...the hippo came at night

When I was a kid, around 5-6 years old, I went to the zoo with my family and saw a hippo for the first time in my life. Wanting to sound smart or just say something deep-ish I whispered in awe ‘That hippo has wild eyes’. To my five-year-old self it sounded very insightful. My parents thought it was hilarious and still remind me of my ‘wild-eyed hippo’ comment every now and then. Little do they know that hippos do have wild eyes. Especially if you see them at night. 

This is probably going to be a short story but sometimes short is good. So, have I told you guys the story of how I got cornered by a hippo? No, I haven’t. I know that for a fact which is why I don’t really understand why I’m even asking. The story takes place in St Lucia, South Africa. It was still our first week into the trip but we’d already seen a lot of places and been to different cities. Most of them were pretty European looking places though and I still felt like I hadn’t seen real Africa at all. That was until we arrived in St Lucia - this small, quiet town on the shore of a lake with the same name. It looked much more rustic, chaotic and exotic than any other town we’d been to so far and I loved it. 

It had been a long day when our group arrived there and we were all getting ready for the safari that was supposed to take place on the following day. As we were driving into the city I noticed two things. First, the river which was inhabited by a colony of hippos. As we drove over the bridge I saw their heads sticking out of the muddy water and got excited about seeing them up close. After the safari we were supposed to attend a short boat cruise to get even closer to them. The second thing I noticed was the sign: ‘beware of hippos at night’. 

I have to admit it sounded funny to me. It looked funny to me. Imagining a bunch of chubby hippos sneaking around in the middle of the night singing the ‘Spider-hippo’ song (which is just the Spiderman theme song with the word ‘man’ replaced with ‘hippo’… I think you all get it anyways but just in case…). Okay, I know hippos are one of the biggest killers in Africa after men and mosquitoes, but they’re just so… cute. They’re fat and have tiny little legs and tiny ears… Sure they are also big, strong and scary but they’re still… just so darn cute! 

The same night, after snapping a picture of the ‘oh-so-funny’ sign, I had an… encounter. It all started when I got a bit peckish in the evening. It was raining outside and it was already dark so I didn’t actually want to go and find a restaurant. I just wanted a light snack or something like that. There was a gas station right next to the hotel, about 50 m away from the front door so I figured I’d just run there and get like a bag of chips or something. It was a pretty solid plan. I didn’t even think about hippos at that moment. 

So, I headed down and ran through the rain to the gas station, only to discover that it was closed. Thankfully there was a tiny cafe in the same building and its doors were wide open. I stepped inside without further thought. There was a cashier behind the counter and someone in the kitchen but other than that it was completely empty. I ordered a sandwich to go and the cashier told me I would have to wait for max 5 minutes. That sounded alright with me. There was nothing to do but I could just sit for a little while and enjoy the sound of falling rain. 

As I was waiting for my sandwich I stepped toward the door and took a look outside. It was still raining and it was pretty dark outside. There were no people around and even the parking lot was completely empty except for a random hippo statue in the middle of it. 

‘That’s strange,’ I thought, ‘I don’t remember there being a hippo statue here before. Why didn’t I notice it before? Also, who the hell would put a hippo statue in the middle of a random parking lot?’

My brain froze for a second before I realised. Oh shit… that wasn’t a statue!

The moment I realised that was also the moment the hippo turned its head and took a long look at me. I felt cold panic slowly rising in the pit of my stomach. I took a few steps back and went to the counter where the cashier was minding her own business. 

‘So… In case of hippo… what should I do?’ I asked the cashier (and yes, those were my exact words).

‘Hippo?’ The cashier looked confused.

‘Yeah, there’s one in the parking lot.’

Her eyes went wide as she looked toward the place I was pointing to. She leaned over the counter to get a better look, then yelled out something to the cook in Afrikaans, then took another look at the hippo and got out her phone.

‘Oh, don’t worry: you’re safe inside. Just don’t go out right now,’ she said eventually and then promptly went to the door and started taking pictures of the animal.

Okay then. Don’t go out - that was sound advice. Especially because the hippo was right between me and the hotel so if I wanted to get back I would have to pass it pretty close. So I took a seat and waited and looked on as the casher finished taking pictures of the hippo only to be replaced by the cook who wanted his own photo evidence. I got my sandwich but it was of little comfort because I still couldn’t leave. The hippo was just standing there in one place, sometimes looking at the cafe with wild eyes and then looking into the darkness. Now, hippos are vegetarians but if they get pissed off they can wreck your shit with little effort. And they move fast. Fun fact: hippos don’t really swim but walk in the water with their feet on the bottom. So on land, where there’s no resistance from the water, they are fast and deadly and can move up to 30 km/h. That’s faster than most cars on a cobblestone road. 

I think I must have waited for maybe fifteen minutes until the hippo decided that he’d had enough of the parking lot. It stepped over the small brick wall separating the parking lot from the park next to it and took a bunch of bricks with as it did that. After it had vanished into the night there was a hippo shaped hole in the brick wall. I took it as a sign that it was time for me to leave. I grabbed my sandwich and headed to the door.

‘By the way, hippos sometimes travel in couples so just be careful - there might be another one close by,’ the cashier told me as I was leaving.

Oh great! That sounded awesome! But I was sick and tired of waiting and I just wanted to get to the hotel that had a big ass stone wall around the perimeter. I took off running and was at the door less than a minute later. I’d moved faster than expected and thankfully not encountered any other wild life. Suddenly I felt more alive than I had for a long time. It was the adrenaline, I guess. I crashed into my hotel room yelling ‘I just survived a hippo attack!!!’ even though I knew it wasn’t remotely the case.

The next time I saw the ‘Beware of hippos at night’ sign I wasn’t laughing anymore. I still stand by what I said: hippos are kind of cute. But they’re cute when they’re in the water. Far, far away from you. And preferably asleep. But something good came out of it after all: out of all the people in my travel group I have the most unique hippo experience and that’s something. 

...I went to Africa

It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I bet some of you thought I’d given up my blog for good. Hah, you wish! I was just too busy with other things to take time to write. Yeah, life’s been pretty busy these past few months. But more on that later… maybe. So, many of you probably already know that I went to Africa in November. South Africa and Zimbabwe, to be precise. I guess I should give a short overview of the trip in case I ever suffer massive brain trauma and forget about it… or - more likely - in case I get old. 

When I was planning my vacation in December 2016 I was pretty excited. South Africa, man… pretty amazing, right? It was exotic and interesting and just so different from all the other countries I’ve been to. I was absolutely convinced it was going to be an amazing experience. So it was weird that I didn’t feel even a tiny bit excited when the time to leave was approaching and there was only a few days left before my vacation. My parents and friends asked me if I was excited.

‘Excited about what?’ I asked, confused.

‘About your trip! You’re going to Africa!’

‘Oh yeah… No, I’m just relieved to get some time off from work.’

No, this isn’t a rant about how I hate my job and how life as an adult is hard. It’s more a rant about how I didn’t expect work to be so… exhausting. Okay, maybe it is a rant about how being an adult is hard. Honestly, I never knew how tired a person can get when they have no rest for almost 11 months. I like being a physio, but I do have to admit it’s not always easy. So yeah, I wasn’t super excited about my trip, even though I knew I should have been. I was just so happy to get out of Estonia for a little while. 

