained.

“Follow me,” he said, and started driving away slowly, expecting me to follow the van on foot. 

We went back to the front of the abbey. On the way, the monk stopped, got out of his van, and closed the gate with a loud clang. 

When we returned to the courtyard, another monk had appeared. The monks exchanged words, and monk number one drove away down the long driveway, out to the street. 

The second monk looked at me. “I’m Father Jean-Claude. I’ll be able to help you after prayer.”

We walked down a path to the right of the green door. The chapel was in a separate, less prominent building. Standing outside the chapel were a few parishioners, all well past sixty.

“Will you also pray?” he asked me.

“No,” I replied. It might seem somewhat strange to arrive at an abbey seeking help but refusing to pray, but I am sure I wasn’t the first.

Father Jean-Claude looked towards the chapel, crossed himself, put his habit’s hood on, and walked to the waiting parishioners. He unlocked the chapel, and they all went inside to pray. 

I waited for fifteen minutes until he returned. 

We walked towards the locked door. Father Jean-Claude unlocked it and we went inside. We were in a gift store, which sold an assortment of religious texts and objects.

“Can I stay the night at the abbey?” I asked. 

“Yes.”

I was hesitant. I had finished the last of the bread and cheese I carried with me, and wanted to replenish my supplies as soon as possible. 

“Is there a bakery or grocery store near here?” I asked.

“No. If you are on foot, it will take two to three hours to get to the nearest grocery store. But you will have supper and breakfast with us.”

I stood facing Father Jean-Claude in the gift shop, deliberating.

“I guess I will continue on then.” I was not relishing walking for another three hours that day on my swollen Achilles tendons, but I was determined to purchase groceries. In hindsight, I was too intimidated to spend the night with monks. 

“Can I use the toilet before I leave?” I asked. Father Jean-Claude told me where the toilet was. I went and filled up my water bottle in the sink as well. On my way out, as I stood in front of the door, arranging my pack, Father Jean-Claude spoke to me. 

“Are you on a pilgrimage to Rome?”

“Yes, though I am doubting my decision. I’ve only been walking for three days, but I am thinking of stopping. All the reasons I had for doing this feel hollow. I don’t know why I am doing this anymore.”

“Do you not have faith?” Father Jean-Claude asked me.

“No.” In that moment I had decided that playing the atheist would be easier than having a conversation about faith that would reveal I was Jewish.

“But the universe is so complex and operates in such harmony. Does that not prove the existence of the divine?” 

I smiled. “They taught that to me in school, amongst other arguments. That’s the God the watchmaker argument.” Father Jean-Claude looked at me blankly.

“Father, thank you for the water and your help.”

“You are welcome. May you find God on your journey.”

King of Krakow

It was another beautiful morning in Tel Aviv. I was sitting on the terrace of my grandparents’ home, having breakfast with my grandmother. I helped my grandmother set the table with bread, cheese, delicious vegetables and fruits. Twenty minutes into breakfast. I heard the whir and whine of the stairlift my grandfather uses to go up and down the stairs. He shuffled out onto the terrace leaning heavily on his cane, his expression stern, his thinned hair disheveled. With some effort he sat down at the table, grunting as he fully transferred his weight to the chair.

My grandmother presented him with his morning Nespresso. It will be the first of many he drinks throughout the day. He ate slowly while reading the newspaper, bought earlier that day from the cramped newspaper and toy store down the block.

He finished breakfast, but remained seated as the dishes were cleared and the food was put away, and continued to read his newspaper.

I watched him, ninety-three years old and wrapped in a royal blue satin robe with a hood. It was odd. Bathrobes are usually made of cotton.

“Papy," I asked,  "Why do you wear that robe?”

“It was in my closet, and it is comfortable.”

“But why do you have a satin robe to begin with?”

“It was my fighting robe.” He said, nonchalantly. He went back to reading his newspaper.

This made no sense. Fighting robe? Like what boxers wear before a fight? I had never heard about this. If this had happened when he was in his twenties or thirties, then the robe would have been in tatters. Instead, it shimmered youthfully.

“You were a fighter?”

“Yes. A boxer.”

“But how? When? Why?”

My grandfather, a man of few words, folded his newspaper carefully and set it aside.

“When I retired from work, it was bittersweet. I had enjoyed the routine of going to work everyday, seeing and chatting with my work friends. Now retired, all of that was gone. Your grandmother, as always, would invite and host a constant stream of visitors, and take me with her when visiting our friends. It was enjoyable, but I missed the routine, the rhythm of work, the shared purpose of colleagues.”

“On one of these visits, I talked to Benek. Do you know Benek?”

