Throwback Thursday: Life of the Party

I didn't have to buy a drink all evening.

Koreans don't typically celebrate Hallowe'en. At least, they didn't in 1998. If a Korean did celebrate this very western holiday, they did it with foreigners like me.

When DW and I celebrated Hallowe'en in 1997, with our hagwon (teaching institute) students, we made masks with the kids that we taught. We didn't extend our celebrations to our adult classes: in fact, it was my adult students who admitted that this holiday was purely western.

Because October 31, 1997, fell on a Friday, the ex-pats celebrated by dressing up when we met at our regular hangout, Urban Bar. While I wrote about this establishment for "social intercourse," as the owner called it, in Songsaengnim: A Korea Diary, I didn't write about Hallowe'en in my novel. I don't even remember if DW or I dressed up at all.

I have a photo that I shot of our ex-pat friends: one was dressed as the devil; another, an angel. One was a vampire; another, a zombie. Our good friend, Brad, dressed as Groucho Marx: he was very convincing with his big eyebrows, mustache, glasses, and cigar.

Yes, Hallowe'en 1997 was a non-event for me and DW: 1998 was very different.

Our dear friend, Tamara, who lived in Seoul, came down to visit DW and me, and was really into celebrating the hallowed evening with our friends. DW and I were living in the new apartment that my university had provided, where our floor was occupied by other teachers.

DW and my Korean friend, Kyung-hee, was back from Australia and decided to join us as well, though she decided against dressing up.

DW was dressed as a lumberjack, with a checked shirt, blue jeans, and a toque. She used an eye liner to draw stubble on her face and curly hairs on her chest. She even fashioned an axe out of paper and tin foil. Tamara was a bumble bee (I think—it was a long time ago and my friend doesn't even remember anymore).

I had lost a lot of weight while living in Korea, and could actually fit into one of DW's tiny dresses. She had bought one in Thailand: it was sleeveless and was cut well above the knees. I wasn't as curvy as she was, but I could wear it and still breathe.

Kyung-hee did my makeup. Quite heavily. A lot of foundation, bright eye shadow, deep-red lipstick. My hair was slicked back, flowery barrettes clipped in. I squeezed into a pair of tights that made my hairy legs look hairier. A bra, stuffed with rolled-up socks, gave me boobs to rival DW's, which were, tonight, flattened down to look more butch.

I looked hideous. Deliciously hideous.

I wore a necklace and carried an empty sparkling wine bottle. I didn't strain my voice to sound like a woman. In fact, I dropped my voice a little and adopted an Austrian accent, almost like Arnold Schwarzenegger. I told everyone that I was on the Austrian women's swim team.

The hardest part for us was to hail a taxi to get us down to the national university district. No one wanted to pick up a bunch of freaks. Our first stop was to our current haunt, TwoBeOne, a basement ex-pat bar with a stage for live music. Lots of ex-pats performed here, including yours truly, but tonight we were there to celebrate Hallowe'en and support our friend, Russ, who was performing with a Korean woman and another westerner.

Everyone was dressed up and there were, to our surprise, lots of Koreans in attendance.

As soon as I sat at a table with my friends, a young Korean man approached our table and started talking to me. I stuck with my role and explained I was an athlete who had just celebrated a victory at a Seoul swim meet. He asked if he could join our table, and no one objected.

He ordered a pitcher of beer and filled my glass. And refilled it. And refilled it some more. We didn't chat about anything memorable, but I do remember with clarity that he spoke to me, not as a man dressed as a woman but as a woman. It was surreal.

He invited me to join him on the dance floor, in front of the band, and I accepted. I poured some of the beer into my sparkling wine bottle, and brought it onto the dance floor.

The floor was packed, but that didn't stop one of my fellow teachers, Steve, from taking my camera, which DW had been safeguarding, diving onto the dance floor, sliding under me, and shooting straight up.

I should have worn black underwear.

After Russ' set, a few of us decided to wander the streets, in costume, in search of another venue. I thanked the man who bought my drinks and left him behind. By this time, I was feeling no pain (that would come, tomorrow). We found a bar that had big windows at street level. There seemed to be no foreigners in it but that didn't stop us.

No sooner had we found a couple of tables, next to each other, when two young Korean men came to us, wondering what was going on. One of these men invited me to join him and his friends at their table.

I looked to the table and saw that two women were at the table. I nodded to DW, who told me to have fun, and I joined my new friends.

More drinks were ordered. More talk about who I was (my Austrian counterpart). I hoped to make the Austrian Olympic team in 2000, in Sydney. Though these people knew nothing about me, they assured me that I'd make the team.

