...it was hot in Verona (and hell in Frankfurt)

Oh wow, it's been a while, hasn't it? I was debating whether to update this blog or not, considering I have no idea if anyone even reads it anymore, but apparently, at least one person does. So, a lot of time has passed and my life has been... pretty boring, I guess. Just working as a physio (and now as a part-time psychologist but that's a story for another time), living in Tartu and being antisocial, as per usual, but I'm not here to talk about that. No, I'm gonna tell you the story of how I went to Verona.
Now, Verona in itself is not a super exciting travel destination since it's quite small (compared to most well-known Italian cities) and despite of what our Eurovision-contestants think, it's quite difficult to get lost there because it's just not that big. Honestly, if you get lost in Verona, you're doing something wrong. Get a map! But, I digress. The reason I went there is because, every year there's this huge opera festival in Verona, where they perform famous operas in the old Roman amphitheater. My mom once told me that she'd always wanted to go and see an opera there so, once I realized I had no plans for my vacation, I asked if she wanted to head there this summer. She did and so we got the tickets, the hotel and got on our way.
We were in Verona for about four days. That was all we needed. Don't get me wrong - Verona is absolutely lovely and I enjoyed my time there but there's not that much to do there. We spent the first day checking out some Roman ruins, an old fort, a bunch of churches and stuff and there was still time to spare. At lunch we usually returned to the hotel to have a nap because it was simply too hot outside. Oh yes, I forgot to mention that this was the beginning of August during the hottest Summer in ages (at least in Estonia). It was 33-34 degrees outside and always sunny. Great, right? Well, to be honest, it wasn't that bad. Somehow, the heat in Italy was less excruciating than in Estonia and even though we went everywhere on foot, it was still somehow bearable... until it wasn't.
My mom and I decided to go see Aida during the festival (because it was one of the few performances still being held in August). The show itself started pretty late, around 21ish, due to the fact that it was hot as hell during the day and it's impossible to air-condition an amphitheater. So, we get to our seats just as it was getting dark outside and the stage looks amazing, the props are impressive, the costumes flashy and... It. Is. Just.SO. HOT!!! I'm not kidding. Even before the show started, I could tell it was going to be bad, because I'm sitting in what is basically a huge bowl with a few hundred people surrounding me and the air is just completely still. Not even a light breeze. Not even a breath of air! Just hot, still, heavy air slowly suffocating me.
The show starts. The singers are exceptional. The costumes beautiful. The mass-scenes and dancers are breathtaking... and all I can think about is the heat. There is sweat running down my back. I feel like I'm stuck under a blanket, breathing in second-hand air. It is still 33-degrees outside. 33! And it's dark! And it's still hell! Now, those who know me well, know that I hate the heat. I can't stand it! Nothing makes me want to kill myself quite like the heavy, humid Summer heat. And now I'm at the opera, trying to enjoy a genuinely good performance, but it's impossible because even my cold, dead heart is beginning to decay in this heat. I am not religious but during those three hours, I got the distinct feeling that the gates of Hell had opened under the amphitheater and that's why it felt like death there. The whole time I kept praying for the opera to be over soon, not because it was bad, but because I felt like stroking out in that heat. So, long story short: I had some difficulty enjoying the performance... even though it was good.
Now, despite the excruciating heat, I did enjoy my trip to Verona. It's a lovely little city, clean, less crowded than most tourist spots, the food was mind-blowing and the people pretty polite and friendly. It was a great trip... up until the last day(s). Then it all went to shit. And it was all because of the Germans! A few posts ago I talked about my trip to New York in January and how it ended in a snowy shitstorm that left our flights cancelled and our minds broken. Guess what happened this time! My flight got cancelled! AGAIN!
The last day started out great. We went to the airport nice and early, had breakfast and coffee, got on our plane and next thing we knew, we were in Frankfurt, where we were supposed to have a connecting flight to Tallinn. We had a few hours to kill before our next flight so my mom and I decided to sit down in a little bar, have some beer and maybe a snack. We'd been sitting there for maybe half an hour when a server told everyone in the bar to leave because, apparently, the terminal was being evacuated. Yep. The whole terminal. And since it was Frankfurt, it was a pretty damn big terminal. So, we got our things and joined the crowd heading out of the terminal, making short stops on the way because we still had no idea what was going on. The server hadn't told us anything other than they were closing and we needed to leave the area. The biggest crowds were heading toward the exits but some were coming back. We had no idea what was going on because there were no announcements, no employees directing us out - nothing! After about half an hour of slowly inching our way toward the exits while utterly confused, some airport employees did appear and started directing us out. The evacuation was real. After getting out of the terminal, we stood in the main area and tried to figure out what was going on. There were cops going into the terminal, airport employees talking to each other but still no real information. I started having flashback to New York but tried to stay positive. After all, we still had three hours to our flight. We could make it, right?