“I think so. Did I ever see him here?”

“Maybe. He moved to Israel a few years ago.”

“So, I was telling Benek that my life felt unmoored, and that without work, I had all this pent up energy. It’s strange to have pent-up energy when you are about to turn eighty. He told me I needed an outlet, and since I had so much energy, I should do something physical.”

“This was all good and well, but what’s a physical outlet? You, you can go play sports with your friends, and do manual labour if you need to. But me? My friends and I were already struggling to walk quickly, let alone run. Our reflexes and reaction times were glacial. And manual labour? Who would hire a man past retirement age who moves slowly, when able-bodied youth are a dime a dozen?”

“I kept thinking about what Benek said. I could not make sense of it, but it stuck in my mind. Then one day, a few months later, I realized that though I could not be active, I could watch people being active. I’ve always been fascinated by boxing, and loved watching it. I could go spend time in a boxing gym. Not train, mind you, just be around the punching, the fancy footwork, the exertion. Sit on the side with my newspaper, all the while drinking in the atmosphere.”

“I found a boxing gym near home that would allow me to sit there while people train. So I went, and it was great. I even enjoyed the smell of sweat. It was so real. I was in the action.”

“So the gym, or members of the gym, gave you the robe as an honour?”

“No. After about two weeks of me coming into the gym daily, Jan, one of the trainers at the gym, approached me. He asked me, was I really happy just sitting on the side? Didn’t I want to move and punch also?”

“I told him I was quite happy, thank you very much. But he kept pestering me every day until I finally relented. He helped me wrap my hands, gave me an old pair of gloves, and taught me how to box. I can’t even begin to describe how thrilling it was. Imagine me, having sat at a desk for over fifty years with little to no physical activity, boxing.”

“So, in addition to reading my newspaper at the gym, now I was doing speed-bag work, heavy-bag work, and pad work with Jan. I improved, and my punches started to look like real punches. Compared to the young guys, I was a laugh. But for someone my age, I thought I was doing pretty well.”

“A few months went by. I started sparring, with everyone going fairly easy on me. But it was still a thrill. There’s a certain rush you get when you get hit lightly, not to mention the rush of landing a good hit on someone else. Only in the ring. I’ve never gotten in fights outside. You shouldn’t either.”

“One day, Jan brought up the subject of entering a proper match. I thought he was being ridiculous. Who was I going to fight? A guy less than half my age? I had no interest in being beaten senseless. ‘No’, he told me. ‘There is a boxing league for people like you, men between the ages of 80 and 85.’”

“I still thought he was ridiculous. I did not need to fight. I had nothing to prove, to myself or others. But it gnawed at me. And I realized, I also had nothing to lose. I did not have to think about how all this was going to affect me when I get older. I was already old. I told Jan to set it up.”

“And just like that, a few months later, I am squaring off against this rangy, mean looking man around my age. Definitely weighed less than me.”

“What about weight categories?”

“Oh, right. The rules of boxing are different in that league. If there were weight classes, they wouldn’t have had enough fighters. So, everyone fights everyone. The fights are five rounds, ninety seconds each, sixty seconds between rounds. Eight ounce gloves.”

“Was Mamy ok with you fighting?”

“She was not thrilled. But she understood. And she was going crazy with having me around the house, getting in her way.”

“So? How did the fight go?”

“I won. By decision. Almost all the fights end by decision. People just don’t have the power for a KO win in the league.”

“After that win. I wanted to fight again. It was so thrilling, I loved the energy of the crowd.”

“There was a crowd?”

“Yes! The gyms these fights take place in are always packed. People love the league! It’s a great gambling game. People are really enthusiastic about whoever they bet on. Some fighters develop a following.”

“Did you?”

“Yes. They called me the King of Krakow, due to my Polish roots. Not to brag, but I was pretty good. I had a 12-1-1 record. I went out on top,  and retired when I was 84.”

“Jan gave me this robe when I first won the championship belt. It used to have King of Krakow written on the back. I took off the letters, because I did not want to draw too much attention to myself.”

My grandfather went back to reading his newspaper, as if the story he just told me was normal.

I stared for a moment, then looked down at the crumbs of breakfast still littering the table. I sneaked another glance at my grandfather. He had not changed, but I could never look at my grandfather the same way again.

Coffee in Otovalo

We arrived at the hostel in Otovalo after dark, having taken a taxi from the bus terminal directly to the hostel. We hoped the cab driver would not kidnap us. Having been express kidnapped only a week prior, we were on high alert. 