A song came over the sound system and the Koreans invited me onto the floor. Who was I to say no to my benefactors of spirits? All five of us joined the dance floor, and I noticed that DW, Tamara, Kyung-hee, and our other friends were closeby.

DW asked me if I was all right. "So long as one of the guys doesn't make a pass at me, I'm good."

When a slow song followed, one of the Korean women asked me to dance and I accepted. She was petite, even compared with me, and I had to stoop so that she could get her arms around me.

Her English was minimal, but she explained, speaking closely to my ear, that she was on a blind date and that she wasn't enjoying herself, that she didn't care for her date. She asked me if I could help her get out of it.

I said I could. I explained to her that when the slow song was over, she and I would go over to the table where DW and our gang sat. I would put her in one of the chairs. My friends would look out for her.

When the song ended, I made to stand up straight, but the woman still clung onto me, her arms firmly wrapped around my neck. I continued to stand and lifted her off her feet. I put my arms around her, so as to not support her with my neck and shoulders, and carried her to the table. I placed her in a vacant chair, told DW to keep her safe, and I rejoined the other three Koreans at their table.

Her date didn't seem to care that I had replaced the woman, and he continued to fill my glass. With him distracted, DW and my friends escorted the young woman out of the bar and safely into a taxi.

The rest of us stayed until the bar closed. Compared to the woman, I was not a cheap date. I held a lot more alcohol.

So, what do you think? Should I elaborate on this Hallowe'en tale in my sequel? It was certainly a night worth remembering.

Fitness Regime

I would never call it a "diet."

After being relatively inactive for about three months, I noticed I was out of shape. My gut, which has been with me for a few years now, seemed noticeably bigger: I've gone from looking like I'm five-months pregnant to seven. My face, which has been showing its age more and more, had chubby cheeks and jowls.

I would see photos of myself and think, you are one ugly slob, dude.

I didn't like the way my overall mass was increasing but more to the point, I hated how it made me feel, both physically and emotionally.

A couple of weeks before my doctor gave me the green light to stop using my cast, DW and I would go swimming on Sunday mornings. With my cast, it was a bit of a challenge as I would hobble into the change room and strip down to my swim suit. DW would lock up our belongings and I would use my crutches to get to the pool. Once I was in, DW would carry my crutches to the side of the pool and lean them against a wall. She would bring them back to me after I finished my laps.

The first week that I tried swimming, I only had enough energy to complete 500 metres. Not bad, considering I hadn't been in a pool in more than six months. Once back home, though, I was exhausted and needed a nap.

With subsequent swims, I was able to extend my workout to 800 metres—half a mile. Not bad but I knew I was capable of so much more.

With our upcoming trip to Mexico only five weeks away, I made a promise to myself to drop some pounds and reduce the excess flab. At that time, I weighed 78.5 kilos—the most I've ever weighed. I vowed to work to lose about four-and-a-half kilos (10 lbs) by the time I left for the Mayan Riviera and an additional 4.5 kg by the time I left for South Korea.

Last Wednesday was the official start to this fitness plan. I set a goal with my Samsung Health app and started off slowly, doing basic stretching exercises that focused on my core. I also started riding my spin bike again: just 15 to 20 minutes at first, to make sure my foot could handle it. While I can't stand and peddle, I can ride at a steady pace with a moderate amount of tension on the wheel. I've ridden twice for 40 to 45 minutes each.

I'm watching what I eat, and though I mostly eat a fairly healthy diet, I've focused on moderation—smaller portions and no unhealthy snacks between meals (say goodbye, potato chips). I've only consumed two pints of beer all week.

Last Sunday, I managed to get in a full kilometre swim. I felt great. Even in the last 25 metres, I gave a strong front crawl without feeling tired. When I entered the stats for the workout into my phone app, it remembered my past swims and told me that this had been my fastest 1,000 metres ever.

Good workout and a record time. I felt good.

But the best part of my first week of working out came when I stepped on the bathroom scale. I had lost 1.3 kilos. That's nearly three pounds. Already, looking in the mirror, I can see where some of the fat has left my face (not all of it, but there's a start).

I feel motivated to continue. I've pulled out my Total Gym, dusted it off, and added it to my regime. I'm going to try to find the time to fit a second swim into my week. As my foot feels stronger and my flexibility improves, I'm going to use the rowing machine and elliptical trainer at the gym.

I'm now fewer than four weeks from my Mexican vacation. With this fitness regime, hopefully I'll feel fit to spend hours snorkelling with the sea turtles and will have the confidence to wear my swim suit in public without feeling self-conscious about my belly.

Fingers crossed.

Being Prepared

Years ago, I told myself that I'd never buy a selfie stick. For me, they were merely for vanity—why would I ever need to hold my camera to include myself in a photo?

