And Remember Kids

I have not officially begun my residency career, but I would like to lodge my first official complaint. With today's newer, softer physician training programs work hours have been slashed, antisocial personalities heavily medicated, and positive things said all around, but with such unbridled kindness and cheer has, as is so often the case, come also a little bit of insanity. Specifically, all the heartfelt behooving to "live a balanced, satisfying life" is ridiculous. I do not have any children, significant others, financial responsibilities, social commitments, or even a pet of any significant size, but even still I can confidently say that I certainly do not have much free time with my 80 hour work week to lead a life in harmony with my family, friends, and nature. The rest of the world seems to have enough trouble getting by on a 40 - 50 hour work week, and, given, though the average American may be in need of a few hour handicap to deal with some of the problems he gets himself in if the average American cannot live such a life with a 30 to 40 hour advantage are we to assume he is just lazy? I do not wish to create the impression that I think residency should be regulated to a 40 hour work week, and indeed in many ways sacrifice can at times in some ways make life stronger, but let's not play this silly mind game that living the good life as a resident is simply a decision that we make. We can make the best of what we got, but let's not pretend that what we got is anything fantastic. Residency is meant to be tough and our family, friends, spouses, and pets will feel neglected because they will be neglected. All the double think and smiling faces in the world ain't going to change that. So the next lecturer who tells me to take a quick nap after 30 hours of continuous work on call so that I don't somnolently drive my car off a bridge embankment and then in the same sentence tells me to take time out for the small things in life is getting a alphanumeric pager to the back of the head. You know, the big kind. With AA batteries. Grrr.

The Disorientation Process

Twenty-one days into the USAF residents and fellows orientation process and still I am not entirely sure what is going on. We have been given a scavenger list of various quests to complete, all usually involving taking a form to at least three different offices only to be rewarded with another form, and have been vaguely made aware of the existence of a second, secret list which must also be completed less we offend the Major General Travis in his omnipresence. When not wandering about the base we are either treated to a series of uncoordinated, often redundant lectures in the WHMC Auditorium, a comfy if not soporific locale, or are sent to undergo a seemingly never ending list of computer training and online courses concerning everything from the dreaded HIPAA to the international human trafficking problem to the proper use of tobacco in treating wounds and disease when trapped in occupied territory. The knee bent scattered running about is further worsened by the general lack of clear headship in the orientation process and the frequent ignorance of those who seem like they should know. It is not uncommon -- and in fact is the norm -- to receive multiple different answers to the same question depending on who you ask. This is not to complain about the individual efforts of those immediately involved, they've certainly tried to be helpful, but rather the seemingly complete lack of planning and foresight in the construction of the orientation process by whoever it was that was in charge of it. Alas, it seems planning and foresight are not common traits at certain levels of the armed forces so I suppose the orientation of one hundred plus physicians in the largest medical training program of the Department of Defense should be no different. Thankfully waiting weeks for moving boxes because they have been put in storage, waiting three plus hours for a simple CAC card, and driving thirty minutes each way to attend mandatory picnics are all made at least a little bit more tolerable by the fact that we're at least getting paid for the tomfoolery. Paid too much of course -- and that money will be paid back lest you be prosecuted as an enemy combatant under the ICMJ -- but paid nevertheless.

Orientation has had its good points. My fellow internal medicine interns seem to be good chaps all. Weekends have been completely free. Most people have been graciously kind with our collective ignorance. Other things I undoubtebly simply cannot remember right now, like, I don't know, cheap Time Warner cable at the BX are nice too I guess. It's just that, three weeks later, the only thing I am confident about is that I have not done everything that has not been asked of me. The prolonged time for orientation was supposed to give us ample time to take care of life's problems so we could be ready to focus on internship. Well, they've done that, but instead handed us a list of military-based headaches in exchange.

Speaking of internship. I am about to do this thing in a little over a day from now. There is some anxiety, a little bit of fear, and a whole lot of, "let's get this the hell over with already." Orientation was the finishing exclamation mark to a whole year of silly things which generally speaking had nothing to do with medicine. It was delightful, but I am now ready to do the real thing. As long as someone holds my hand of course. And it is knowledge that there will be that someone, indeed a whole chain of someones, that gives me confidence that though I will surely mess up a hundred times over there will be people to protect my patients from me. I am not happy that my life will be essentially nothing but medicine for the foreseeable long term, but, really, my life was not terribly exciting to begin with. At least now I will be smartening myself and saving lives in the process, at least on average. So overall things are changing and change is scary but not when the change involves things I mostly don't care much about so, in conclusion: orientation with the air force is wacky; life goes on.