We rang the doorbell, and were buzzed in. The receptionist, Andres, was a man in his early twenties. Peering over the front desk, I saw that Andres was busy playing World of Warcraft. Being a receptionist is not so bad when you can pass the time playing MMORPGs. With our smatterings of Spanish and Andres’s broken English, we managed to book a room.

Hungry, we asked Andres if there was a place to eat nearby. He mentioned a few places, one of the places being a Chinese restaurant, Chifa mi Chifa, just up the street. We insisted he accompany us. Not as a bodyguard. He was slight of build and shorter than me. But as reassurance that it was okay to be out on the streets at this hour. If he was willing to walk the streets, then it was safe enough for us. Still fresh from trauma, going out after dark worried us. 

We arrived at the restaurant, a cheap place with plastic chairs, fluorescent lighting and poorly-typeset, stained menus. We invited Andres to join us, telling him we would pay for his meal. This way, he would also walk us back to the hostel. He accepted. The stir-fries we ordered were unremarkable, and the rest of the evening passed without incident. 

The next morning, we go to hostel’s breakfast room. Andres was there. As well as being the night receptionist, he was also responsible for breakfast. He brought us toast and jam, and asked if we would like coffee or tea. My brother got tea. Me, coffee. I reasoned that the coffee might be good, as we were in Ecuador, a coffee-producing country. He brought out the two mugs.

I took a sip. It looked like coffee. It did not smell like much. It tasted……. horrible. I cannot even describe how undrinkable it was. Had Andres mixed dirt with water, it would have tasted better. After that one sip, I did not touch that cursed beverage anymore. Whatever it was, it was not coffee. 

Maybe Andres was upset with us, for taking him away from his World of Warcraft game. Perhaps he was unimpressed that we were scared to walk the streets at night alone. It could be he felt insulted that we would pay for his meal, as if we believed he does not have the money to pay for himself. Whatever the reason, the coffee tasted like payback for some unknown slight. 

My brother has a different view. He thinks I was the one at fault. To this day, my brother talks about that coffee. I do not know how or why it keeps coming up.

“Elliot, you’re so disrespectful. Andres slaved away in the kitchen to provide you with a delicious breakfast. He was so proud to serve you this coffee, for which he sacrificed blood, sweat and tears and you didn’t even have the courtesy to drink the whole cup. You insulted him. He was probably depressed after that for weeks. So inconsiderate.”

Unreliable Subways

I stood waiting for the subway. It was already fifteen minutes late. People were starting to pack the platform. I don’t like crowds. I felt my pulse quicken. When would the subway arrive?

As per usual, I’d left home a little too late. I should have given myself more time, but I’m loath to leave too early. When determining when I needed to leave, I added half an hour to the Google Maps trip time. By the time I actually left home, only twenty extra minutes remained.

I had an interview. After months of searching and countless fruitless interviews, this one seemed promising. The opportunity arose as I was flying back to Montreal from yet another joyous family occasion, and happened to be seated beside Larry and Barb. They owned a used bookstore in Montreal. Larry had worked as a management consultant for over two decades. Barb had worked as a software engineering freelancer, specializing in security infrastructure. They were both highly accomplished in their fields, but were looking to change pace. Their shared love of literature was a big factor that drew them together at the start of their relationship. Twenty years on, they both still loved reading for pleasure. When Barb suggested they open a bookstore, Larry was very enthusiastic. What if they made a hip espresso bar as well in the bookstore? Though Barb was a tea drinker, she thought it was a good idea, as long as tea was offered as well.

They both quit their jobs and started looking for a location. They wanted somewhere hip, with enough space to shelve an eclectic book selection and prepare single-origin, local-roast coffees. They found it in St.Henri. Nestled between a taqueria and a bakery, it was perfect. 

With the location set, they started traveling to fairs and buying up books. They realized they wanted help sorting and maintaining their growing book collection. That was when I met them on that fateful flight. My interest in esoteric histories, such as the history of salt and of cotton, piqued their interest. I told them it had always been a dream of mine to work in a bookstore. We exchanged contact information, and I promised to follow up.

Now I waited for the subway. I wanted to make a good impression. I needed to. It seemed the STM was conspiring against me.

Finally, twenty minutes late, the subway arrived. The train was full. All the people that had been waiting at earlier stations were packed inside. I had to wait another five minutes for the next train. I got on. My nerves were like a dangerous chemical, corroding my stomach. How was I going to explain my tardiness? I was conflicted, torn between the rational idea that Barb and Larry would be understanding and the emotional one, that they would immediately revoke my candidacy. 