I have taken self portraits in the past but only on rare occasions, when I wanted to be the subject of my photography. And when I wanted such photos, I would set my D-SLR on a proper tripod.

When I would see people trying to capture a monument or popular scenery, and hold their cameras on a long pole, I would roll my eyes. You would never catch me doing that, I decreed.

Well, this weekend DW and I purchased not only one but two selfie sticks: one, for capturing the two of us as we laze about our Mayan Riviera resort during our silver-anniversary getaway; the other, to which we'll attach our underwater video camera and capture sea life as we snorkel the crystal-clear waters in search of sea turtles.

What's a Quik boq?

We settled on two sticks from Quik Pod: the Quik Pod Sport and the Explorer 3.

It wasn't an easy task. We had specific criteria. First and foremost, one selfie stick had to be not only waterproof but sea-water resistant. We learned that even though the Explorer 3 selfie stick describes itself as "fully waterproof" and it's packaging showed images of a surfer holding the stick as she lay on her board and another picture of a scuba diver around colourful salt-water fish, a YouTube video of this stick stressed the word "fresh water" several times, even though the video itself shows a diver with a shark and there's a beach that is questionably at the sea. We can take this stick into the resort's swimming pool but not with us for snorkelling in Akumal Bay.

We purchased the more-durable Sport selfie stick that touts itself as salt-waterproof. But its collapsed length is 15-and-a-half inches, which for me is a bit long.

The second criterion, for me, was that the selfie stick had to be compact. I wanted one that I could throw into my small camera bag and wouldn't get in the way. In Mexico, as well as in South Korea, I plan to create video travel logs. I'll be carrying my selfie stick with me fairly often, so I don't want something that is too long at its minimum length.

The Explorer 3 stick collapses to a mere nine inches and easily fits into a side pouch on my camera bag. Perfect.

The third criterion for our selfie stick searches was that the stick had to extend to a decent length, particularly the one that we would use for snorkelling with the sea creatures. While getting up close and personal to wildlife is frowned upon, apparently the sea life is disturbed only by human proximity. As one sea-life explorer said in a video we watched, sea creatures don't tend to be disturbed by inanimate objects, so if you can extend a camera as far away from you as possible, you can get better images without bothering the fish and turtles.

Our Sport selfie stick extends to 39 inches. With an outstretched arm, we'll be able to keep our distance and yet still (hopefully) capture some great video footage.

Both of our selfie sticks, in fact, extend to 39 inches. The Explorer 3 stick, however, feels a bit loose when fully extended, as though it doesn't have a solid hold. I did practice with it a couple of times, though, and it seemed strong enough for my cell phone, so I hope it holds up over at least the two trips. If these sticks exceed or fail to meet our expectations, I may write a full review of them when we return from our vacation.

At least DW and I are better-prepared for our trip to Mexico. I never thought I'd be one to have a selfie stick but for these occasions, I think they'll be worth it.

However, if you ever see me holding one to capture myself as I stand on the edge of a precipice, do me a favour: push me over.

Kim's Hair

I was surprised to see it. Granted, it was an image from about three-and-a-half years ago, but given the amount of change that had taken place since 1997, it was one of the last places I expected to see.

One of the things that DW and I noticed, while we lived in Chŏnju, South Korea, from 1997 to 1999, was that businesses came and went. Especially so, with the economic meltdown that had gripped Southeast Asia. This crisis led to the director of our hagwon (teaching institute) to financial ruin and forced him to close the language school without paying us for our last month of teaching.

I wrote about Korea's financial crisis in my novel, Songsaengnim: A Korea Diary.

Over the past month, I've spent my down time planning my return to Korea and revisiting Chŏnju, virtually, through Google Maps. While the area surrounding my hagwon has changed very little, as far as construction is concerned, I noticed that many of the businesses with which I was familiar were gone.

The convenience store that was next door to my office—where I used to buy snacks and candy for my students and packages of ramen for emergency dinners, for me—has been replaced by a travel agency. Indeed, even the building seems to have either been replaced or has undergone a major transformation.

I was saddened to see that, in the side street that was behind my office building, the hole-in-the-wall restaurant, where the office secretaries, DW, and I often went for lunch, was also gone. (Again, I wrote about that place in my book.)

On one of my virtual drives in Chŏnju, I followed the Google Maps street view from the apartment in Dongsan-dong to the hagwon. For the most part, it's a straightforward drive, following Girin-daero, the main street that starts in the northwest end of the city, near the Honam Expressway (now, where the 2002 World Cup stadium lies), and runs southeastward, through the heart of the city. It's a long drive that, in 1997, ran through rice fields and industrial parks before hitting central Chŏnju.