Two hours later...
Yes, for two hours we just stood there, not knowing anything, staring longingly at the terminal gates that were still closed and getting more tired and nervous by the minute. Finally, after two hours, something started happening. Employees started gathering around the security gates. 'Great!' I thought, 'Things are moving along!' But they weren't. We were still standing there. They were still denying us information and people were getting more anxious about missing their flights. Another half an hour passed before we got a little bit of information: the 'threat' had been 'dealt with' and we could re-enter the terminal... after passing the security check, again. If you've ever been in the airport in Frankfurt, you know how many people pass through there, daily. It's a freaking armada of people! Imagine all the people whose flights were supposed to leave in those two and a half hours plus all the people who'd come to the airport early, not knowing what was going on, and you have several hundred people - angry, tired, dehydrated, confused and hungry - queuing for the slowest security check in the history of the world. The employees tried to calm us by saying that there was no need to rush because 'your flight will either wait or you will be rebooked on another flight'. Right. Just a friendly tip: that doesn't happen. Nobody waits for you, nobody rebooks you just like that. You need to do everything on your own...
So, of course the line for the security check was basically static. Only half of the security gates were operational and - to add insult to injury - after about half an hour of working, the employees had their lunch break. That meant that they locked the gates again, leaving us to wait. Again. Of course they did, though: they were Germans. If protocol says employees get a break every few hours, then common sense and human decency be damned! By that time we hadn't had anything to eat or drink in about four hours, which wouldn't be an issue otherwise, but add some stress and anxiety and you get a bunch of angry people. Our flight should have left by that time but we'd received no notification of whether it had been delayed or cancelled or what... So we stood in line and waited for our security check. It took us about an hour to get through it and when we did, we were faced with another line. A line of hundreds of people, queueing for the Lufthansa information desk to rebook their flights that they missed. Because, like I said, nobody rebooks you automatically. You need to deal with it on your own. Our flight had been cancelled, of course, so we queued up and started losing our minds because there was nothing better to do.
We stood in line for maybe forty minutes before our tired and angry brains started working again and we remembered something important: in New York we didn't have to go to a desk or wait in line. We called. So, we decided to try that again. We called Lufthansa customer service while standing in line for Lufthansa customer service... It worked. In five minutes we were booked on the next flight to Estonia, which was going to leave next morning. Good enough. I still had some vacation days to spend so I wasn't too worried. Mom had a harder time but she managed somehow. After getting the tickets we booked a room and headed to the airport hotel for some much needed rest. And wine. Lots of wine...
I have never been to Frankfurt. Never seen the city. There was the opportunity to explore it that day, seeing as we had almost a day until our new flight. We decided against it. I know it's not Frankfurt's fault that our flight got cancelled. The city didn't do anything wrong. But as god is my witness, I will never willingly go to Frankfurt again! Ever! It is a cancer on the face of the planet! Oh, and as to what happened to cause such chaos in the airport? Apparently, some German security check douche fucked up. As far as I understand, someone tested positive for explosives and the security guy just didn't notice and let that person pass. Once someone noticed, they needed an evacuation. Oh, and before you freak out, it was a false positive. Nobody in that terminal had any explosives on them or around them. And for that, they messed up the plans of several hundred people. Just because Günther didn't have his morning bratwurst and felt faint or something.
I apologise to any Germans I've offended but I think it's pretty clear I'm still salty about this whole ordeal. It wasn't just what happened that got to me. It was the fact that it happened twice in a row. It's like falling from a horse, getting back in the saddle and then getting punched in the face by the horse's brother (yes, I am aware horses don't 'punch'). Two traumatic travel experiences in a row. I swear, at one point while standing in that line, I swore to myself I would never fly again. Never travel again. Never leave my apartment again!
But, all is well that ends well, I guess... except that it isn't. I still hate Frankfurt with a vengeance and a vacation that was 90% amazing still left a bad taste in my mouth. Moral of the story: never go to Frankfurt.