I arrived at my station. I wanted to rush out, but was blocked by slow-movers. Why is it that the unhurried old ladies with short legs are always the ones closest to the doors? I walked at a pace orders of magnitude more leisurely than I felt. I followed the flow of the crowd up the escalators. Once I was outside, I glanced around, trying to get my bearings. I finally identified a street with the right name, and started walking quickly along it. I hoped I was going the right way.

Finally, I arrived at the bookstore, sweat running down my back. I took a deep breath and went in.

Bovinophobia

I recently found myself on youtube, watching mindless videos. One particular video was a comedy sketch featuring a cow hunter. This led me to think about cows. 

Cows. Such gentle creatures. All they do is stand around, eat and poop. Nothing to be afraid of. 

Upon further reflection, I realized I am afraid of cows. I think most city people are. If you don’t think you are, you probably have not been in a situation that has made you aware of it yet. I can recall two situations where I was afraid of cows. 

One was in the Swiss alps. I was walking through the alps, from Switzerland to Italy. My end goal was to reach Rome on foot. But that day, I was focused on getting to the next hostel, at the Grand St. Bernard Pass. About two hours into my hiking day, my path was blocked by a herd of cows. I used this opportunity to have a snack and drink some water. I also prayed the cows would move. There was no way I would be able to move them. Cows are huge! And there were a bunch of them. I could not go around them. They seemed to be mooing angrily at me. Eventually they ambled off enough to let me pass. I stayed on my guard, alert to the slightest sign that a cow might try to trample me. I emerged on the other side of the herd unscathed. Truthfully, my heart was beating faster after that encounter.

Menacing cows in the alps

The second encounter was in the Carmel hills in Israel. I was on a day-hike with my girlfriend and with my cousin. It was a beautiful sunny day. We did not expect that halfway into our hike, our path would be blocked. There stood a cow with its calf, munching on wild grass. It looked up, and eyed us curiously. We clapped and hollered, but the cows showed no signs of yielding. We laughed nervously, unsure of how aggressive a cow could be when with her calf. We took a short video to share with other cousins, knowing they probably would not care. None of us was brave enough to get within kicking distance of the cows. Finally, after what seemed like ages, but was more likely less than ten minutes, the cows cleared the way and let us pass. We breathed a sigh of relief. 

I would agree that cows are not scary in general. But faced with a hulking behemoth that weighs a ton, the fear of being purposefully or accidentally trampled is an unavoidable one. 

The Improbable Bathroom Stall

Today, I found myself in line, waiting for a toilet. A weak stomach makes this a common occurrence. There was nothing interesting about my wait. I simply stood there, waiting my turn.

I experienced a similar situation a few weeks ago. I was waiting in line at a cafe, bored. At the table closest to the bathroom, sat two blonde twenty-somethings, talking about a potential trip to Europe. I eavesdropped, though I did not find their conversation interesting. 

These examples might lead you to conclude that toilets are never interesting or fun. This is false. I’ve found myself confidently strutting my way into luxury hotels in NYC, expressly to use their facilities. These always make me feel like a king; luxury accessible with only a little bit of chutzpah. 

I have also been pleasantly surprised. On a trip to Copenhagen, I found myself in Hojbro Plaza. I needed a restroom. Luckily, there was a public one underneath the plaza. I walked down the stairs, and was greeted by an unexpectedly ornate facility, complete with an attendant. While the entire trip was great, this restroom is the most memorable part. 

But my favourite story involving toilets occurred in Jaffa. 

I had gone out for dinner with my family and girlfriend. The restaurant we went to was bustling. The restaurant, which also served as a hugely popular bar, spilled out onto the street, with large tables to accommodate all its customers. At the time, my stomach was in even worse shape than it usually is. We had sat down at one end of a big table and ordered, when I decided that this was an opportune moment to go to the toilet. 

I went inside. The music and noise were much louder here. I climbed the restaurant’s stairs to the toilets. In front of the two stalls was a bench to wait on, already occupied by three people. Great, I thought, my stomach unhappy. I waited. 

There were two stalls, each with full-length doors and a sink inside. One freed up, and the first person in line went in. We are moving, I thought, but not fast enough. 

The same stall opened, the person inside done. The two men in front of me proceed to both go into the same stall. I was not fazed. They probably went in there to do drugs. After all, this was a hip bar in Jaffa. But then, before I had a chance to fully process what had happened, the other door opened and one person walked out. When the second person came out of the stall, I found it interesting. When the third person came out, I grew concerned. When the fourth emerged, I went into a state of shock. It made no sense. You might think that it was a spacious stall. It was not. Other than the toilet, there was just enough room to stand in front of the sink. Once inside, I looked around; maybe there was a secret passageway, some tiles that could be moved to reveal a bigger room. If there was, I did not find it. 