Photo courtesy Google

The fields that met Girin-daero now seem more built up. Restaurants, car dealerships, and other businesses line the straight road. I recognized the giant textile factory, BYC, that appeared unchanged over the decades.

Great underwear, by the way.

As more and more buildings emerged, I found it hard to remember where the 1997 city began. I felt I was getting closer to my hagwon but didn't know where I was in relation to Youngchin Building and everything before it.

Photo courtesy Google

Where was Dokchin Plaza? There used to be a small bus station, from where DW and I left for Mokpo and eventually to Cheju Island. The plaza also led to Dokchin Park. But, following Girin-daero, I couldn't find it.

I saw signs for Chŏnbuk National University, which eventually gave me my bearings, but buildings seemed different, as though they had been torn down and built anew.

I finally found Dokchin Plaza, further down from where I remembered it to be. My memory had failed me. But when I looked at the plaza, it didn't appear as I remembered it. Roads in and out of it had been widened. Structures were placed in its centre, including a covered parking lot. The bus station had been made to more than a simple stop, with its own lane. New buildings had been erected.

Photo courtesy Google

I didn't recognize it but I regained my bearings.

I continued down Girin-daero, which, in 1997, was also considered to be Paltal-ro (another street that technically started at the split by my hagwon and continued a different southeast path) along this part of the city, and stopped at a street that I immediately recognized: it was a narrow lane that lead northward, toward Chŏnbuk N.U., where, back in my day, the ex-pat bar, SE, was located.

Photo courtesy Google

But what particularly caught my attention was the building that was standing directly across from this lane and Paltal-ro, at the T intersection.

Kim's Hair.

Photo courtesy Google

I wrote about this salon in Songsaengnim. It's where Roland Axam went for his first hair cut in Korea.

About six weeks after arriving in Chŏnju, I was in desperate need for a hair cut. But because my fellow teachers were women who either hadn't needed cuts since arriving (she was growing out her hair) or had had a cut in Seoul, they couldn't give me any recommendations. It wasn't until I discussed my dilemma with one of my adult students from my morning class that I received help.

Mi-gyeong spoke exceptional English, compared to many of my other adult students, so much so that I wondered why she felt the need to take my class at all. While her grammar was far from perfect, she never had trouble making herself understood, nor did I have to repeat myself with her. To make our morning class more useful for her, I would introduce her to common idioms and everyday jargon so that she could expand her already vast vocabulary. 

Though I wrote differently in my novel, our relationship was always professional and never extended beyond the classroom.

On occasions when she was the only student in my class—she worked in an office just down the hall from the hagwon; often, other students wouldn't show up even though they had paid for the lesson because it was so early and they would sacrifice the class for more sleep—we would often spend the lesson time conversing about her life and mine, before Korea. On such an occasion, I explained that I needed a haircut and asked her if she could help me find a place to receive one.

That's when she introduced me to her stylist at Kim's Hair.

That day, on our lunch break, Mi-gyeong took me to the second floor of the building across from the narrow lane to Chŏnbuk Dae (U). The salon was above a clothing store, Roem, which also remains to this day (or as late as September of 2015, according to Google Maps).

Surprisingly, at that time of day, the salon was deserted apart from the staff. After our class, when Mi-gyeong had gone to work, she called her stylist and made my appointment. I had wondered why it was so easy to get a lunchtime appointment and now I knew why.

Here's the passage that I wrote of that appointment, in Songsaengnim (with a few cuts—no pun intended—to avoid any possible spoiler alerts):

Kim's Hair was a bright salon with large mirrors and a big window overlooking Paltal-ro and the narrow street that led to the old gate of Chŏnbuk University. Bee-bop music pumped through a sound system and all of the employees were dressed in black, skin-tight clothes; the men in polyester slacks and turtlenecks, the women in t-shirts and mini-skirts. They looked more like they were about to go to a nightclub than to cut hair. Their outfits were a sharp contrast to the wedding dresses on display. This was a place that was frequented by bridal parties as well as the general public. Mi-gyeong was immediately recognized by the receptionist, who then ran to the back room, presumably to call my stylist. All eyes were on me, and some of the women whispered to each other and giggled.

"Have they never seen a waeguk before?" I asked. Everyone laughed at my use of waeguk—foreigner.

"See, maybe. Cut hair, never."

A man in his mid to late twenties stepped out from the back and came towards us. He looked like he could have been clipped from a GQ magazine. He wore a bright red silk shirt with a large pointed collar, a loud, multi-coloured tie, and a black, silk suit, which he had rolled the sleeves to his elbows. His hair was slicked straight back, and he wore thick rimmed glasses that perfectly finished off the look he was trying to achieve. He was obviously the manager or owner, as everything about him stood out from the rest of his colleagues. He was openly effeminate, marked by his high voice and squeaky laugh. He walked towards Mi-gyeong but his smile was aimed at me. They talked for a bit: Mi-gyeong explained the situation and gave the hair dresser my name, without a formal introduction.