Done and Done

In mid March I began what at the time was to be a one month project to design and build a coffee table. I would draw up my own blue prints, purchase my own supplies, mooch my own equipment off friends, and construct it all myself. Initial reactions were fairly similar centering around the question, "why?", but these eventually gave way to a mild curiosity as to what the end product would look like. Well, here we are.

Some may wonder why I am posting these pictures in mid-June when the project was to be completed in mid-April. It turns out building a coffee table is hard. Not that I did not appreciate this before hand, I actually figured there was a 50% chance the project would not end with a usable product and a 10% chance the project would not end with my full set of fingers, but it turns out I can plan out home furniture construction about as well as we seem to plan out our wars which is to say I was expecting a quick, easy show of force to result in my being hailed a hero but instead found myself in a prolonged, boring build that would eventually result in my exclaiming, "Screw this! I'm out of here," and leaving behind a half-completed, mangled piece of wood. Truth is things did not even start well as, my fifth grade math skills failing me, I purchased about 1.5x more wood than I would ever need.

Step 1: Cutting. Though all my legs were cut close to the same size it would later turn out that pretty close does not quite cut it in the world of coffee table assembly. More acutely, however, the cutting of a number of small pieces that I had envisioned would go along the perimeter of the table became instead me launching small 3/4 inch cubes from the table saw into Adam and Kate's Honda Element parked nearby. All the wood was eventually cut, and the extra wood stowed away, but the next step of using Kate's rusty old jig saw to remove small squares from the corner of the main piece of wood that would make up the table top ran into its own difficulties. I finished with remarkably no blood loss, but despite my best efforts the squares were not terribly geometrically sound. Nevertheless, I pressed on.

Step 2: Sanding. Sanding took place mostly without incident as sanding is a fairly simple and straightforward procedure. I would have delegated the work to a pack of monkeys or at the very least some local children who did not yet appreciate the true value of a dollar had I had some, but instead I just spent many, many hours sanding. I then also spent the following few days with a chronic dry cough as it also took me many, many hours to realize that as I was inhaling aerosolized saw dust I needed to put on an improvised face mask. Maybe some day I'll make an interesting case study for some sprightly young medical student.

Step 3: Staining. It was here that the project began to deviate from plan. Instead of applying and then fairly quickly removing the stain in the proper manner, I applied and then rather slowly removed the stain so that I essentially painted my table with it. While this was not a huge problem for the lower portion of the table top as it was a dark brown-black color, it was a major issue for the entire rest of the table which was supposed to be a lightly stained, golden-pine color but instead came out a heavily stained, golden-orange color. Admittedly much of this error came from an added laziness as instead of brushing the stain onto each little piece individually and removing it I simply smeared the pieces with a stain covered raggedy t-shirt. Looking back I am not sure where that idea originated in my head, but I would not recommend it.

Step 4: Assembly. Finally, after a long break for a trip to Greece, some graduating, and my exodus to the Visiting Officers' Quarters at Lackland, I moved on to the final step: assembly. It is in assembly where all the minor imperfections from previous efforts summed upon one another as piece did not quite flush up to piece which then definitely did not quite flush up to piece. It is also coincidently in assembly where my plans had to be radically changed. Originally I had planned to construct the table using solely wood glue as the thin, narrow design of many of the pieces I felt precluded the use of nails. Seeing as things did not fit very well together, however, I had no choice but to resort to the sturdier nails. Thankfully Paul let me know about finishing nails and how to sink them so I had a strong plan B. Unfortunately, plan B was a mother to implement. As I could not press the legs and individual pieces against the ground or some other stable structure, the solid backing that I had to resort to was in most cases my leg. Specifically my knees which I wrapped at first with improvised knee pads from oven mitts and torn rags and later with Rachel's volleyball knee pads. The job got done but not without a small amount of bruising and a fair amount of uncontrolled kicking whenever the force of the hammer strike got transmitted through the wood and into my patellar tendon.