It does not bother me that four men shared a stall. It bothers me that they fit. They were not small people. They were not circus performers. The math does not work. 

The Roommate

It was early afternoon, and I had just arrived back home from my winter vacation. Upon entering my apartment, I noticed that my roommate’s door was slightly ajar, and I could not see any light filtering through the crack. I dropped off my bag in my room, and took off my heavy winter coat. I was itching with curiosity. I needed to see the inside of his room. I knew he was not there and I was not sure when I would have gotten another opportunity. While I felt that I should respect his privacy, the temptation was too great.

When I moved back to Montreal in September, I had very little time to find an apartment. I was living in Ottawa at the time and had been waiting on a formal offer letter from a company in Montreal before looking for a place to live. When the letter finally came it was on a Thursday; I was going to start work the following Tuesday. I reached out to my old roommate Riley, who was still living in Montreal, to see if by chance he needed a new roommate. He did. One of his roommates had just moved out. 

I had been inside his apartment before, but never from the perspective of someone looking to move in. When I saw it that weekend, it looked nice. The kitchen was renovated, there was a washer and a dryer, and it had all my old kitchen appliances that I had sold to Riley when I moved away from Montreal. The room that had just been vacated was quite small, with dark laminate wooden floors and a built-in closet. Being the minimalist I am, a small room did not bother me. Besides, where else was I going to find another apartment that same weekend?

The reason the last roommate had moved out was a mouse infestation. She would hear them in her room, and had taped up small gaps in the baseboard where she thought the mice were coming from. No problem, I thought. With the exterminators, the mice will soon be gone. Plus, I thought, I am not a princess.

Before deciding to move in, I wanted to meet the other roommate in this three-bedroom apartment. “Sure,” Riley said, “I think he is in his room.” Riley went to knock on his door, and the roommate came out to say hello. 

He seemed friendly, though socially awkward. I learned a few things about him. He was a student, who enjoyed walking long distances. What his major was, I cannot remember. What year he was in, he said was complicated. I did not get much more out of him. I am not quite sure where he was from. I know he spent some time growing up in Nova Scotia, and his parents were now in Ethiopia. This guy seems odd, I thought, but nice enough.

I moved in the next day.

Over the next few months, I realized how little I liked the apartment. It took months and several visits from the exterminator to get rid of the mouse problem. I would hear scratching coming from inside my walls in the middle of the night. Even when I was mostly used to it, it was still disconcerting. As winter arrived, my laminate floor cooled foot-numbing temperatures. We had a mealworm problem, but luckily that did not last long. The whole living room and kitchen area had only one small window. This window gave onto a narrow inlet of a courtyard. At no time of the day did the sun ever reach my apartment. My room had a window and a door to the fire escape. The window had bars on it. The door to the fire escape was accessible to anyone, causing me anxiety. 

I learned about my door’s accessibility one morning at 5AM. Flashlight beams were darting around the narrow courtyard and through my window. I could hear loud voices outside. Someone tried the door to my bedroom, to see if it was locked: it was. Half an hour later, someone rang my doorbell. I opened the door and it was the police. Apparently they had gotten report of a robbery and had traced the suspect to the back of my building. They had decided that the best course of action then was to try all the back doors to see if any were unlocked. 

Regardless of its small size and the early-morning visitors, my room was not the worst. One of the other bedrooms in my apartment had no windows. That would have been hell for me. But not for the roommate. Every day I came back from work and I would see his door closed, with a green-tinted, harsh light spilling out underneath it. I saw him sometimes. I would be sitting in the living room, and I would hear his door open. Then, a few quick, audible steps turned into a bathrobe-clad blur that disappeared into the bathroom. When not in a bathrobe, he would take his backpack with him into the bathroom. Because the light always seemed to be on in his room, I sometimes had the suspicion that he had simply forgotten to turn off his light. Surely he couldn’t be in there all the time? But then I would hear him rapidly open his bedroom door, slam it shut, open the front door, slam it shut, and lock it. He was always back shortly after leaving. He never spent any time in the kitchen or the living room. Did he even eat? The number of conversations I had with him that lasted more than a minute can be counted on one hand.

A few weeks ago, I was coming home from work and I saw the roommate leaving the apartment. It was below -10C that day, but my roommate was wearing only a t-shirt, jeans, and mittens. I asked him about it later, in one of our minute-long conversations. He claimed to almost never wear coats, and that he has gotten used to always being in a t-shirt. 