"What do you want him to do with your hair?" Mi-gyeong finally asked me. I explained the simple style to her and she translated for the hairdresser. Neither seemed sure about what I wanted so I picked up one of the fashion magazines that lay on a nearby coffee table and leafed through it. Naturally, almost all of the models in the magazine were Asian and weren't sporting the style I wanted. There were some western models, and after a while I found something similar to what I wanted. I pointed to the picture and the stylist gave me a big "Ah."

I was taken to a chair and Mi-gyeong followed. I felt like my mother had taken me to the barber and was going to supervise to make sure the barber did what she wanted. But I knew she was there in case I needed any translating. "What time do you have to be back at the office?" I asked her. The staff of five, all circled around the chair, laughed in unison. It was clear that this was their first time hearing English spoken.

"I told my boss I have appointment. No hurry."

The hairdresser did not cut my hair: he sculpted it. Every snip of the scissors was precise and dramatic, and twice he grew a little overanxious and snapped his hand back before he had fully cut through the hairs, and the scissors gripped and yanked the hair out. Often, he would stand back and reflect on what he was designing, folding his arms and supporting his chin. Five assistants stood around him, and once and awhile he would hand them his scissors, only to be replaced by a different pair. He was a surgeon of sorts and this was his operating arena. He also relied heavily on electric razors and had every kind at the ready, from larger shearers to a tiny one that looked like an electric toothbrush, which he used for my sideburns and the back of my neck.

Once the cutting was finished, I was led by a pretty, thin woman to the wash station, where she shampooed and rinsed my hair. The woman touched me so gently that at times I wasn't sure she was doing anything. She had placed a small cloth over my eyes to prevent any soap or hot water from temporarily blinding me. She was quite thorough in getting any loose hairs off me, and when she dried my hair with a towel, she even dug into my ears—something that I almost considered personal, but was surprisingly relaxed and trusting, as she was so delicate. She was shy, though, as I was the first westerner that she had ever touched. I thought that having my hair washed after the haircut was much more logical than having it washed before. After all, my hair was clean and any stylist would use a spray bottle to moisten my hair before cutting it. But washing my hair after the cut got rid of the loose hairs that would otherwise fall onto my clothes, and ultimately end up all over my pillow, tonight.

From the wash station, I was put back in the stylist's chair, where he was waiting with a hair dryer. Again, his moves were choreographed and he spun the hair dryer like he was wielding a six-shooter at a rodeo. A little dab of styling gel finished his sculpting and, after a surprising hour, I was done. By far, the longest haircut that I had ever experienced, but certainly the most entertaining one.

I used Kim's Hair during my first year in Chŏnju. At my first visit, Mi-gyeong and I learned that the salon's receptionist was the cousin of one of the hagwon secretaries. When my stylist discovered this fact, he immediately invited me out for an evening of drinks, for me to be accompanied by my receptionist as a translator. Her cousin, the receptionist, would join us, as would DW.

(After that get-together, in a Korean nightclub, we quickly discovered that the stylist and I had nothing in common, that the hagwon secretary and her cousin did most of the talking, most of it amongst themselves and on topics that were unrelated to our party. Though it was a nice evening, my hairdresser and I limited further interaction to the salon.)

For my return to Chŏnju, in May, I had already planned to return to the lane that led to the university, to find the old locations of SE, Urban, and TwoBeOne (which is a setting in my next book but hadn't opened until I was teaching at Jeonju University). But now that I know that Kim's Hair may still exist, 21 years after I was a client, I'll have to check it out.

My stylist will be in his 40s: if he's still there, will he remember me?

Photo Friday: White

I have a love-hate relationship with winter.

I love how snow looks in a photograph. I love snow on ski slopes. I hate everything else about winter.

Yet, to capture an image in the snow, you have to get out there, and this winter has been a challenge for me. Until last week, I wouldn't go outside without my left foot in a cast, and that cast did not like snow. Now, out of my cast, I find some soreness as my muscles and tendons remember how to work, and so I don't want to contend with ice.

Except for my commute home, immediately after my appointment with my surgeon. I was riding a high.

As I pulled out of the Civic Campus of the Ottawa Hospital, snow was falling and the wind was blowing. Looking out toward the Experimental Farm, I could see that the snow was falling intensely and I was inspired to make a stop to capture it.

I didn't have my D-SLR—in fact, I find I've lost the habit of carrying it with me. But the best camera is the one you have, and I had my smartphone with me. Good enough.