The trip itself was a group thing - the travel agent composed a group of about thirty people, sent us a schedule and handled all the bookings and tickets and such. In a way it was very convenient but at the same time I’m not really a group person. I like to take my time, decide on where I want to go, what I want to eat and where I want to stay on my own. I really dislike sitting in the bus all day, passing towns that seem super interesting and never having a chance to explore. Still, I was going to South Africa and I figured it’d be safer to move in a herd. 

The trip lasted for 17 days - I left work on Friday at lunch and headed straight to the airport. Two long-ass flights later I was already in Cape Town. I think it was maybe around noon on Saturday that we arrived. The flight to Istanbul was quite short and nice but from Istanbul to Cape Town it took us about 10 hours. Oh well, I’ve had worse. 

The first few days that I spent in South Africa were… strange. Sure enough the weather was nice, the climate was different but… I didn’t feel like I was in Africa. Everything looked too… European. I guess it’s the case in a lot of former colonies: there are some towns and cities that just look like Europe because the colonisers decided that going native was too far beneath them. ‘What do you mean it’s more practical to live in a wooden house? I want my straw roof and white stone walls, goddamnit! And let’s have a tulip garden right in front of the house. What do you mean ‘tulips don’t grow in the savannah?! We’ll make them grow!’ No, but really. The old Dutch towns in the wine district were just so… Dutch that if it hadn’t been for the weather I would have though that I’d boarded the wrong plane. 

The scenery was different though. I started to love our long bus rides because it gave me the chance to see so much of the country. At first we saw the wineries and orchards and the beautiful light-coloured mansions between the grape fields, then we entered the savannah and saw the dry bushes and red dirt on rolling hills that seemed to go on forever. There were mountains covered in green and others that were just red rock, there were dry riverbeds and burnt forests and wide open fields with absolutely nothing but a single small house in the middle of it. It was different and almost romantic, like something you’d read about in one of those old books written back when most African countries were still colonies. 

Okay, before I go on another rant, I should try to keep my focus. So, the first days of my trip were… not disappointing but not exactly what I expected Africa to be. I still remembered how my friends and family told me to be careful when I go there because there was a lot of crime in Africa - and there I was, walking around town in the middle of the night in South Africa and there was not one person around… and everything was so clean, so safe, so cozy. It was hard to believe I was really in Africa. 

That was until we made our way to Kruger National Park. Okay, St.Lucia was pretty close to the 'real Africa' as well but that's gonna be another story. So, Kruger National Park is the one of the biggest in Africa and our hotel was in the middle of it. Maybe not straight in the middle but it was on park grounds. It was strange, driving to our hotel on a small dusty road - not even a gravel road but more of a sand road - and seeing small houses in the middle of the dry trees and even signs with street names. Gemsbok Avenue? It was barely a road! There were warthogs and kudus and impalas on the side of the road and sometimes our progress was slowed due to the fact that some random animals decided to graze on the 'road'. It was hot as hell, around 36-38 degrees, and there was no air. Our hotel didn't have a fence around the grounds - there was a small wooden one separating the restaurant terrace from the forest but that was about it - but there were helpful signs telling you 'Not to walk around during nighttime because of the wildlife'. Okay, that was reassuring... 

We had to wake up at 4 am in Kruger to go to our safari. It was our second one - the first one had been in Tsitsikamma National Park and it had been a long, quite chilly trip on a rainy day that left us frozen and even a bit underwhelmed. The Kruger safari, however, was what I've always imagined a real safari to be like: the hot air blowing through the car, the sun shining in our faces and all the animals just lazily heading toward the nearest body of water. We saw at least four or five elephant herds, buffalos, rhinos, lions and cheetahs. We even saw a small pack of lions on a hunt - they didn't catch the impala they were encircling but it was amazing to see how a hunt looks like in nature. 

Now, I've seen lions and elephants before - most of us have, in a zoo somewhere. But that doesn't compare to seeing the animal in nature. Even if it is far away, even if you can only tell that it's an animal by the way it moves, even then the effect is different. It feels more real. More tangible. You're just a passerby and these animals don't give a damn about you. They are living their lives while you sit in your tiny moving cage and look out at them. 

There are a few interesting things I learned about animals during my trip. First of all, I realised that elephants basically move in slow motion. They're like the popular kids in a high school movie. They don't really move that slowly but since they're so big and kind of slow it just looks like it. Another thing I realised is that crocodiles can climb. Not trees or anything like that but they can climb up a pretty steep slope with relative ease. So if you ever see a crocodile in nature you're probably already dead. Oh, and they also eat their own kind so you know they're cold, heartless bastards. Oh yeah, and don't even get me started on hippos! They... okay, I'll leave that one for later. 

The last three days of our trip would take us to Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe. Interesting fact though: one day before we were supposed to leave for Zimbabwe there was a military coup in the country. The long-reigning president/dictator was imprisoned in his house, the First Lady fled the country and a lot of the members of the reigning political party were arrested. We found this out while we were heading to visit a diamond mine in South Africa. The guide told us that the coup had been peaceful: the people of Zimbabwe wanted a change and were happy with the turn of events. Still, there was a real chance of civil war breaking out if the president refused to resign. And during a civil war all the airports would be shut down... So in short, there was a possibility that if we went to Zimbabwe we might not be able to return.

I was... worried, to say the least. I wanted to go to Victoria Falls - it's one of the natural wonders of the world and I had a once in a lifetime chance to see it - but there was this annoying twisting in my stomach that told me it was a baaaaad idea. The guide reassured us that there was a very small chance that anything would happen to us... but if we did go we would have to take full responsibility. They did offer us a chance to stay in Johannesburg for the remaining three days but the travel company would not reimburse us for the hotel room or offer us any activities. So, the choices were: go to Zimbabwe and hope for the best or stay in Johannesburg and be broke and bored. I chose option A... because so did everyone else and I figured that even if I ended up stuck in Zimbabwe I wouldn't have to go to work on Monday so it wasn't all bad. Hey, maybe I could even set up a private practice in Zimbabwe and offer physiotherapy to the oh-so-rich Zimbabweans. 

I think going to Victoria Falls was the best choice I made during the entire trip. It was absolutely amazing! The Falls itself was magnificent but it wasn't the only thing. I also had my very first helicopter ride, over Victoria Falls and it was something else. In the evening we had a boat cruise on the Zambezi and while I was sitting there, enjoying a cold beer and looking at the sunset I felt at ease, happy and well rested. In the back of my mind I knew that I was in a country that was considered 'unstable' by our foreign ministry but looking at the smiling locals and beautiful wilderness I realised that maybe Europeans are just too neurotic for their own good. Also, I felt somewhat special knowing that I was in Zimbabwe during a historical moment. Years and years from now I could sit at a dinner table with my friends and/or family and go: 'Remember when Mugabe's regime was overthrown? I was there.' And someone would look at me and say: 'What are you talking about? I just wanted to know if you want some more potatoes or no. Also, who the hell is Mugabe?' And I would roll my eyes and go 'philistines!' and someone would say 'I don't think that word means what you think it means...'. 