My enigmatic roommate: with each passing day and every interaction, I became more curious. He spends so much time in his windowless room, I thought. How? What does his room look like? Is he hiding a dark secret in there? The door was always closed. 

Finally, that winter afternoon, the opportunity arose. I was going to see the inside of his room. I tried opening his door and felt initial resistance. Was it blocked from the inside? No, the door was simply scraping against the floor, not surprising in my shoddy apartment. I opened the door fully. The sharp smell of a lived-in, musty, unventilated room greeted me. I turned on the lights.

The room was empty: no furniture, no clothes, nothing. 

Had he moved out? I messaged Riley to see if the roommate had said anything to him. He said no. My mysterious roommate had vanished. 

"I figured out life.."

I got a text message from my brother one Saturday afternoon.

“I figured out life..”

He did not include any other information. I was intrigued.

I called him up using FaceTime Video. My brother and I speak multiple times per week, always with video. After a few rings, he answered the call. “Yeah?” he asked, the usual answer with his usual hostility. 

I do not remember exactly how the conversation went. Our conversation was comprised of mostly nonsense. But I learned the secret to life: brunch.

Maybe it was an exaggeration, but my brother was definitely on to something. He really enjoys having people over and cooking for them. Usually he invites them for Friday night dinner. He agonizes over what he is going to serve his guests: what will the main course be, what kind of salad will accompany it, what appetizer will precede it. This becomes the focus of our conversations on weeks when he hosts.

Brunch is much easier. People are less fussy, and do not expect the same level of sophistication. It requires fewer dishes. People also seem to be less busy. On Friday or Saturday night, people want to go out or have plans weeks in advance. When you offer them a brunch, they know it will be a nice and relaxing way to recover from the previous night.

The question is: what to prepare for brunch?

Obviously, it needs to be delicious. Equally important is that you do not need to spend time in the kitchen after your guests arrive. For example, pancakes and waffles are great, but not everyone can have a fresh, hot pancake/waffle at the same time. You need something that is ready and can be on the table when the guests arrive. This way, you can entertain your guests, as opposed to serving as their cook.

Examples of perfect brunch foods are Shakshouka and Quiche. Also, fresh bagels are amazing if you happen to live near St.Viateur or Fairmount bagels in Montreal. 

After a wonderful brunch, your guests will leave in the early afternoon. You no longer need to socialize that day. You can stay home and binge watch a tv show for the rest of the afternoon. You do not feel like a social pariah by not going out that night. And when your parents call, they will be happy to know that you are a social being that people like to be around. 

Day in the life of a Productivity Hacker

I groggily open my eyes. My wrist is buzzing me awake. 5:30am. It is so much better than being woken up by sound. A buzzing on your wrist is much less jarring. That is why I sleep with my smartwatch on. I also like the data that gets collected on my sleeping patterns. It allows me to optimize my sleep. Jumping out of bed, I start deep breathing and swinging my arms around to get blood flowing. 

I walk into the bathroom, while maintaining my breathing. I turn on the shower and immediately hop in. I fight the urge to tense up my entire body and to stop breathing as the water hits my chest. As I start getting used to it, I turn around and the water hits my back. Another shock to the system. 

I step out of the shower, skin tingling. Ever since I started taking cold showers every morning, I have been feeling more energized and productive in the morning. Cold showers help with resilience to all discomforts, in any situation. It also helps you focus. I read that they did studies on this. 

I step into the kitchen and start preparing coffee. When it’s finished, I pour a mug, adding grass-fed, unsalted butter and a tablespoon of Brain Octane Oil. Breakfast is served. Bulletproof Coffee energizes me and keeps me satiated until lunch. It’s also better for your health.

Being fully ready to go to work, I sit down on my Zabuton cushion, and queue Headspace. I meditate fifteen minutes every day. This helps me stay on task the rest of the day and not snap at my stupid coworkers. I have logged over 400 minutes of meditation! With a clear mind, I leave the house to go to work. When I get to my bus-stop, I immediately whip out my phone and continue reading my book. I am currently reading a book about monetizing your digital business. I never leave a moment idle while I wait for the bus. This way, I maximize my productive reading time and knowledge uptake. 

7:00am. I arrive at Emoji2B. Emoji2B started out as our founder’s passion project. Working for Google, he found that words were inadequate to express the joys and frustrations of his job. He started making his own emojis to message to his colleagues. His colleagues loved it, and wanted him to make more of them. Knowing that each business had its own culture and faced its own unique ups and downs, he sensed a business opportunity. That was two years ago. Today, there are just over one-hundred of us working to make people more zany and fun, one company at a time.