Step 5: Quiting. After all the pieces were put and all the nails nailed I had to cover up the cracks and crevices with some wood putty, do a little more sanding, and I was done. Or at least done enough. I technically need to give it a few more finishing touches, but for now I do not care. Excitement turns into indifference with time it seems. And that's how the world gets orange coffee tables.

Greeeece

Just in case general consensus was that I had no yet discussed Greece enough, I'm on it.

So as we left off we were on an island. Well we left that island and immediately went to another island, this one by the name of Santorini -- which, for some reason, always makes the Sublime song "Santeria" come up in my head. Literally. Every time. I think it's pathologic.

Anyway to Santorini.

Santorini: A ring of volcanic islands in the Mediterranean complete with small, white villas perched atop treacherous cliffs and a central, steaming volcano composed of nothing but igneous rock and tropical umbrellas. Here we met up with a variety of other UTHSCSA travelers, and successfully crashed Adam and Jen's honeymoon (which I would do again later on by myself). We did more of the standard tourist things including boarding an "old-fashioned" boat to take to us to the volcano, a couple of visits to other islands, towns, and beaches, dancing at the local discos, and a swim in a natural hot springs which, despite their name, had no ability to actually warm anything. The views were continuously amazing, and especially so at night where the patchy strands of city lights separated by hundreds of feet of black cliffs from the dimly reflecting ocean surface below made it seem as if you were walking amongst a city in the sky.

The beauty of the island aside, curiously enough the singularly most memorable event was a conversation I had with a slightly older Greek woman I encountered when we were attempting to find our friends in another group that had come out later (Neeti, Shailee, Ruchie, Neha, Sandra, Annie, Anne). After thoroughly searching the entire grounds of the hotel listed on the their itinerary I heard a clanging noise coming from the locked up main office building. I knocked on the door and said, "hello!" A few seconds later, the door unlocks, and out pops a woman fresh from the shower and in a towel to inform me that she would be out to talk with me in a few minutes. Thinking she could perhaps tell us where our friends had run off to or if they had even arrived yet I agree to the rendezvous and waited outside. She returned and our conversation went something like this:

Me: Hello, have some American girls arrived?
Woman: American girls?
Me: Yes, some American girls arrived today?
Woman: You want a room today?
Me: No. I am looking for some friends. Like six Indian girls, an Asian girl, and some white ones.
Woman: Your friends need a room? How long?
Me: They're staying here for a few days. Did they arrive today? About eight American girls.
Woman: We don't have room today, but we do tomorrow. Would you like to stay tomorrow?
Me: Did some girls arrive today? From the airport? About ten of 'em?
Woman: You want a room?
Me: No.
Woman: You and your friends need a room we can give you room.
Me: Yes, we'll think about it. Thank you. Goodbye.

The actual conversation was about three times as long, but with a couple more, "do you want a room?" thrown in.

Crete: After Santorini I joined the long lost group (the Indian girls + Sandra, + Ann(i)e), and we took a fast boat over to Crete where we missed a bus, got on another bus, got in a taxi, and then finally arrived at our hotel in Chania somewhere around midnight. The hotel clerks, very friendly people, graciously waited up for us and then kindly served us an early breakfast treat of raki which, like ouzo, is a Greek hard liquor. Unlike ouzo, however, it tastes only like alcohol. Finger nail polish remover actually, but the Greeks never tired in giving it to us for free. In Crete we went to a gorge. The largest gorge in Europe allegedly, but after seeing it I feel the title of simply "gorge" is appropriate enough. We left Crete via night ferry, shared in some drama, and arrived into Athens our final destination the next morning.

Athens: we saw the Acropolis. Despite droves of people and large quantity of scaffolding it was a pretty amazing place. I was not aware of the number of structures which make up the hill top complex, and all along the way are a variety of other ancient Greek structures that wrap around the mound upon which the Parthenon itself is perched. I can only imagine how spectacular the experience must be alone and without all the signs of current reconstruction efforts. Aside from Meteora, Athens and Santorini made the trip. We spent a few days in Athens total, but the rest of our activities were fairly unexceptional and I've grown tired of listing them. One final advisory, though, the Acropolis, due to the high volume of traffic its stone walkways receive, is quite a slippery place. The race between Anne and I for the most falls was a close one, but, style points aside, I think I won.