Long story short, I really enjoyed Zimbabwe. Victoria Falls was small, cute and very, very... Africa. There is no other way of putting it. It wasn't like a typical big city - those are the same all around - it had its own look, its own personality. The hotel was an amazing gargantuan building that looked very high end... until you saw the baboons hanging out on your balcony and the sign next to the pond saying 'This is a natural body of water. Please do not enter it as there might be a habitat fish and small crocodiles.' Small crocodiles, eh? What's stopping them from entering the pool just two meters to the left of the pond? I think Zimbabwe was my favourite part of the whole trip just because it was so relaxed, so warm and so... natural. It left a great impression and maybe, one day I will... Okay, I probably won't go back anytime soon (read: ever) but I'm glad I was there. And I'm glad I didn't get malaria. That's also a good thing. 

There are probably a few other stories from Africa that I want to share but for now I'll wrap things up. Can't have this rant going on for too long - otherwise nobody will want to read this (although I still have no idea why or even if people read this). Oh yeah, and since its the season for travelling I might have some other stories soon...ish. Soonish... Like, next year... maybe. 

...things got out of hand for a moment

Oh look who’s back! Yeah, I’m still alive. Or at least I’ve been surviving somehow. Okay, it’s not that bad, I’m just being overdramatic again. 

So, what took me so long to update this blog? Has nothing interesting happened in these past months? Well… some things have happened. I have had a life… kind of. There have been weddings and concerts and birthdays and so on but I guess I’m just getting old and tired.

Okay, so I learned something interesting a month ago: it’s really hard to cook or clean or even wash your hair with just one hand. Especially if you have to use your non-dominant hand. How did I come to that conclusion? By being an idiot, of course! 

It was a fine Friday morning, the sun was shining, I was full of energy and ready to seize the day. I was at work, ready to start the day on a positive note. I was happy and pretty optimistic because it was a Friday and I was ready for the weekend. And then I fell. I was skipping along, heading to open the door but my legs were too slow to catch up with my body and I managed to faceplant spectacularly. Except that I didn’t really faceplant: my right hand broke my fall. And by broke my fall I mean it almost literally broke it. It hurt like hell. I didn’t even realise how much it hurt in the beginning because I guess the adrenaline was still keeping me functioning but then the swelling started and before I knew it I was in the doctor’s office. By that point the pain was so bad that for a moment I almost blacked out. You know that feeling right before passing out when everything loses colour and you just feel like your whole body is going numb? Yeah, I felt that right as the doctor was taking a look at my hand. Thankfully I was already familiar with it so I knew what was coming and warned the doctor about my imminent collapse. Next thing I knew I was lying down on a couch with my feet up on a bookshelf.

‘So… I hear you go running a lot?’ Asked the doctor who was just trying to keep me conscious long enough for the nurse to arrive with some painkillers.

‘Uh… yeah? I guess.’

‘Well, you shouldn’t go running tonight.’

‘Huh, really? Thanks for saying that because I totally would have gone otherwise. Cause I don’t need to have functional hands to go running…’

‘So you want us to give you a shot for the pain or do you prefer pills.’

‘Pills sound nice. I don’t really feel like adding to the pain…’

‘Too bad! We already have the syringe ready.’

To be fair, the shot was probably a better idea. It was faster and I barely felt the sting of the needle piercing my skin because the pain in my wrist was so much greater. The doctor sent me to the ER without further hesitation. They brought me a wheelchair (although I was fairly certain I could walk without passing out) and drove me to the hospital where I had to get an X-ray of my hand. Long story short: nothing was broken. I'd sprained my wrist so it was swollen and painful but on the other hand I was fine (yes, I am ashamed of that pun... but not enough to delete it). Well, not fine really but the damage wasn’t too bad. The surgeon who took a look at my x-ray just told me to ‘take it easy and get some rest’. I got an orthosis and they told me to be back in a week for a follow up. 

‘Make sure to keep the hand elevated and avoid putting too much stress on it. And you should stay home for a week,’ they told me in the hospital

‘Uh-huh… I should stay home?’

‘Yes, that’s what I said. You should stay home and rest.’

‘But I don’t have to, right?’

‘What? Rest?’

‘Stay home. I can still go to work, right?’

At that point the surgeon looked at me like I was insane. Maybe I was. I could tell she wanted to ask me if I’d also hit my head in the fall.

‘Well, what do you do for a living?’

‘I’m a physiotherapist.’

‘How are you going to work with just one hand?!’

‘Like no one else…?’

‘Yeah, you should definitely rest.’

A-ha! But ‘should’ doesn’t equal ‘have to’. So I went back to work on the very same day. 

Was it stupid? Possibly. Was it crazy? Most definitely. Why did I do it then? Honestly… it’s hard to answer that question. I guess I felt responsible. It was my own carelessness that brought about the fall. It would have been unfair to my coworkers if I’d left them in a mess of my own making. It was a spectacular Friday in the sense that out of the 7 physiotherapists working in our department only 3 of us were at work and one of them was me... I was worried that things might get out of hand at work. And I honestly felt that despite having only one working hand I could still do my job. 

And I could. It wasn’t too bad, honestly. I couldn’t do any heavy lifting and I had to be more careful with my right hand but other than that it wasn’t too bad. I realised soon enough that working wasn’t the problem - everything else was. 

Ever tried chopping onions using only your non-dominant hand? Yeah, it sucks. I looked like a blind butcher just hacking away at various ingredients like a madman. Why did I think it was a good idea to get a melon when I knew I only had one functioning hand? Rookie mistake. I got my best kitchen knife stuck in that melon and had to struggle for at least fifteen minutes to get it out. Fun fact: it is  surprisingly difficult to keep a melon in place just using your elbow. At one point I realised it was easier to just get a frozen pizza and just not bother preparing my own meals. It’s almost impossible to slice onions with just one hand and lord knows I put onions in almost everything. 

Washing the dishes was even worse. I tried in vain to use my elbow to keep my pots in place while I scrubbed them with my left hand. Took me a while and the results were less than satisfactory. Another reason to just stick with frozen food: you don’t need plates or knives or forks to eat pizza. You do need your hands though but one is enough… most of the time. 

Now, the first few days were pretty bad but luckily enough I fell on a Friday so I had two days of rest… kind of. On Saturday I had a wedding to attend and my mom was coming over. The first thing she asked when she arrived and was getting her stuff out of her car was:

‘Hey, could you give me a hand here?’

…

‘No. I can not. I don’t have one to spare.’

One good thing about having an injury is that it’s a good icebreaker. You meet someone new, they see your orthosis and immediately ask how it happened. And then you can make up an awesome story about how you stopped a robbery or saved a kitten from a burning building or did some ninja-stuff. Nobody is going to believe you but at least they’ll be entertained. Especially after you finish your story with the truth:

‘No, I was actually going to open a door and I fell… because I’m stupid.’

For almost a week I didn’t have to worry about having a moment of awkward silence with anyone because there was always a topic to discuss. Even people I’d barely talked to asked me about my hand and I got to tell the story about me punching three drunk vandals and hurting myself after a celebratory backflip so many times that I almost started to believe it myself. Almost… Not that anyone bought it but at least I was a bit more interesting for a little while. Apparently there were also several rumours about my fall going around. Some said I fell on the stairs, others knew that it happened on the second floor at work, some said I also hit my head and was rushed into the ER because of brain trauma... I have no idea how these rumours got started but brain trauma would have explained why I decided to go back to work on the very same day. 