I open up my laptop and read hacker news. After half an hour, I take out my headphones. Time to enter Hermit mode.

I don my headphones and play my standard techno beats on repeat. I put my phone in do not disturb mode, and get to work. This is the most productive time of my day. For two hours, I do not check my phone at all and get so much stuff done. My watch buzzes. I got a message. I read it, and get back to work. Right now, I am a hermit. 

9:30am. I take off my headphones. I just got so much done. I walk around the office, chatting with the early-birds. Most people at Emoji2B do not get in until after 10am. 

Not sure how we arrived at this topic, but Brad can not believe that I never go buy groceries. I try to explain to him that it makes more sense to do all your shopping off of Amazon, so you never have to spend any time travelling to and from the store. “But what about fruits and vegetables?” I told him that they are unnecessary. I buy multivitamins off of Amazon as well, and those fulfill my micronutrient requirements instead of fruit. I fail to understand why he is so shocked by this: we live in the 21st century. Why would I not take advantage of all the modern conveniences that this affords me?

10:30am. Time for the daily stand-up. Members of my team update each other. I stretch to counteract all of the morning’s sitting, and sit back down at my computer. I answer e-mails, and write a few more lines of code. I hit compile on my code, and get up for lunch. 

I am ravenous. For the past hour, I have been feeling faint due to hunger. But I did not need to eat. My bulletproof coffee was enough. I open a bottle of Soylent for lunch. Lunch is over in under ten minutes. Perfect.

I hop on one of Emoji2B’s treadmill desks for 45 minutes. This is how I avoid afternoon grogginess. 

On my way to my regular desk, I fall into a discussion with one of my co-workers on a technical matter for an hour. So unproductive. 

I take out my laptop to read TechCrunch for an hour. I answer some e-mails, do more work, and my workday is done. 

I head outside my office and start reading my book on my phone as I wait for the bus. I get on the bus, and keep reading until my stop. 

Walking into the gym, I start looking through my phone to find my exercise playlist. After getting changed and a short warm-up, I jump right into the workout of the day. I follow the different exercises that my app told me to do in a circuit. It’s very intense and difficult, with short rests punctuating periods of frenetic movement. This is HIIT, or high intensity interval training. This technique is the most effective and time efficient way to exercise. When I finish going through the circuit five times, I stretch and cool down.

For dinner, I go to Chipotle. It is fast and relatively healthy. Sometimes, I wish I knew how to cook, but I realize that cooking would not be the best use of my time, as I am not an expert chef. 

I finally go home, tired after a long day of focused activity. I shower, then find four TED talks to watch at 2x speed. When I first started watching talks this way, it was very hard to follow. Eventually, I got used to it. I would never want to waste my time watching videos any slower.

After the TED talks, I unwind from my day by watching an hour-long episode of a TV show. It only takes me half an hour with my hack. I brush my teeth, check Hacker News one last time, and go to sleep.

An Ode to the Trekking Poles

A year on from my experience of a lifetime, I can’t keep quiet anymore. I need to sing the praises of the Black Diamond Trekking Poles.

In my final year of university, I decided my summer would be spent on a pilgrimage from Canterbury to Rome. As the date approached, and I was preparing all my equipment for the trip, I knew I needed trekking poles. My requirements were that they be durable and not too expensive. With their metal construction and reasonable price tag, these were perfect.

Then, I was in Canterbury. After admiring the soaring cathedral, I loosened my poles from my pack, adjusted their length, and started walking. It was my first time walking with trekking poles, and they felt very natural and comfortable in my hands. Here we go, I thought as the poles clack-clacked against the pavement. 3 months. Walking.

Four days in, my achilles tendons were swollen and surged with fire every step I took. I had walked too much, too soon. I could no longer walk properly. I was ready to call it quits. Luckily, I had my trekking poles for support. I used them to drag myself to the next town, where I met other pilgrims who gave me the encouragement necessary to continue. 

From Besancon, I clack-clacked my way across the Jura and into Switzerland, my trekking poles always in hand. I would have felt naked without them. 

To get to Italy, I had to cross the alps. Up I went, clack-clack morphing into thump-thump as I walked on trails instead of roads. I almost got lost in the mountains. Finally, I got to the alpine pass, having ascended what amounted to two days for most, in one day. Days later I would meet people who had but heard whispers of my feat. Do you think I used trekking poles for this? Of course I did.

As I traversed Tuscany, poles ever-present in my hands, I felt strong walking. All the previous days experience had accumulated into a type of wisdom and rhythm. Periodically, the tip of the pole would get wedged into cobblestone and give me a jolt. But this was not the pole’s fault. I should have gotten rubber tips instead of the carbide ones I was using. As I walked into villages and towns with my trekking poles and pilgrim beard, I didn’t care how I looked. I felt invincible.