There are two great places to capture snowy roads on the Experimental Farm: Ash Lane, just before it meets Winding Lane, and Morningside Lane. I drove down both.

Because I shot the image with my Android phone, I used Snapseed to brighten the snow and revert the image to black and white. Sharing it on Instagram, I used one of their filters to further bring out the white.

I get chills just looking at it. Winter is best left to photographs.

Happy Friday!

Back in the Saddle

I had decided to leave the cast at home, to walk into the plaster ward of the Ottawa Civic Hospital on two feet that were covered only in winter boots.

The doctor noted the absence of the cast when he came into the examining room, minutes after the x-ray images had been captured. "Feeling confident, are we?" he asked.

I admitted that I hadn't worn my Aircast since the previous Sunday, told my surgeon that I've been trying to walk without it off and on for a couple of weeks. I added that I had started swimming again, though wasn't really using my legs to kick.

"That explains it," he said, his face as calm as a poker player's. "I have to say," he continued, "the results are... much better than I expected. Your bones are fully fused and you're ready for physio." I asked him about steroid injections for the osteoarthritis in that foot. "Why do you think you need them?"

"Because you've ordered them for me three times in the past," I said.

"Ross, a couple of years ago, when I told you that I could get rid of your pain, I meant all of it. I've removed the affected joints." He turned to the computer, which had two monitors, and called up some files. Today's x-ray images appeared on the left computer screen. He brought up the superior view, looking down to the top of my foot. He then opened a file that contained my initial images, before the surgery, and placed an image that was captured from the same vantage on the right screen. Using a pen as a pointer, he marked the region of the old image where some bones and joints occupied the space between my ankle and metatarsals.

I hadn't noticed earlier because of the eight screws and dog-biscuit-shaped metal plate, but I could now see where the navicular bone and transverse tarsal joint had been, and the now-vacant space beneath the hardware.

The screws where holding the medial cuneiform to the talus. The plate seemed to be reinforcing the lateral cuneiform. (I only made these closer observations after I left the hospital and could compare my x-rays to a diagram of parts of the foot. I feel smarter, now.)

"You should never require injections in this foot again," my surgeon told me.

I let that sink in and my eyes welled. I shook his hand, thanked him profusely. He added that I could start using my foot normally again, as flexibility would allow. The muscles on the bottom of my foot, my tendons, and my Achilles are, naturally, tight. It'll take some time to slowly stretch those out.

It's been almost a week since my good news and as I start to do more, it's becoming increasingly apparent that three months of minimal activity has taken its toll on me. A lot of muscle has changed to fat. I'm heavier than I've ever been. I breathe heavily if I climb two flights of stairs.

Though I've already started swimming again, I'm now going to kick it up a notch. I've added some exercise programs to my Samsung Health app on my smartphone. My watch is recording how many calories I burn. I plan to follow its fitness recommendations.

I'm going to watch what I eat: I've already declared a moratorium on potato chips (my kryptonite) and reduced my alcohol intake (you may have noticed that Beer O'Clock is once again on hiatus). DW, who is also on a quest to get her swimsuit body back in time for Mexico, is preparing healthier dinners. We've vowed to eat out less.

I've also climbed back onto my spin bike. The first time, on Tuesday night, I pedalled lightly, with little tension on the wheel and without standing, just to see how my left foot felt and how my tendons could handle gentle stretching. I cycled for only 15 minutes, just to warm up.

Yesterday, working from home, I followed a new workout regime on my phone, starting slowly, stretching muscles and joints that I've neglected over my recovery. When I dialled into a meeting, I fixed my laptop on the handlebars of my spin bike and rode for the entire hour.

It felt pretty good.

I'd like to lose at least 10 pounds by the time I leave for the Mayan Riviera, in less than five weeks. By the time I leave for South Korea, I'd like to be down another five to 10 pounds.

I won't be participating in the Rideau Lakes Cycle Tour this year, but by the time it comes, I'd like to feel as though I could.

At least, I'm back in the saddle again.

Not Again...

From my 1989 trip.

Another sleepless night.

It's the anticipation of what's to come, enhanced by past experiences. I've been there before: I know what to expect. I've seen this before and I'm going to see it again.

Over the weekend, DW and I began planning our upcoming trip to Mexico's Mayan Riviera. I'll be her second trip to this beautiful region of the Yucatan Peninsula in less than a year and my first time back in almost 30 years.

As she has in the past, DW has gathered with her best friends from high school for a girls' getaway. Usually, they meet somewhere between Ottawa and Mississauga, the two extreme ends of where everybody lives. Often, they meet in Toronto; other times, Kingston. To celebrate their 40th birthdays, they spent a long weekend in New York City.