Another good thing about my injury was that I had newfound understanding for my patients. Whenever one of them started talking abut how difficult it was to get dressed or clean up around the house with just one hand, I nodded and went:

‘Yeah, I know where you’re coming from.’

‘And I can’t even buy shoes with laces anymore! Or shirts with buttons!’

‘Yup, been there. Don’t you just hate that? And don’t even get me started on driving!’

Oh yes, driving. To be fair, I didn’t sit behind the wheel until almost two weeks had passed. By that point I could already use my hand in most everyday activities. It was still sore and weak but it was functional again… until I sat behind the wheel and found out that I couldn’t turn the key in the ignition with my right hand or put the car into reverse. I had to use my left hand for both, which wasn’t very comfortable but I reasoned that I didn’t need to put the car into reverse that often anyway. I reasoned that I could probably manage a small three hour car ride across Estonia at the very least. I did. My dad wasn’t impressed. 

In fact, my parents weren’t all that excited about the fact that I was working with an injury. They thought I should take some time off like the surgeon suggested. They were probably right. But I was never one to take sound advice from reasonable people. I’m not known for making rational decisions either. Honestly, sometimes I marvel at the fact that I managed to make it into adulthood. 

‘Why are you working right now? You could take some time off and no one would blame you, you know,’ my parents told me when they found out I was still doing my job.

I knew that. I knew I had every right to take some time off. So, why was I working? Because I could. That was the only reason. Because despite having one useless hand I could still manage working and I felt that it would be unfair to everyone else if I’d take some time off because I was stupid enough to hurt myself. I hadn’t broken anything, I could still stand, still use my other hand and I didn’t need to do any heavy lifting. It was just such a small little thing. My arm was still attached to my body and it was getting better every day. So why not work? Why should I act like an injured war veteran when I knew I could do what needed to be done? I didn't have any heavy patients, I could still write my protocols (albeit slowly and with my left hand... my protocols had a lot of typos that week) and I could still be there. So why not? I wasn't trying to act like a martyr or a hero - I just felt it would be irrational to stay at home when I could still do my job. 

I know, it still doesn’t make sense. Any person with half a brain would have taken some time off. So what does that say about me? At least some good came out of the whole ordeal: I got a pretty nice orthosis and realised that on good days I can do my job with one hand tied behind my back… if I have a helping hand somewhere close by… like a student helping me out… But on a serious note: if you ever sprain your wrist you should get some rest and seek out a physiotherapist. Be reasonable, be rational, take care of yourself. In other words: don't be that person - don't be like me. 

...I started running

Most people who know me know that I like to run. I'm not a fast runner - not even a very resilient runner - but it's something I love to do. I've got a few half-marathons under my belt and I've really gotten into this whole running thing. Or should I say jogging, since I'm usually not moving fast enough for it to be considered actual running? In any case, it's become my main hobby right now... which is kind of sad, now that I think about it.

Now, whenever I talk about running with my family or really old friends someone ends up saying the following words: 

'So... how did you get into running anyway? You never used to be interested in sports before...'

Yeah, that's an understatement! When I was in school I was the second slowest girl in my class. For real. I sucked in sports. All sports. I was slow, weak, got winded in like five seconds, had poor hand-eye coordination (actually, that's still an issue), poor balance... I sucked at everything! Because of that I was 'sick' most of the time and tried to avoid doing anything physical as much as I could. I didn't understand people who woke up at 6 am and went running. What was wrong with those freaks?! Did they really hate themselves that much?!

Then I went to the university and became a bit more aware of my health. I thought I should take up a sport - any sport - just because I was constantly tired and weak and just needed something besides school to occupy my time. I tried with pilates... but that became boring after a few months. I tried dancing and realized my coordination still sucked more than you could even imagine. I tried to run a few times... and have up after a week because I couldn't last longer than 10 minutes and it almost killed me every time. Yeah, I was really not feeling the whole 'active lifestyle' thing.

And then I moved to Japan.

Oh, I know. It seems like most of my stories either start with or are completely about me living in Japan but I can't help it that it changed my life in a lot of ways. In any case, it all started with snacks. See, I have a really hard time resisting snacks. Any kind of snack food is like a drug to me. I guess you could say I'm food-curious: if I see an interesting snack that I haven't tasted yet I feel the need to get my hands on it. Fun fact: if you have a bad snack habit then Japan is the worst place to be. Their snack game is on point! There are countless sweet and savory snacks available in new and interesting flavors that look good and taste even better... or really weird... it could really go either way (NEVER try anything uni-flavored and KEEP AWAY from the spaghetti-flavored ice-cream... yeah, that's a thing and it's disgusting). What makes the snacks even more enticing is the fact that they have seasonal flavors and regional flavors. For example, let's say you really want strawberry-flavored chocolate drops - they're only available during Winter. Once Winter is over you can't find them anymore. Strawberry is replaced by sakura or matcha or whatever the flavor of Spring is. And then there are KitKats. Different flavors of KitKats in different cities and regions. And I'm not talking about boring 'white chocolate' or 'peanut butter' KitKats. There are wasabi-flavored KitKats, azuki-bean flavored KitKats, sweet-potato KitKats.... So, so many flavors...

I'm kind of hungry right now. Could you tell?

Okay, so considering I had a snack-addiction and Japan had all the snacks in the universe it was really no wonder that I gained like a hundred kilos in two months. Okay, it wasn't that bad but it was pretty awful. After almost half a year of eating like a monster with the munchies I realized that I should start losing weight before my bed collapsed under me. So, since I didn't have money to join a sports club and it was spring break in Japan I decided to start running again. 

The first few times didn't go too well. I lasted for maybe ten minutes and was ready to collapse after that. I was pretty sure running wasn't for me and I needed to find another way to exercise... and then one night Tytti, my dear Finnish friend, offered that we could go running together. I was more happy to join her because I hoped running with someone else would keep me motivated. And it did. 

The first time we went running together we must have run over 8 km. It took us a while because I was super slow in the beginning and I admire Tytti for having the patience to stay by my side the whole time. I'm sure she wanted to go faster but she'd promised to help me through it and by god she did. Against all odds I made the whole distance without stopping once and that filled me with immense pride. So the next time Tytti asked me to join her for a run I jumped at the oppurtunity. 

We formed a little running group that grew bigger and bigger as the new students that arrived in April started to join in. I think the biggest group we had was at least six or seven people. The group wasn't always this big - most of the time there was three or four of us, sometimes even just the two of us - but it was really fun running with a big group. Really freaked out the natives: a huge group of foreigners running down the street late in the evening is enough to make most older Japanese people uncomfortable. I discovered the joys of running. It was a great way to clear my head, chat with my friends and still do something useful with my time. 