...I went full tourist-mode and regretted it

Okay, so I went to Hawaii this last Christmas to visit my sister and niece, right? This was my third time to the islands and the second time to Oahu. I'd been to Hawaii twice before, to visit Mary, who used to live there with her family. Now, the first two times were absolutely awesome (and terrifying). The first time was great because it literally felt like I'd entered Paradise or some fantasy world with impossibly beautiful wildlife. The second time was wonderful because I stayed for a long time and got to know Kauai in all its glory. By the third time, however, I was kind of getting over it a bit.

See, compared to Oahu, Kauai is more rural, more natural and honestly, more beautiful. Oahu is a bit too overcrowded for my tastes. Too many tourists, too many cars, not enough parking spots... and somehow the beaches in Kauai seemed more intense. I remember having to time going into the water and diving underneath the waves because otherwise I would just get slammed. The beaches on Oahu seemed more calm in comparison. Perhaps it was the season or we just visited the wrong spots but when you see morbidly obese tourists waddling into the waves and back out again it... I dunno... spoils the fun a bit, I guess. It's less of a challenge and therefore not really worth it.

But I guess that's just me. I know a lot of people like Oahu (*imagine me sarcastically rolling my eyes here*) and it still is quite pretty... But that's not what I wanted to talk about. So, my mom and I decided that while we're in Hawaii, we should just do the most tourist-y things possible because it might be our last time there. Among those touristy things was a luau (I can almost hear Mary laughing at me right now).

A luau is basically a Hawaiian barbecue, usually held under the stars with a buffet dinner comprised of local meals and a show accompanying it. I'd heard that it was a really touristy thing that was not worth paying for but I thought that I might as well cross it off my bucket list (not that it ever was there). Worst thing happens, I hate it but I'll know for sure that I do. And I'll still be richer by experience.

We got our tickets and set out on a... Wednesday (?) evening. There were several buses that brought the participants to a private beach about a forty minute drive from Waikiki. The beginning wasn't too bad. I mean, sure, the other participants were very, very typical tourists - almost like caricatures of the main types of tourists in Hawaii. Well, whatever, so were we (probably) so it wasn't fair to judge. We got our shell leis and cocktails and watched a short 'ritual' of them getting the pork out of the ground (long story, google it or something if you're interested). And then the madness started.

First was the host who sang us some godawful song about Hawaii being a paradise island where the sun always shines and people say 'aloha' and there's coconuts everywhere. Just imagine a song made up of 99% cliches, sung by a fat middle-aged lady (probably originally from Minnesota or something) wearing a muumuu and a cheap fake lei and you get the picture. Then was the hula-competition where 4 guys were forced to wear grass skirts and coconut bras and dance to some Hawaiian tunes. It made me cringe so hard I almost popped a blood vessel. Is stuff like that really entertaining to Americans? It just looks sad and embarrassing and dated. A guy in drag hasn't been funny since the 1970s (some might argue it has never been funny)... but then again, it seems nobody gave the US the memo (you know I'm right, guys).