And, last year, they stayed in an all-inclusive resort outside of Playa del Carmen, just 50 kilometres or so further up the coast from where DW and I are headed, near Akumal.

DW loves to thoroughly research travel plans. She wants to know exactly what the location is like, what is available to see in the surrounding areas, and what our options are. I like to know this, too, but DW really goes into detail.

Cenote photo credit: Joel Penner

Over the weekend, as I said, we began making plans for day trips outside our resort. She wants to see Tulum and Cobá (as I said in Monday's post). She also wants to explore some of the many cenote, or limestone sinkholes, which make for some stunning snorkeling and photos.

I'm also all over that.

Because Monday was a holiday in Ontario, DW spent most of the day researching the best cenotes in the vicinity of our resort. She created a table that listed the site, the pros and cons of that site, and any links to YouTube videos that showed that cenote.

When I returned from home (I work in Québec and had no day off), we watched about a half-dozen or so videos of her top picks. We also watched several videos of Cobá, and debated whether we should rent bikes or walk the jungle-covered archeological site.

Bikes: we'll definitely use bikes.

We also discussed whether we should rent a car for a couple of days to get to Cobá, to the cenotes, to Tulum, and to Akumal Bay, where the sea turtles graze.

Yes to that, too.

With all of our new plans in mind, I thought about possibilities beyond our resort. I remembered more about my past trip to Cancun.

And then we went to bed.

As with my upcoming trip to South Korea, I lay in bed and thought, instead of sleeping. I started wondering about what photo gear I should pack, what photos I would take. Should I buy an underwater camera? Should I purchase a waterproof case for my D-SLR? For my smartphone?

Overnight, I managed fewer than four hours of sleep. Yesterday, at work, I was exhausted by mid-afternoon.

I can't do this again.

Maybe the best-laid plans shouldn't be done until I'm ready to go on vacation. I still have five weeks to go until we leave for Mexico, another five weeks after that trip before I go to Korea.

Too much planning is bad for my health.

The Other Trip

With my current obsession with South Korea and my upcoming trip, I've sort of neglected the other trip that DW has booked, which is just over a month away.

I'm not sure she is pleased that I've neglected our upcoming silver anniversary.

Wait... I shouldn't say that. She told me, in a text message last week, that she hasn't been telling anyone that our anniversary, in July, marks 25 years of wedded bliss.

"I don't want to let anyone know that we're this old," she told me (even though I'm a few years older—I'm just a year and two weeks away from being a senior citizen at Shoppers Drug Mart).

"Don't want anyone to know you've foolishly stuck around with me for so long, eh?" I've said to her. In fact, on my birthday, DW and I will be celebrating 30 years together.

Earlier this year, my family and I started thinking of vacations and it turned out that we all wanted to go somewhere different: I wanted to return to South Korea; DW wanted to go to Cuba or possibly Mexico, with a few days in New York City to boot. DD17 wanted to visit Germany, with some side trips to Belgium, the Netherlands, and France. And DD15 is headed to Greece with her best friend's family.

Tulum, 1989

DW really wants to swim with sea turtles, and so she booked a vacation to the Mayan Riviera. And because it's the year of our silver anniversary, she booked a ticket for me, too. Eight days at an all-inclusive resort near Akumal, Mexico.

This will be my second trip to this area: in 1989, just months after DW and I started dating, she and a good friend from high school had planned a European vacation and had bought their tickets before we started dating. Far be it from me to argue with that.

And I couldn't join them (I wasn't even invited). I was working full-time in a camera store and couldn't afford the six weeks of vacation. So I wished her a safe journey and would see her at the end of the summer.

The very day that DW and her friend flew out of Ottawa, her best friend (who I had known before I met DW), came to the camera store and invited me to go to Cancun, Mexico with her. She and two other friends (both women) were set to going but needed a fourth person.

Truthfully, I think she invited me because she wanted to keep an eye on me.

I hesitated for about two seconds before saying "yes."

That trip had us staying at a hotel on the lagoon side of the island: Cancun Island is shaped like a number 7 and we were on the north inside, just where the bend of the number lies. We didn't stay at an all-inclusive resort but food and drink were cheap. We would cross the street, to the Caribbean side of the island, where the waters were shallow, calm, and warm.

We purchased day trips to Chichen Itza, Tulum, and Xel-Há. It was a wonderful trip.

Chichen Itza, 1989

DW and I will be in an all-inclusive resort between Akumal and Tulum. Apparently, there's a bay where sea turtles come to graze and you can snorkel with them and other sea life. We plan to visit Tulum and Cobá, two ancient Mayan sites.

Just the two of us.

This weekend, DW and I sat down and researched this tiny region on the Yucatan Peninsula. She listed off places that she found in a Lonely Planet guide book while I searched online. We made a list. She mentioned a spot and I said, after looking at the photos and reading the write-ups, "Uh-huh."