Summer came and while we still went running we didn't do it as often anymore. Summer in Nagoya is basically hell - especially for a Northern European like me. I can kind of handle the cold but I am powerless against heat. Seeing as my heart is made of ice, heat really isn't good for my health. The heat was so awful that I spent my days sprawled out on my hardwood floor not moving an inch and secretly hoping we would get a freak snowstorm in the middle of June. During the night I could barely sleep because I can never rest well when it's too hot... and since I couldn't sleep I decided to go running.

The first time I went running alone it was 4 in the morning. I couldn't sleep because of the heat and humidity and I was feeling restless and annoyed so I decided the best thing to do would be to go for a run. And it was pretty amazing. Sure, it was dark so I couldn't run my normal route and had to keep to the streets but it was still incredibly relaxing. There was no one around, the usually busy streets were completely empty and the city just looked so... peaceful. And it wasn't hot as hell anymore. One thing I really miss about Japan are 24/7 convenience stores on basically every street corner. After my nightly runs I would always drop by the local Lawson and get a refreshing drink or some fruit and the occasional ice cream. There's nothing better than a cold Pepsi after a long run, especially at 6 in the morning (no, Pepsi didn't pay me to say that... sadly). 

I thought I would give up running after I came back to Estonia. I didn't have anyone to run with and I'm notoriously bad at keeping good habits. But then I went to run one evening in Tartu... and then again two days later... and before I knew it I had signed up for a half-marathon. One reason I can't seem to shake my running habit is the fact that running just makes me feel... free. I can go for a run whenever I feel like it and it's a great way to clear my head. I feel relaxed when I run. I can just focus on running and for a little while I don't have to think about anything at all... and it's a great way to get to know your hometown or the area around it. I've found a lot of interesting places on my runs in Tartu, Haapsalu and everywhere else. 

By now running has become a part of my life. My main hobby. A habit I can't seem to get rid of. Really, whenever I miss 'run day' (yes, I have designated days in the week I have to go running) I feel guilty. It probably isn't healthy (the feeling guilty part, not the running part) but I can't help it anymore. I have to go running at least once a week, otherwise I just feel... wrong... Some might say I'm overdoing it. I might agree, especially when I get random pains in my hips, knees and ankles every few weeks... but hey, they go away after a little while so everything is okay, right? Right?

I really am an awesome physio, aren't I? (yes, that was sarcasm)

...I dragged myself out of my cave

I have never been and will probably never be a very social person. I don’t like… people… I don’t like talking to them, I don’t like being near them, I don’t like it when they take an interest in me… Or so I thought. See, lately I’ve come to realise I’m starting to develop a… social life of some sort…? 

It shouldn't be anything new to me. I used to have a social life. Back in the good old days. When I was still young. And living in Japan. I had an amazing social life in Japan… but that was a whole other matter entirely. You’re always a different person when your in another country. God knows Japan-Grete and Estonia-Grete are two completely separate entities and if they would ever meet in real life they probably wouldn’t even get along. In this blog I’ve mostly told stories about Japan-Grete who is a fun-loving, carefree, dimwitted but good-natured oddball who just likes to have fun (and has occasional bouts of rage). But let me tell you a bit about Estonia-Grete. 

See, Estonia-Grete is a misanthrope. Yeah, that’s the best (and the polite) way of putting it. Estonia-Grete is a solitary creature that prefers to make its home somewhere on the edges of a human settlement. There she will find an unoccupied apartment that she could turn into a dark, dank cave where she will stay undisturbed by outsiders. She will spend at least 75% of her time in that cave and will emerge only to hunt for food or do human things like… work… Estonia-Grete is quite territorial and paranoid, not letting any outsiders into her domain. If anyone tries to bait her out of her cave she will see the person as a predator and try to confuse them with barely believable excuses and retreat into the farthest corner of her cave where she will camouflage herself to look like a blanket. Needless to say Estonia-Grete doesn’t get out much… and that’s how she likes it. 

Things are… slowly changing, however. Maybe it’s my age creeping up on me but lately I’ve started to… actually enjoy hanging out with people? Yeah, I know - crazy, isn’t it? I kind of have a social life now. Kind of… almost… I mean, it’s not a very active social life but… it exists. I’m not sure if it’s a good thing or a bad thing but it’s… a thing. Yeah… It definitely is a thing. No, this is not me bragging about my social life - it still barely exists - this is me being confused by these new unexplained feelings. Suddenly I feel like… I want to hang out with people…? And that is just weird to me. 

I’m visiting old friends, I’m reaching out to people I’ve lost contact with, I’m going to the movies with my coworkers… It’s almost as if I want to be around people. Maybe it really is my age creeping up on me. I mean, nobody wants to die alone and unloved so I guess this is me making sure there will be someone to carry my coffin. Not that I think about dying or plan to do it anytime soon but truth is I’m not getting any younger and one of these days my heart (or the black hole that’s in the spot where my heart should be) will stop pumping coffee through my veins and I will perish. What’s that? You say people have ‘blood’ in their veins? Yeah, that just sounds crazy! 

In any case, everyone that knows me is as surprised by my gradual change as I am. Whenever I decide to go somewhere with them or hang out the first thing they say is:

‘Wow, I didn’t think you’d show up!’

‘Yeah, I didn’t think I would either…’

And whenever I call a friend I haven’t spoken to in a long time, they freak out, convinced the world is ending. 

‘Hey, I’m just calling to-‘

‘OHMYGOD! What’s wrong?! What happened?! Are you okay?!’

‘Uh… yeah… I’m fine. I just wanted to talk.’

‘Okay, I’m here for you! Just calm down and tell me what happened! You know you can talk to me about anything!’

‘Umm… Yeah… Honestly, I’m fine! We just haven’t talked in a while and I wanted to know what you’re up to.’

‘Are you dying?’

‘No…? Not that I know of. Really, I just wanted to talk. Nothing is wrong!’

‘Is it drugs? Are you on drugs?! I told you: coffee is a gateway drug! You should have just stayed away from it! The devil’s nectar!!!’

‘What…? Are you on drugs?’

Okay, maybe I made up that last part but that’s basically the reaction I get every time I’m the first one to reach out to someone. If I write after a long time my friends think I’m going through something terrible. If I call… well, then they’re ready to get out the crucifix and holy water because I’ve obviously been possessed by a strangely social demon who probably felt sorry for my lack of social life and decided to ‘fix’ the situation. I don’t need your help, demon! I am just fine living alone in my dark cave! I love my cave! It makes me feel like batwoman (can you believe that my asshole chauvinist computer just tried to autocorrect ‘batwoman’ to ‘batman’?! That’s so sexist of you, computer!) except that I’m less of an awesome superhero that kicks ass and saves the day and more of an actual bat… living in quiet dark place, sleeping during the day and drinking blood to survive… I mean… just ignore that last part. 

So, my point. I’m sure I had a point when I started writing this thing… I guess my point is that I’ve actually started to kind of almost… like people now. Maybe it’s the job. I work with people day after day after day and maybe I’ve just gotten used to being around them. Maybe this is what happens to everyone when they get older. Or maybe Japan-Grete and Estonia-Grete aren’t as different after all. All in all, if anyone reading this finds a message from me in the days to come, don’t freak out. I’m not dying, I’m not possessed, I’m not drunk (*I might be slightly drunk but probably not) - I just realised there’s a part of me that wants to socialise because it’s a natural human thing to do and at least a part of me is human. 