Things went downhill from there. See, every bus had a so-called guide who explained the routine of the luau, gave us our drink tickets and checked our reservations. They were mostly senior citizens with mobility issues. So it only made sense to drag them on the stage and force them to dance for us as well. There is really nothing sadder than watching a hunched over octogenarian with a quad-cane trying to do the hula for a bunch of starving tourists. Oh yes, because we hadn't been fed by that time. The show was a nightmare of epic proportions and I couldn't even watch it due to the cringe-levels being too high. I was honestly afraid that one of these senior citizens might break their hip while awkwardly swaying to ukulele music. At least that would have brought an end to the whole ordeal. I downed my cocktail and hoped that alcohol would soothe my pain. It didn't.

The next part of the show was... less painful. Okay, to be honest, it was even kind of fun. First we got fed and then they started the cultural programs with dancers performing traditional dances from different Polynesian islands. It was short and pandering but at least it was fun to watch and these dancers were professional so it was beautiful to look at. I think it was the only part of the show that I actually enjoyed because after it was over we were forced to suffer through another audience participation number. The dancers tried to teach us some basic hula dance moves - and by 'us' I mean all the female volunteers who ran to the stage because apparently Americans like this sort of stuff. I stayed in my seat and kept drinking, hoping the night was almost over. It wasn't. After the ladies were done with their dance, they dragged the men onstage and tried to teach them... I have no idea how these people thought this was fun. Maybe I just wasn't drunk enough...

When we were done dancing and singing and 'having a good time', it was time to go back to Waikiki. 'Finally!' I thought, feeling relieved, 'I can sit on the bus, zone off and pretend that none of this really happened. I am finally free! The worst is over!'

But it wasn't! It got so, so much worse! It was like in a horror move where the protagonist thinks the psycho killer is finally gone but then discovers he's been hiding under the bed the whole time... I thought the worst was over, I thought I was safe... and then I got into the bus. You know what's a fun thing to do in a bus? What's that? You think the answer is 'sing a kid's song together'? Then you can probably relate to our bus guide who thought the best way to kill time on our way back was to sing horrible, horrible songs in a faltering voice that sounded like a cat with lung cancer. Also, if that really was your answer then you're a horrible person who should never be allowed on a bus. Just imagine sitting in a bus filled with strangers while a feeble old man sings some horrendous coconut song (no, not the chill one - the one that's awful and you've probably never heard... pretty much he made it up himself) while trying to clap and make others join in. A few tried, mostly people sitting in the first row because they couldn't avoid eye contact with him. The song had like 12 verses... it went on forever... But I wasn't in Hell yet, oh no! We passed the gates when he started singing 'He's got the whole world in his hands...' That was the point I was ready to throw myself out of the still moving bus. I might get hurt, I might get killed but anything was better than this torture! Again, the song had at least 10 verses, all sung horribly off key by an annoying old guy who didn't know when enough was enough. 

Needless to say that when we finally arrived in Waikiki I almost ran off the bus, never looking back. Had I forgotten something on there I would have just left it. No way I was ever returning to that bus or those people. So, a little word of advice to people thinking about visiting Hawaii: luau's aren't worth it. There might be some good ones out there - pretty sure the Hilton one would have been better - but if you're unsure whether to do it or not then just don't. You don't need that kind of horror in your life. Just go to the beach or something - you'll live longer. 

...I went through Hell

If Hell is real, it's an airport. There is no other place that manages to continuously shatter hopes and dreams quite like an airport. You go there hoping to head out for an adventure or a nice vacation and instead you're faced with waiting in line, losing your shit in the security check, waiting in more lines, waiting for your flight, losing your way, crappy airport food, too many people and waiting for your luggage only to realise the airline has lost it. No, honestly, airports are Hell. If you ever meet someone who says 'I actually like airports', they're probably an alien or a demon out to steal your soul.

But, let me get started with my story. The story of my trip through Hell aka the Estonian version of Dante's 'Inferno', only in modern times and without a helpful guide because that would've made things way too easy. Just a little while ago my mom and I decided to visit my sister in Hawaii for Christmas. We (read:she) planned a three week trip to the US with the goal of visiting my friend Mary in Denver, then going to my sister's place in Honolulu and then heading to New York for a three day culture program. The trip was great but I'm not going to go into detail about it now. Maybe I'll find the strength to talk about it later. We got to Denver and then to Hawaii and then to New York and everything went smoothly. Life was good. And then it wasn't anymore.

