This month I moved into a new house with a blue roof. The beach is across the street and the Catholic Church Monastery of St. Gerard is above my home.
I have one complaint about my new abode. During our first morning together it tried to kill me.
It was a normal start to a normal day. I woke up late, as usual. I hit walls while walking to the bathroom and I fiddled with the temperature of the shower. I noticed the tub was unusually curved. When I groggily turned to grab the shampoo and sing like Ferris Bueller my feet lost their grip and, as usual, gravity was pitiless.
I fell in the tub. I was embarrassed, even though I was alone. I carefully stood up, dressed myself and went to the doctor. I thought I fractured a rib.
After giving me a series of hugs to assess the damage to my rib cage the doctor said, “You probably have a small fracture. Don’t be a pussy and go to work.”
Apparently I like to start a new year by breaking bones. One year ago I broke my toe. January is a dangerous month.
When I told a colleague at work I slipped in the tub, she said when her mother fell in the bath she broke her nose. When I told Richard about my accident, he said his grandfather died from slipping in the tub.
Be careful, reader. Tubs are dangerous.
I broke my toe three weeks ago. I have a spy at the hospital who pulled my file and sent me the x-rays via PXT.
Here’s the whole foot, notice the break in the pinky toe.
And here’s the break.
How did I break it, you ask?
By saving the life of a child standing in the middle of the road. He was almost hit by a bus!
Actually I hit my toe on the edge of my couch. I heard the crack, too.
I thought I had strong bones from all the milk I drank as a kid. I guess not.
Each winter my writing trickles to a stop. Who knows why?
Last weekend I went skiing on the North Island’s most popular volcano and it was beautiful:
This photo is pathetic! You have to see it for yourself.
§
When I arrived at the ski area, I went to the ticket counter to buy my gear and lift pass.
“Hi, can I have skis, boots and poles, and a upper mountain lift pass?”
“Sure, you might be eligible for a youth discount. Are your parents here? How old are you?”
“I’m 27.”
§
By the end of the day, I had a fresh set of bruises from:
- falling off a t-bar lift with Anouk
As Egon said about crossing the streams, “Try to imagine all life as you know it stopping instantaneously and every molecule in your body exploding at the speed of light.” The same applies to crossing your skis. Anouk was not happy!
- jumping into a wall of snow
Not nice, fluffy snow. The water which formed this snow used to flow in the sewers of Gary, Indiana, I’m sure of it.
- dodging a boy (like a good samaritan), who happened to fall next to a ski ramp
When I landed, my skies, gloves, hat, etc. were scattered across the field, as if I were Mr. Potato Head and a screaming child threw me against a wall.
In a few weeks I’m flying to Queenstown for some more skiing (yes, I am a masochist). Feel free to fly down and join me!
Two weeks ago I went to New Caledonia. I slept. I ate. I mingled with French people. I also visited a small aquarium between two beaches, where nautiluses (living fossils) swim around.
Noumea’s a nice place. Almost everyone I met knew how to play chess and poker. Games are important when the people you meet can’t speak English.
The city was different… it smelled like Paris.
My camera isn’t used to sunlight so it saturated the hell out of my photos. Everyday looked like this:
(near the Baie des Citrons)
Some interesting people too. The first day at the hostel I had this conversation (imagine my broken French):
§
“Hi. Are you okay? What happened?” I asked.
“This morning my cell phone was stolen. It fell out of my pocket and someone picked it up and turned it off.” he said.
“That sucks. My phone was stolen in Australia too.”
§
“Hey, what’s wrong?” I asked.
“Last night I left my wallet on the table outside. Someone stole 500 dollars from me.” He frowned.
“That really sucks. I hate carrying money.”
§
I was playing chess with a baker and he walked past our table, looking like death.
“What’s wrong with him? Is he still sad about his cell phone and cash?” I asked the baker.
“No, did you know his father was in the hospital? This afternoon he passed away.”
“Shit.” I said.
§
I don’t know how to console someone in French, and quite stupidly, I felt compelled to say something.
I said, “Tu n’as pas de la chance,” which means, “You’re not lucky.”
It didn’t make him feel better and made me feel like the king of understatements.
Life’s hard, eh?