So yeah, lately I’ve been finding myself hanging out with colleagues after work, writing to old friends and even visiting them. In Helsinki! You might think this is normal human behaviour and nothing to boast about but keep in mind this is me we’re talking about. I rarely do anything that causes even the slightest discomfort to my own person and traveling is all about discomfort. I have never met a person who truly likes traveling - and I mean the process of traveling. See, I love traveling but I love the part about being in another country, seeing new things, experiencing a different culture. I hate the part where I wait in line with a heavy bag on one shoulder, a purse on the other, a wallet, my ID and my ticket in my hands while I slowly shuffle along towards the security gates. I don’t know anyone who actually likes the ‘travel’ part of traveling. But I’m getting off topic here.

Maybe this is a phase and I’ll return to my usual misanthropic self when the first leaves begin to change colour and the swallows fly south… But for now I’m just going to roll with this newfound un-antisocial (yes, I know I could just say ‘social’ but that’s not a word I would use to describe myself so just deal with this perversion of word) person that resides in my body. It'll be hard but I think I can make it work... at least for a while. Come winter I will retreat back to my cave... at least I think I will. It wouldn't be Estonian of me to have a social life in winter. 

...I tried to explain Eurovision

Ah, it's that time of the year again (or it was)! The time of the year when all of Europe (and Azerbaijan, Armenia and Australia????) comes together and sings in a beautiful festival celebrating the unity of all the people in Europe. Or, to be more accurate, it's the time of year when we all try to pretend we don't hate each other and that all the wars, genocides and other horrible things haven't happened (unless you're Ukraine). No, but for real though. If you ask any European during any other time of the year they will tell you how much they hate the citizens of their neighbouring country (maybe not hate hate but strongly dislike) but during Eurovision we're all such good friends. 

Living in Europe you grow up with Eurovision and it becomes a natural part of your life. Even if you don't follow it you still hear people talking about it, see it in the news or read about it in the papers. It is almost impossible to avoid it completely - believe me, I've tried. There was a time I hated Eurovision because it seemed completely pointless and boring and for a while it really was because we all knew which countries would vote for which songs. Germany giving 12 points to Turkey? What a surprise. Serbia voting for Montenegro? Who could have seen that coming. Russia getting points from every single Eastern European country? Shocking! Everybody knew what was coming but we were still watching it, even if we pretty much knew the outcome of the show. 

Now, when I went to study in Japan I pretty much expected to miss Eurovision entirely and I was okay with that. However, since there were so many other Europeans (and by 'many' I really mean 'a handful') in the building, we decided to make a night out of it. Besides, it was the perfect chance to introduce a bit of European culture to our American friends. First, however, we had to get them on board with it. We tried to prep them for what they were in for.

'Well, there's this singing competition we have in Europe... except that it's not only about singing...' we tried to explain.

'So, is it like a political thing?' the Americans asked.

'No! Well, a little bit. Well, yeah, but you can't be political... like your song can't have a political message.'

'So it's all about the songs?'

'Uh, not really... We just... every country chooses a song to represent them and then we compete in a very friendly manner.'

'Okay. And the best song wins?'

'Hahahahahahahahahahahaaa! No.'

'The best... singer wins?'

'Nope. Not at all.'

'Then... who wins?'

'The song that gets the most votes, of course.'

'So it should be the best song, right?'

'That's such a... sweetly naive way of looking at things...'

'Hey, I've heard it's like 'The Voice' but with European countries competing with each other!'

'Hahahahaha. No. Nothing like that. At least the contestants in 'The Voice' can usually sing.'

'So.... you don't have to know how to sing to compete?'

'Not really.'

'Then... what do you need to do to win?'

Good question, that one. Sometimes you need to wow people with glitter and gold, literally (looking at you, Azerbaijan). Sometimes you need to shock people with crazy costumes (I think we all know what I'm talking about here). Most of the time you need to be Swedish. It really helps if you're a minority singing about being a minority. You guys remember when Serbia won the Eurovision? Do you actually remember the song? Yeah, me neither. But we all know why it won. To be fair, it was right after Montenegro broke up with Serbia and I guess Serbia really needed the confidence boost (although lord knows the song was barely there). And hey, sometimes you just need to go all out and just dazzle people with... well, everything. People won't notice your song sucks when you throw snow, a priceless violin and an olympic skater at them. It helps to set things on fire. 

So, after describing the main... point... of Eurovision (pretty sure it was still a bit murky for them) we decided to show them a few of the past winners of Eurovision. After showing them several videos from the past years we were met with horrified stares and a lot of questions.

'What.... what even is this?'

'Why did this... shit win?'

'Is that a man or a woman?'

'Why is there a stuffed chicken on the stage?'

'What is going on here?!'

'Why is Australia participating again?'

Okay, they weren't really getting it but we still managed to get a few them on board. Some of them were even cautiously optimistic. Others... not so much. We thought we could make a drinking game out of it - take a shot every time a song is about love - but then decided against it because we realised we'd be passed out before half of the songs were finished. Still, before the show started we had to supply the Americans with alcohol because there was no way they'd be able to get through it sober. The Europeans were fine - we were used to the madness.

So, how did it go? Honestly... it was one of the most hilarious Eurovision grand finals I've ever sat through just because one of our American friends tried to apply logic to the show and it was like watching someone try to carry water with a sieve.

'They can't even sing! They. Can't. Sing. Why are they even here?! How did they make it to the final?!' 

'I told you, this is not about singing-'

'Eurovision SONG contest! What else is it about?!'

'Well...'

'This is shit! Pure shit! This is not even singing!'

'That's a bit harsh...'

'What the hell is this?! Why is there a guy in a dress on the stage?! This can't be real!!!'

'Hey, don't hate on Conchita. She's fabulous.'

'Why is this song winning?! This is shit!!! It isn't even a good song! He can't even sing! WHY IS IT WINNING?!'

Because of Eurovision. This is just how it works: you throw a proud minority into the bunch and you're bound to succeed. I honestly thought our American friend would pop a blood vessel in the end of the competition, especially after Conchita won. Sure, he had a point when he said that the only reason Austria won was because they sent a trans-person to the competition. It was memorable. It was different. And that's what Eurovision is all about. No matter how, you need to make people remember you. Otherwise they won't remember to vote for you. 

Can't say our 'cultural exchange' night was a great success. We managed to make at least one American hate Eurovision. It wasn't our goal but hey, sometimes things just happen. I have a feeling he might change his mind, however. Eurovision is like deep fried oreo's - so bad for you and you hate it but secretly you yearn for it because on some deep subconscious level you hate yourself and want to suffer....... But maybe that's just me...

...all work and no play made me doubt my sanity

Have you ever been so tired that you don't remember the date or the day or the season or even your name anymore? So tired that you're unsure whether you're asleep or awake anymore? So tired that you can't stop laughing at the dumbest things just because if you were to stop you would probably start crying? No? Well, lucky you then.

So, let's backtrack a bit. So, in the beginning of April I participated in a course which lasted for three weeks. It was a very good course and a very necessary course especially for a pt working with stroke and brain injury patients. I knew I needed this course if I wanted to continue working with neurological patients so I signed up without hesitation. Ok, there was some hesitation but I've never made a decision without hesitating even for a moment. I have commitment issues, alright... 