We were supposed to fly back home on the 5th of January, around 22.00, so we had the whole day to kill in New York. It started snowing on the 4th of January and it was a pretty bad storm. It was cold, windy and the snow just kept coming and coming. Almost all the flights to and out of New York were cancelled that day but I didn't worry. The storm was supposed to subside by nightfall and that it did. The 5th of January was actually a pretty lovely, albeit cold day. We went to the Guggenheim museum (boring, do not recommend) and then headed to JFK airport after getting lunch.

So we get there and go through the security check and get to our gate to see that our Lufthansa plane was already at our gate. 'Great!' I thought, 'We still have like three hours to go but the fact that the plane is here is a good sign'. The only problem was that the monitors above the gate were telling us that the next flight out of that gate would go to Jeddah. It had been delayed and would leave at 20.00. I didn't think much of it at that moment because our flight to Frankfurt seemed to be okay.

Fast forward about two hours. It was 20.00. The flight to Jeddah still hadn't left. In the meantime they moved our Lufthansa plane out of the way to make room for the plane that was supposed to take the others to Jeddah. That was... a bit upsetting but I was sure they would just find us another gate or something.

One and a half hours later...

It was 21.30. The plane going to Jeddah had arrived but wasn't going anywhere. People were waiting. We were waiting. There was no information and the airport was getting more crowded by the minute because flights kept on getting delayed.

Then it was 22.00 and we still didn't have any information about our flight that was supposed to be leaving already. It took a little more waiting until they finally changed our flight status to delayed and told us it would be leaving at midnight. That meant we would miss our connecting flight to Tallinn. I was not too happy about that but it was only the beginning.

Fast forward two hours. Yes, again. It was midnight. The flight to Jeddah had still not left and we had no information about our flight to Frankfurt. Nothing. It was already midnight and nobody would update us on what was happening. Around 00.30 we found out that our gate had been changed and our flight would leave at 2 in the morning. Great! Just great! We went to our new gate and sat there, feeling pretty upset and tired. We'd been waiting for ages now and it was getting pretty tedious. But that wasn't the worst of it.

'Okay, guys, all of you heading to Franfurt - you need to get your stuff and go to the baggage claim to receive your checked luggage! Your flight has been cancelled!'

Yes, after all that waiting they cancelled our flight. Not because of the weather but because the crew couldn't legally fly anymore - they needed a certain amount of rest before they could fly again. So, long story short: our flight was cancelled because another flight hijacked our gate and the airport couldn't get their shit together.

But wait, there's more!

We headed down to the baggage claim, 300 or so people, and waited for our luggage. We were all tired, angry, disappointed and confused. 'What now?' was the question on everybody's lips but there were no answers. Nobody would tell us what was going to happen to us now: there were no airport employees around and the few that appeared rushed away in an instant. So we just waited for our luggage. And waited... and waited... and waited...

One hour later! Yes, for about an hour we waited with no answers and no luggage. Nothing was happening. And then an announcer told us that the door to the cargo hold had frozen over and they couldn't get it open - that's what the wait was. Just wonderful news, right? In the meantime I started noticing that there were a few airport employees in the baggage claim and they were providing information... but only if you went up to them and asked for it. No general announcement to the 300+ people - just one lady in a corner somewhere, waiting for people to come to her.

We found out that since our flight was cancelled we had to contact Lufthansa and ask them to re-book us. The employees gave us little cards with phone numbers on them and told us to call. Of course, if you have 300 people calling one number at the same time, it's no wonder almost nobody can get through. The line was busy and there was no hope of solving the situation at that moment. Then, the airport employees started to hand out hotel vouchers. They told us that after we get our luggage - whenever that might be - we had to go out of the airport where shuttles would take us to our respective hotels. Then, at 11.00 the shuttles would take us back to the airport so we could catch our new flight or get another voucher (because the hotel vouchers were only valid for one night).