On my pilgrimage, I learned to not take things for granted. I felt grateful for my trekking poles, for having been with me every step of the way. And I felt grateful for BD, for making such an amazing pair of magic sticks.

My poles now reside in the garage. They don’t get much use. As a fit 24-year old, I don’t need them to walk around town. But they are ready for the moment I decide to go trekking again. And I look forward to the next time I will get to spend long days with the Black Diamond Trekking Poles.

My brother and I got expressed kidnapped

I finally got around to typing up an entry from my travel journal. After I finished high school, I traveled around Peru and Ecuador for four weeks. I kept a journal during this trip, and this entry is by far the most interesting day's worth of events:

August 5th, 2011

After a restless night on the bus sitting next to the toilet, which did not smell very pleasant by the end, today was pretty eventful. Early in the morning, the bus I was on with my brother ran over a person. Though I did not see the trapped body, I believe only the legs were trapped. Men were pushing the side of the bus trying to lift it, and others were letting air out of the tires. 

After about 15 minutes we were let back on the bus as if nothing happened. We arrived in Tumbes with no further incidents. Once there, a guy asked us if we needed the Cifa International bus to go to Ecuador; we said yes. He claimed he worked for the company and would take us there for free. Though he had an unmarked vehicle, which was suspicious, I thought that with the two of us it would not be a problem. Except, then another two people entered the car, one beside us. This was too much. We took our bags and left, eventually catching a mototaxi to Cifa International. The guy first said it would cost 1 sol, but at the end of the ride claimed that it cost 10 sol! He said that 1 sol would have been to take us to the Plaza del Armes. We eventually gave him 10 sol, not wanting any trouble. The 6 hour bus took us first to the border town of Agua Verdes, where we cleared customs, and then to Guayaquil. This bus-ride was uneventful. 

We started to look for an Ecuador Lonely Planet guide, as we did not have one with us. Searching online at an internet cafe, we found that a shop in a mall was selling it. We took a taxi to the mall. We were running low on funds at this point, so we took 400 dollars out of the ATM machine off of my account. After dinner, we took a cab back to the hotel. It is at this point that the story gets interesting. 

When we were about 5 blocks away from the hotel, the driver takes out the card we gave him to check for the hotel’s address. At this point, two men get into the car, one in front, the other next to us. I tried to keep them out instinctively, and got punched in the right cheek as a reward. The skinny man who sat in front pointed a gun at my brother (I never realized they had a gun. Not very situationally aware on my part). My brother did not have any of his money, credit cards or IDs on him, but I had all of mine in my money belt. The most sensible solution was to give them what they wanted, which I did. No reason to anger them by refusing. I gave them my money belt after which for some reason, one the the two men proceeded to stick his hand down my underwear, maybe to check if I had more money. I should sue him for sexual harassment. 

They took my credit and debit cards, and I gave them my PINs for both. All the while they were yelling at us “take it easy my friend,” and “close you eyes,” neither of which we entirely did. Then the skinny man left with the cash and cards, and we were left driving around sitting next to the fat man, who was now the man with the gun. I was sandwiched between my brother and the fat man and felt the fat man’s heart beating fast and his breathing laboured. I think he was also really scared of what the was doing. We drove around in circles until the skinny man managed to take money off of the debit and credit cards.

At this point, we drove into deserted, dimly lit streets and the fat man told us to get out. We thought he was going to kidnap us or something, but we got out. He closed the door and drove away with the cab driver. 

I would like to comment on the language barrier we faced while being robbed. It’s very hard to do as you are told when you don’t understand what you’re being told. Also, when you are trying to explain something to your mugger, it is easier when you speak his language. 

Anyways, after we got out we started running, turning a corner until we saw some people standing outside of a house. We tried to explain that we had just been mugged at gunpoint, but with limited success. Luckily, there was someone who spoke some English. We called the hotel from the house of the people and then the English-speaker drove us to the hotel for free, out of kindness. We trusted him because it looked like he could be trusted, looking like a calm person. In addition, the house we went into had a child’s birthday party happening in it, which put us much more at ease. Once at the hotel, we cancelled both my credit and debit cards. Luckily, the muggers had no interest in stealing my passport or driving license. Now, after a long, eventful day, my brother and I are ready to call it a day.

Blog from this past summer

Last summer I walked parts of the Via Francigena, which is an old pilgrimage path starting in Canterbury and ending in Rome. My blog from that experience can be found here.