Anyway, a few months pass and I finally get a letter from the course instructor. She sent all of the participants some articles, information about the course and the schedule. The first week didn't seem so bad. Sure, the days were longer than I'd expected (from 8.30 to 17.30) but only an hour so I thought I'd survive it. The second week... was worse. It started on Monday and ended on Saturday... Well, I wasn't looking forward to working on Saturday but... I thought I could handle it... Then I looked at the last page of the schedule. Week 3 started on Sunday... 

'Wait!' I thought, 'If week 2 ends on Saturday and week 3 starts on Sunday... That doesn't make sense... Where's my weekend?' 

It took me a while to do the math (because I suck at it) but I finally figured out that we'd be working two weeks straight with no breaks and then I'd have to return to work for two days. No rest for the wicked. I was... less than happy about it. I was downright enraged. Okay, that's a bit dramatic but I was pretty upset. In fact, I was convinced that by the end of the course I would murder someone. My sanity is questionable at the best of times - add in fatigue, sleepless nights and an overload of new information and you get a maniac ready to snap at the drop of a needle. I was convinced that those three weeks would be hell. There was no way I'd be able to enjoy this course. No way!

And then I did...

The first week was pretty bad though. My head was still operating on 'work mode' and I was bombarded with tons of new information every single day for eight hours in a row. There's only so much my tiny brain can take before it starts to overheat. I honestly felt like my brain was smoking inside of my skull. Or bleeding. Or both. Old information was thrown out to make room for the new. Old information like the location of my car keys or what I needed to get from the store or grandma's birthday (didn't miss it but went to visit her a day early, which is actually the better option). By the end of the first week I was already disoriented in space and time. I remember sitting at work one morning, staring at the computer in front of me and being convinced that somehow I was still in bed. I knew I was sitting up but I felt like I was wrapped in a blanket and staring at my laptop, trying to find a new TV show to watch. I wasn't sure if I was awake or dreaming. If it was a dream it was a boring one. If I was awake... well, then I was screwed because I was barely functioning anymore. A part of me wished I was at home... Okay, that's a lie. The whole of me wished to be home. I guess my mind was already there because it sure as hell wasn't with me.
The second week... wasn't as bad as I'd suspected. We got to work with patients again and even though my brain was on fire most of the time, I was slowly getting used to this new rhythm. At least I thought so, although I did feel like my sanity was slowly slipping away. I started laughing at everything and anything, giggling like a maniac at the most random things. Like birds. And pillows. And food. Pretty sure my bloodstream was 80% coffee by that point. I remember sitting at my kitchen table one evening with a tomato in one hand and a fork in the other, trying to figure out why I was there and what the future had in store for me. I think I was in the middle of making a salad but then got distracted by god knows what and ended up trying to stab the tomato to death with a surprisingly blunt fork. Somehow that also seemed hilarious so instead of making the salad I just spent five minutes laughing at the tomato. Then I ate it. It didn't make it into the salad. I was tired. So very, very tired. The part of my brain keeping me sane had stopped working entirely.
So, I've known for a while now that if there's a hell, I will be going there. I'm just a terrible, terrible person. My heart is as black and bitter as the coffee I drink and my soul... well, I'm pretty sure they forgot to give me one when I was born. Guess there was a shortage of everything back in Soviet times. Couldn't even get good souls anywhere... Maybe I'm secretly ginger, I dunno. But this course made me realize something: if I do go to hell, I won't be going alone. I found out that at least two of my colleagues have a similar dark sense of humor which is bound to land them in a fiery pit of doom eventually. Maybe this place attracts people who... look at life a certain way... Or maybe it's my amazing influence that withers other people's souls... although I'm not really conceited enough to think that's true. In any case, I found that I wasn't the only one making jokes about things no human being should laugh about - and that made me feel a little bit better about myself.
I still felt like a horrible person though... but I was okay with it. At least I wasn't alone. Also, I have the distinct feeling that to be a PT you need to be a somewhat horrible/sadistic person. Because if your patient isn't in pain then you're not doing it right. Okay, maybe its not that bad but truth is, sometimes in therapy you need to put patients into positions they're not comfortable with. You need to push their limits, take them out of their comfort zone and whenever you stretch them they will be in pain - that's how it's supposed to be. Taking pleasure in causing pain is not part of the job... but it makes it a lot more fun. I can't remember how many times I've had the following conversation while stretching a patient:
Me: 'Does this hurt?'
Patient: 'Not really.'
Me: 'What about now?'
Patient: 'Its- Okay, yeah! It hurts! It really hurts!'
Me: 'Excellent!'
Patient: 'You can stop now! I don't think my leg is supposed to bend that way!'
Me: 'Shhhh... It'll be all over soon.'
Okay, maybe that last part isn't true but usually, when they say tell me it hurts, I try to stretch them a bit more - because as long as they can still talk they can handle it. Once they start screaming I slow down a bit. The funny thing about stretches is that even if you make them scream and cry out in pain, patients are always willing to come back for more. During the course we had one patient who we had to stretch every single day - he was moaning in agony every time, turning red in the face, sweating and cursing under his breath - and after every day he still smiled at us and told us he would be back the next day and that he enjoyed himself.
By the end of the third week I was... kind of at peace. I didn't understand the concept of 'free time' anymore but that was okay. I forgot to go to the store so I mostly fed off of cookies and frozen food that I had in my freezer. I once had a jar of cherry jam for dinner. Yeah, that was it. Just a jar full of jam. And I kept making extremely inappropriate and immature jokes about... well, not important. Let's just leave it at 'I'm going to hell'. And somehow someone having short arms seemed like the funniest thing ever. I was on the brink of insanity (which isn't really saying that much since I'm always there) but despite everything I was sad when the course ended. Despite the fact that it almost drove me mad with exhaustion I felt that there was so much more I could have learned. I felt I needed more time... in more ways than one. More time to learn and more time to think about what I've learned. But all good things must come to an end and before I knew it I was back at work, trying to disguise the fact that I hadn't slept in days and doing my best to function in this old new environment that seemed so foreign on my first day back.
In conclusion I can say that despite the fact that it almost ruined my sanity, I did like the course and I'm happy I participated. Would I do it again? Probably. Would I do it again anytime soon? Nope. I value sleep too much. And having a shadow of a social life is nice as well. 

...I was a giant nerd

Oh wait, I still am one. I wish I could say I've gotten less nerdy now that I'm a pseudo-grownup. Oh, how I wish I could say that... 

Want to know the nerdiest thing I've ever done? Well, prepare for a less-than-exciting story about the time I went full 'fangirl mode' and did something I'm not really that proud of but also don't regret... because it was kind of awesome. 