Okay, great! At least we had some semblance of a plan. We finally got our luggage and headed outside to catch the shuttle... only there were none. Only rows and rows of taxis and nothing else. 'The buses will be here,' yelled an airport employee and disappeared into the night, never to be seen again. It was cold, we were tired and now we had to wait for a bus that wasn't even sure to appear. There was a lady from our flight that told me and my mom that we could also take a taxi, keep the receipt and then ask for reimbursement from Lufthansa so that was what we decided to do. We took a taxi to our hotel, which was 45 minutes away, and paid 200 dollars for it.

After getting a solid 4 hours of sleep we woke up in our hotel and headed to the reception to find out what the plan was. Turns out Lufthansa had decided to prolong our stay in the hotel for another night - nobody was going to the airport because no flights would be leaving - at least not for us. So we stayed and contacted Lufthansa to get re-booked. That turned out to be almost impossible. They offered us a flight on the 9th of January (just as a reminder, it was the 6th and the 9th was a Tuesday) through London, Frankfurt and Tallinn (yup, sounds weird but that's what they told us). I asked them to check other airports - Newark, La Guardia - for any earlier flights but there was nothing... And then I asked about Philadelphia. There was one flight on the 8th of January through Munich and then to Tallinn. It wasn't perfect but at least it was better than waiting until Tuesday and then having two connecting flights. We took that one.

We thought it would be a good idea to head to Philadelphia on the 7th - by bus because even the internal flights were getting cancelled - spend a night there and then be ready on the 8th. We made the arrangements, booked our bus tickets and our hotel and then we waited. There was nothing else to do. The hotel we were staying at (Hyatt Regency on Long Island) was in the middle of nowhere. There was an overgrown park on one side and a landfill on the other and the weather was still cold as hell so we decided to stay in. The whole day we could see new groups of people coming in - people who's flights had also been cancelled - and the whole scene looked like something out of a war movie. You just had these groups of tired, broken people who were confused, angry and in despair and that were trading 'war stories' about their airport experiences:

'We had no idea what was going on! There was no plane, no crew and nobody knew if the flight was cancelled or delayed.'

'I got re-booked for Wednesday but I have a family back home! Kids! They're waiting for their daddy to come home!'

'I was on the plane... I was on there. We almost made it... and then they turned back and told us we had to get off. I was already on!'

The whole building was filled with anxious, tired people who just wanted to go home and you could feel the tension in the air. My mom and I decided that the sooner we got to Philadelphia the better. Sure, Lufthansa was paying for our hotel but we didn't want to stay in a place filled with broken dreams and despair. We needed to leave. So the next day, on the 7th we got an Uber and headed to Manhattan to catch our bus. I think it was the right thing to do because by midday on the 7th there was no word from Lufthansa or the airport if they would extend our stay for another night, give us another voucher or take all the passengers from the cancelled flights back to the airport.

We got to Manhattan pretty quick and had a nice lunch before heading to the bus terminal. Our bus was supposed to leave at 15.00 but we were 15 minutes early (because our ticket told us to). Waiting in line I heard a woman say 'I can't believe I have to wait 2 hours for a freaking bus!' Wait, what? What was that? Why was she waiting for that long? And then a terminal worker told us:

'So, for the people that just arrived, here's an announcement. We don't have any buses at the moment. They should be coming in but we don't know when. But don't worry: we have the drivers and everything else is set so if the buses do come in we have to clean them, fill them up with gas and then we're gonna get you on there. There are still people that are waiting for their 1 o'clock and 2 o'clock buses so we're gonna put them on first...'

Yeah, I was getting the distinct feeling that I was cursed. First the flight and now the bus?! The bus should have been a sure thing! But no, of course not. Once things started to fall apart they wouldn't stop until there was nothing left but a burning rubble. So, there was nothing to do but wait... and wait... and wait... in a cold bus terminal with no seats... for two hours. No, I'm not even exaggerating. It took them two hours to get some buses ready and get us on there. Two freaking hours of standing in line and waiting for the bus! 

But wait, there's more! 