As a minor finale, the best food in Greece: Mousaka. I keep calling it the "Greek lasagna" and some day someone will agree with me.

As a grand finale, I offer you Paul's pictures. Thanks to heavy investments in technology it can be said that his photos are, for the most part, entirely better than mine. Enjoy.

Greeece

Aside from not riding mopeds, I did other things in Greece as well. Specifically, I went places. And these are some of those places:

Houston - Not only did I make the mistake of deciding to take public transportation to the airport, I made the mistake of doing it in Houston. The price for this error was about three hours of commuting, abrasions on my feet where my new sandals were not in agreement with my anatomy, and my arrival into the check-in area just as the KLM personnel were pulling up the ropes. That and the standard layer of sweat and grime that seems to perpetually cling to the humid air in Houston. Ro was gracious enough to let me stay at her place so that I could attempt this foolish endeavor, and I am grateful for her kindness. Especially when she kindly let me steal her Obi Wan Ginobli shirt which, it turns out, has no actual power to make the Spurs play better.

Amsterdam - I was here long enough only to hear my name paged overhead as my flight threatened to leave without me. Thank you Dutch customs.

Thessaloníki - The regional capital of Macedonia and the graffiti capital of the world. Here we all collectively, save Megan I guess, learned that Greeks, though generally friendly people, are terrible at giving directions. I am pretty sure Paul, Rachel, and Liz would have had to camp out in Liz's giant green suitcase had we not found them. Once settled we saw some sites, played some Uno, and, later, caught a train. Despite the locals' recommendation of Applebee's for a good restaurant, we had our first Greek dinner at a popular tourist trap after being advised by what may have been a prostitute.

Meteora - We arrived at night, wandered a bit, and then conveniently found the only French place in town where, despite the limited English spoken by the owner and the limited French spoken by us, we stayed for a night and were comforted by the French iconography and pictures of Charles de Gaulle. That was actually in a small town called Kalambaka. Meteora itself, a collection of towering stone spires and medieval Greek Orthodox monasteries, has no hotels and is an amazing and unique little enclave nestled in the middle-of-nowhere Greece. We taxied up and visited a few, but the real adventure began when we took one of the mapped out "hiking trails." In reality, however, these were less "hiking trails" and more "suggested places for a good hiking trail." The path started out accessible and clearly demarcated enough, but it quickly gave way to a difficult to penetrate collection of holly, silkworms, and loose rock. Never ones to back down we continued on towards our goal, a fourth monastery, only to completely bypass it and have Liz somehow lose her glasses along the way. A dapper looking Greek monk or goat now undoubtedly has a nice pair of light green lady shades. We departed the next day via bus as the trains were not working thanks to some May Day strikes. Where's some Pinkertons when you need 'em?

Athens Part 1 - Not much to say. We had some gyros, Megan had a crepe, Liz replaced her glasses -- I am pretty sure Liz and I saw an 80 year old transvestite -- and we went on the ferry. After I ran to four or five different ferry ticket queues stupidly looking for our tickets at the wrong place that is, but I've said too much.

Paros - Our first island. Lots of little towns spread out over a fairly large, relative to the rest of the Cyclades, island. Here I learned to drive like a Greek though I cannot say I quite ever learned to park like one. Here we also learned that we had arrived far too early in the season to actually enjoy anything in Greece. Megan couldn't find her kayaks, Liz's butterfly reserve was closed, and the mine/cave on Antiparos was inaccessible. Thankfully there was ouzo; unfortunately it tasted only partly like licorice and mostly like alcohol. As a result of the limited options we spent a lot of time at the grocery store, examining the cheeses. Actually that was the girls' thing; I couldn't decide on how much coke to buy. (Friendly coke, not coke coke.) It was also here that we learned that for Megan the louder you shake the plastic Yahtzee cup the better. I did not miss never playing that game again. We eventually left Paros again by ferry but this time without the ticket issues.

That's the first half of the trip in brief. Or, alternatively, "What I did in a Foreign Country for Nine Days in Two Hundred Words or Less."