So, I'm sure you all know 'The Phantom of the Opera' - the book/movie/musical/musical-movie/hidden-object-game etc. Well, apparently I'm a Phantom fangirl. A phangirl, if you will. And yes, I know what a cheesy pun that is but I'm writing this after work so give me a break! Anyway, 'Phantom of the Opera' is one of my favorite... things of all time. I remember being a little kid and listening to the recorded soundtrack of the musical on my parents' cassette player (CD's weren't a thing back then... yes, I'm old) and loving it. I remember watching different POTO movies, starting from the original one with Lon Chaney. Bear in mind that this was the 90s... in post-Soviet Estonia so watching things online or downloading them wasn't a thing. I had to make do with what was shown on the TV - on the only three TV-channels we had - so I managed to maybe see a Phantom-movie every two years or so. But when I did I was glued to the TV... Fun fact for you guys: most of the movies based on 'Phantom of the Opera' are absolute rubbish. Still, I watched them because they were about the Phantom... I had a dream: I dreamed that one day I would see the musical live, on Broadway with world-class actors playing the parts... but that seemed like an improbable dream.

Fast forward several years. The movie based on Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical came out and I loved it, despite it's many flaws. At least it was flashy and took me back to my childhood. By that time I'd already read the book, seen several movies and played the game based on the book. Yes, there's a hidden object game based on the Phantom. I also owned a two disc copy of the original soundtrack and had memorized almost all the lines of most of the songs. I wasn't obsessed with the Phantom but I was pretty interested in everything and anything Phantom-related. My dream of seeing the musical on Broadway still seemed like a far-off dream but I'd come to accept that it probably wouldn't happen. After all, New York was far-far away and I wasn't crazy enough to travel there just for a musical. Or so I thought...

It was the year 2010, I believe, when I happened to come across a random ad online: an ad for 'Love Never Dies'. At first I didn't believe it was real. You can never trust anything on the internet to be real. Still, I started doing some research and though information was scarce I managed to ascertain that what I'd found was real. It was really happening: they were making a sequel to the POTO musical. Yes, they were making a sequel to a musical. I don't think they've ever done this before. You don't see them presenting 'Les Miserables 2: The Curse of Eponine' on Broadway. I was skeptical... but it was a sequel to my favorite musical of all time. For the first time in a long time I wanted something so desperately I was willing to find any way of getting it. I just needed to see it. Not a recording of it, not a movie based on it - I needed to see it live, just as it was intended!  I can't even describe how much I wanted it. It was like an itch I couldn't scratch and I knew I couldn't be at peace until I'd seen it. Guess what I asked for my birthday that year. 

To be honest, it wasn't easy getting my parents to agree to it. The tickets weren't all that cheap and I also needed a plane ticket to London and back and a place to stay. I was a student and I hadn't found a job yet, meaning I was completely reliant on my parents. I remember doing a fair bit of begging and pouting and promised to forfeit my Christmas present if they'd just give me that one thing... And in the end they did. So yeah, I flew to London for three days for a musical. Yup, just one little musical that lasted about two hours. For that one thing I packed my bags and flew to another country... for three days... Pretty sure it was the nerdiest thing I've ever done.
The trip itself was pretty great actually. It was Spring so the weather was nice and since I had like two and a half days in the city I had the chance to look around and visit some of the most popular sights. I'd been to London before with my parents but I'd been a kid then and I barely remembered anything. So I spent most of my first day just walking around and getting acquainted with the city. I thought it would be a good idea to act like a sophisticated adults and visit some museums. I'm not usually into museums but then again, there are museums and then there's The British Museum. I thought I might make an exception this time, especially since admittance to the museum was free. I didn't regret my decision - the British Museum is an amazing place filled with all the things I find interesting: mummies and medieval torture devices. I spent a good two-three hours there just exploring and staring and dead bodies. Yup, no regrets there. What I did regret, however, was not taking a map.
See, I don't like looking like a tourist. I just... there's this weird sense of false shame I get when I stand on the street with a map in my hand, looking like I'd just stepped off a plane. That is why I didn't take a map with me when I left my hotel. I'd consulted the map beforehand and felt pretty sure I knew the way to the museum. And I did! I made it there in less than twenty minutes and I was incredibly proud of myself. I was sure getting back to the hotel would be even easier: I just needed to go back the same way I came. How hard could that be?
Very, very hard, is the correct answer. One would think that going back the exact same way I used to get there would be a piece of cake but nooooo, not for me. Half an hour after leaving the museum I was... somewhere... I was still pretty close to the city center and I was sure I wasn't too far from my hotel. It was just... I had no idea which way to go. Where had I gone wrong? How in the world could I get lost so easily? For the first ten or so minutes I had gone the same way I'd come from but now...
Now I was standing in the middle of the street, staring at a map on the side of a bus stop and trying to figure out which way was which. It didn't help that the map was covered in graffiti. I was pretty sure I needed to head left down the street that led me past a shady-looking pub and a furniture store... Pretty sure... Except that ten minutes later when I was consulting another bus-stop map I felt like I'd gone to the exact opposite direction of where I was supposed to head. Oh well, I guess I needed to head back the way I came from. Because that had turned out so well the first time... At two separate occasions during my odyssey I ran into tourists who turned to me for directions.
'Excuse me! Do you know how to get to Trafalgar Square from here?' they would ask shoving a map into my face.
'Oh, I'm sorry. I'm not a local so I really have no idea,' I apologized and kept walking. A smart person would have admitted they were lost. They would have asked to see the map to find their way back home. Yes, a smart person would definitely have done that... But I was far from a smart person.
Despite all odds I managed to find my way back to the street where my hotel was located. I then proceeded to walk to the exact opposite direction... until I realized I was going the wrong way and turned back in shame. When I finally reached my hotel room I was tired and slightly cranky but still pretty proud of the fact that I'd made it to the museum and back without using a map even once... except for those several times I tried to make sense of the graffiti-covered maps on the bus stop pavilions... But it didn't matter! I'd walked back from the museum all on my own and I'd done it like a local... moron. Like a local moron with memory issues.
Oh, but how was the musical, I hear you ask. Was it worth it?
Well... yes and no. If I hadn't gone to see it, it would have haunted me for years to come. I'm happy that I saw it as it came out, on the big stage, with the original actors. It's a memory I'll treasure forever. The musical itself though... Well... It was there. It wasn't horrible but... It wasn't great either. I hated what they'd done to some of the characters - how they'd changed their personalities completely and turned a sweet little girl into a homicidal maniac, a romantic hero into a sleazebag with a gambling addiction and Christine into a... well, I'm not going to say it in fear of ruining the 'totally unexpected surprise plot-twist' for you guys (and yes, that was some heavy sarcasm... I'm still rolling my eyes). Still, there were some memorable arias and some good special effects so I wasn't too angry. Had it been a completely separate musical, not a sequel, it would have been decent. As a sequel however it failed to capture the essence and ideas of the original musical and thus was a mess. It ruined the bittersweet ending of the original musical and it almost felt like the author hadn't even seen the original... which is weird considering it was the same person. Honestly, there's POTO fanfiction better than the plot of 'Love Never Dies'. Yes, I've read POTO fanfiction. A lot of it. Shut up! I know I have a problem.
I could go on for a while, ranting about how the sequel-musical didn't do the original justice but this little story has gone on for long enough. I still don't regret the trip, or getting lost, or seeing a sub-par musical that left me a bit cold. At least my heart is at peace now and hey, it was still a pretty fun trip. Oh, and I did see the 'Phantom of the Opera' on Broadway eventually. Took me a few years but i found my way to New York. And that time I didn't get lost.