That wasn't the end of it. We got to Philadelphia at 20 and went to our hotel. Turns out they had a busted water pipe so the kitchen didn't have any warm food and the emergency lights were constantly blinking. Compared to everything else that'd happened up to that point, it was a small issue. At least our room was pretty okay and we got a good night's rest. The next day we had breakfast and headed straight to the airport, ready to finally get out of the US.
The flight was on time, the plane was ready at the gate and despite the fact that the boarding time was delayed maybe ten minutes or so, everything went according to plan. I got into the plane, took my seat next to an anxious-looking German lady, browsed the movie selection for a bit and then chose one to start watching. And then I sat there and watched my movie. Some time passed... and then more time passed... and then more time... and then I realised I was an hour into the movie, which meant we'd been standing in place for an hour, not moving anywhere.
Then our captain tuned on the intercom and told us what was wrong. The area surrounding the plane was covered in ice, meaning the cargo trucks had a very hard time getting to the plane and loading our luggage on. We needed to be patient and wait while they negated the icy roads. Okay, it wasn't perfect but at least it was understandable. There was ice-rain coming down that day so no wonder it was slippery. And at least we were given information about what was going on. So, I focused on my movie and tried to stay calm.
Then my movie ended. Did I mention it was a two hour movie? Yeah, the movie ended and I realised we'd been standing in place for two hours. The German lady in the next seat told me that she'd been waiting to get home since Thursday - her flight was supposed to leave on that day and they even got on to the plane but after two hours of waiting the captain decided to cancel the flight and forced everyone out. So, understandably, she was a bit on edge... and so was I.
Another half hour passed until we started moving, but only a bit. We still needed to go to the de-icing station to get the plane de-iced. So we waited. Another half an hour passed. We'd been waiting for three full hours now and I felt my hands starting to shake. I was at my breaking point. After all the bullshit I'd went through the past three days, this was almost the final straw. I wanted to throw a fit, to yell and scream and tell the captain to just get us off the ground - de-icing and safety was for losers anyway - but I knew I couldn't. If even one of the passengers became hysterical or showed signs of distress, they would be forced to turn the plane around and de-board us. And that was the last thing I wanted.
'Don't worry, guys, it shouldn't be too much longer now,' said the captain through the intercom, 'We're in line for the de-icing process now. We're the 10th or 12th plane in line and the line is moving. It should only take about five to ten minutes to de-ice so it shouldn't be too much longer. Hold on, guys, we're almost done.'
My math isn't great but even I could figure out that if there were 10 planes in front of us and it would take minimum 5 minutes to de-ice one of them then... I wouldn't call it being 'almost done'. Sure enough it took us another hour before we were finally done with the de-icing and could take off.
In the end we didn't get stuck in Philadelphia so I guess you could say that all's well that ends well? Except it's not. Waiting four hours in an airplane with no food or water is excruciating, especially if you've already suffered an emotional trauma from having your flight cancelled. We had a twelve hour layover in Munich (which turned to eight hours thanks to our flight being so late) and we had the chance to go to town and look around a bit but we didn't. By that point we were already too tired to care about anything other than our next flight.
Once we hit Europe everything was going smoothly again. Our flight to Tallinn was on time, we arrived 5 minutes before midnight on the 9th and spent the night in the airport hotel because neither of us was willing to drive home after such an ordeal. I got back to my place on the 10th and spent most of the day just sleeping - I'd never had jetlag as bad as this last time. And that's the story of how I missed my first day of work in Viljandi (I did let them know I was in trouble though, so it wasn't a big issue)! I wish I could say that all the things I had to endure made me stronger or that I learned something about myself but I don't want to find anything good about the experience. It was horrific, exhausting and just the worst thing I've ever experienced... travelling. Okay, sure, maybe it did make me stronger, maybe I did find out that I am not as neurotic and helpless as I think but I didn't need to find out like this! I don't need to know where my breaking point is. I'm fine with not knowing. So stop testing me, universe!
But a bit of advice to all of you, who might want to travel to New York in Winter: don't. Just don't. 

...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)