She was happy to see me excited by this trip, to agreeing to everything. I think she was pleased to get me to stop talking about Seoul and Chŏnju. To see me psyched about something we would be doing together.

Mind you, I did tell her it would be nice for her to join me in Korea, to the last place we explored before kids, before a mortgage.

"Nope," was her response.

I don't have a lot of memories of Cancun. The ladies and I did a lot of drinking. And, it was one week almost 30 years ago. But I look at some of my old photos and a smile comes across my face. Oh, yeah, I sort of remember that night.

I'll share some stories with you as they come back into focus.

For now, it's best that I stick to the memories with DW: the ones we've had in the past and the ones we will make in the future.

So It Would Seem

I'm getting ahead of myself, but that isn't news to anyone who knows me.

I'm an impatient fellow who becomes easily agitated when I'm made to wait. And with my recovery from foot surgery, I haven't been able to contain my desire to rid myself of the cast that has protected me for nearly three months.

When I had my last appointment with my surgeon, we had x-rays of my foot taken and it was deemed that the operation was a success, that the bone fusions had gone smoothly. I was told that I was able to start using my left foot, that I no longer needed crutches or my peg leg.

I did, on the other hand, still require to keep my foot in the removable Aircast that I've been wearing since the end of November.

"One week before your next appointment," I was told, "you can try walking without the cast." I was to see how my foot felt, unprotected.

I'm an impatient fellow.

A week after I was able to walk with both feet, my left foot felt strange but there was no pain. As with most surgeries of this kind, there was some trauma to the nerves in my foot but no permanent damage. No major nerves had been severed.

And, indeed, the nerves are starting to heal. I'm regaining sensation in some areas, though I sense the occasional jolt between my big toe and the incisions, as though I'm receiving an electrical shock.

One week after that visit, I tried walking across my family room. My foot was numb but there was no pain. Each day, I ventured a greater and greater distance.

Two weeks after my last visit, I attempted a shower, standing in the stall in bare feet. Because I moved gingerly, the attempt was a success. I haven't taken a bath in the tub, since.

Three weeks in—a week before my next visit—I spent the entire day without my cast. I climbed stairs. I walked around the office. I carried the recycling bin to the garage.

This week, because of the snow storm, I was confined to the house. I haven't worn my cast since Sunday, when DW and I ran some errands and I was walking around Costco and the grocery stores. My Aircast allows me to walk more quickly (rather, I'm not as cautious with the cast).

On Wednesday, after DD17 and DW cleared the snow from our driveway, I decided to up the ante: I walked down our snowy street, to our mailbox, to retrieve its contents. It was the first time since November 15 that I had worn my left boot. It was a bit snug and I couldn't tighten the laces, as I could with the right boot, but I had it on.

Careful not to slip in the driveway and on the road, I slowly walked the 100 metres or so to our mailbox. So far so good.

At the mailbox, I was met with an obstacle that nearly had me turn straight around: the snow plow, which had cleared our road earlier in the morning, had left a sizable snowbank between the road and the mailbox. Even on two good feet, I would hesitate about stepping into deep snow in my boots, which only come up over my ankles.

Should I return home, change into my Sorels, which come up almost to my knees?

No. I'm an impatient fellow.

Slowly, carefully, I took my first step onto the snowbank. With any luck, the heavy snow would be packed so densely that I could walk atop it.

No such luck. Leading with my left foot, I sank almost to my knee. About as deep as my Sorels are high.

In for a penny...

I took another step. Sank. And another. Sank. And another. Sank.

If the mailbox had yielded no letters, I would have been disappointed, would have felt foolish. But I knew that this was the first visit in almost a week. At worst, I would have had to clear our box of mounting junk mail.

To turn around, I put one hand on the mailbox, to balance myself, lifted my left foot, and pivoted myself on my sturdy leg. I then planted my left foot in one of the holes I created and retraced my steps out of the snowbank.

There was no pain, no discomfort. I walked the 100 metres back to my house without any trouble.

Today (February 15) marks exactly three months since my surgery. Thirteen weeks and one day. At the time of writing this blog, I don't know the outcome of the x-ray that is to be captured, of the recommendation of my surgeon. But for the last three weeks, I've listened to my body, moved according to the signals it's given me.

It would seem that my foot is fit to return to normal usage, that I'm ready to begin physiotherapy. To that end, while I will bring my Aircast with me when I return to the Civic Hospital, I won't wear it to the appointment. It will remain in my car, just in case I've done something incredibly stupid and the doctor insists I return to wearing it.

But I'm optimistic. I'm certain that this time, being impatient has paid off.