Austrian BBQ

This Memorial Day, I had the pleasure of crossing three 'firsts' off my list of 'firsts', some of which I never knew I had and would be so proud to accomplish.

It all started (and ended) in Prospect Park, which is the first 'first' on my list. Someone told me Prospect Park is almost twice the size of Central Park, and better because it was designed by the same person later on. I haven't looked up either of these suspicious party facts, but I do know that there was an important Civil War battle in Brooklyn, which makes it an appropriate place for a Memorial Day BBQ (don't you love the acronym BBQ. It's addictive. Try saying BBQ as "bee-bee-cue," instead of "barbeque" and you wont be able to stop).

As you can see, there was a lot of meat. Cured duck meat, ropes of sausages meat, skewered chunks of various meat, and a seriously fascinating salad made out of shredded bologne that I nearly convinced meat-phobic Emily was
buckwheat noodles.



Austrians love meat. They love meat so much that they force their guests to rapidly consume large quantities of watermelon in a "contest" that only they, the Austrians, get to judge, thereby protecting the meat from hunrgy non-Austrians and ensuring propriety on 2nd helpings.




Here's proof in the "winner," who was not even able to look at another weiner, let alone a 2nd bratwurst with spaetzle. The poor non-Austrians were duped again.











Witnessing, dare I say participating, in these furtive Austrian meat-worshipping festivities was another 'first' for me. I can't say it will be a last though, because I began working at these Austrians' restaurant a week ago. Two days a week, I stand in the doorway of ________, greeting displaced Austrians who file in with the glimmer of schnitzel in their eyes. If I don't get paid in meat, I will be pretty shocked.


The other Memorial Day 'first' is unrelated to Austrians, but notable nonetheless. I've crashed weddings and parties, but never a picnic. While wandering around, looking for the Austrian BBQ in a park twice the size of Central Park, Emily and I discovered a picnic that looked like a plausible group. We believed we had found our party for about 4 seconds, but in that short amount of time the beer had sent us its siren call and we couldn't back out. After cracking a couple jokes at the keg and filling up our cups we were asked to leave. We absconded 2 beers in less than 3 minutes, which is more of a recording begging to be broken than a 'first', but I had to brag.

Heather and Katy eating chips after the meat suddenly "ran out."











Non-Austrian being forced to search for any stray meat.















The fascinating shredded bologne salad.











The watermelon forcing ritual.












Unrelated unicycler sighting.

Consanguinity

This morning I took a D train deep into Brooklyn for my first Pediatric clinical. As I walked down the street toward the hospital in my purple polyester scrubs, holding my coffee mug and drug book, I noticed an abundance of overdressed Hasidic children and broken appliances on the sidewalks. It was about as dreary a neighborhood as I could imagine. Fences broken, strollers tipped over in small uncut patches of grass, garbage collecting itself in drains.

When I arrived to the unit, my instructor informed us that Brooklyn is a great place to work because of the challenge: "One in ten immigrants to the U.S. comes through Brooklyn." Great. Pop on by, bring your tuberculosis to our hospitals for a visit, and don't forget to leave your broken stollers in your lawn before you make your way to Iowa. Of course that's not how I really feel about immigration. I'm actually baffled that everyone thinks the Senate is Mr. Nice Guy for the policy it approved yesterday. The Senate may be providing more ways for illegal immigrants who have already hopped the border to become legal, but they are making it much harder to get into the U.S. than the House ever dreamed of. For example, the House's Bill called for a new 2-layer fence at land borders; the Senate Bill makes it 3-layered...is anyone else reminded of taco bell? We took a tour of the pediatric floor. Half of it was under construction, complete with plastic draped over some doorways and drilling in the background, and so all the patients and treatment facilities were condensed into a claustrophobic mess.

Then I met my poor patient. She couldn't walk, talk, eat, or even sit up on her own- now or ever before in her life- and she was three years old. I picked her up out of her crib and she felt like she weighed less than my purse. I tried to assess her VP shunt (a tube running inside from her brain to her abdomen to treat hydrocephaly) but she cried and batted my hand away until my will power was completely obliterated. I got her chart and found the reason for her severe disabilities in a horrifyingly simple family tree drawn by her doctor: her parents were first cousins. Consanguinity, he wrote underneath. I returned to her room and tried to take her vital signs. Her attentive and affectionate mother hovered over me as I did my best to assess the daughter she had marred so badly. In her limited English, she explained the little girl's floppy wrists and sluggish pupils with the word she had learned: "handicapped."

And that's how I felt. Handicapped. This is not the kind of challenge that sets a person free.

Bourgeois Camping

I am back from my dream vacation: one week with David and the Mediterranean. It started in Barcelona– my 6th and far from final visit– and culminated in "sailing" on the French Riviera. I put it in quotes because the sailing part of it, although clearly the highlight of the weekend on a sailboat, was not the major activity. Most of the time we were anchored in the harbor, lounging on deck or in the 3 bedroom cabin listening to Andrew's Coumari music selections, consuming delicious but unnecessary food groups: chamagne, thinly sliced cured meat, tiny cups of espresso, mussels, pain au chocolate, triple cream cheeses that stink up the cabin, Seiz beer, dark chocolate biscuits, and Pastis.


To complete the bourgeois camping experience, we wore bathing suits in the day and sat by the glow of Andrew's computer by night.

Last Night on 26th Street

The wretched life on 26th Street is over. Here's how we spent our last night living at the grimey little place we no longer have to call home.



We went out.



To celebrate Claire's Birthday. Happy Birthday Claire!



And sing karaoke. Claire and Cara harmonized.



Emily and I didn't. That's about how the night went- our last night returning home to 26th Street.

I just returned from 3 days with Kirsten in Puerto Rico. Puerto Rico is like the illegitimate older brother of Hawaii. Sure, Uncle Sam hands them both allowances, but Puerto Rico spends it's $2 on candy bars and throws the wrappers on the beach. Hawaii invests it's substantially larger allowance in tourist traps and glossy photographs of itself. I guess I must have a thing for the self-indulgent older brother, because I'd take Puerto Rico, in all its illegitimacy and intemperance, any day over Hawaii.

"Steps Beach" at Rincón, P.R.


"Playa Buye" at Cabo Rojo, P.R.

Go Time

When one of the first hot days of the year converges with the end of a semester, there is perhaps too much to celebrate.

1:30 p.m.

Four very enthusiastic half-nurses + one amused sister are already on their way to the bottom of 2 pitchers of sangria.


Sometimes marking the end of a long haul, like this semester was, takes a little bit of zeal to compensate for the anticipation.

Which is why I was able to raise a glass that many times and still make it to bed by midnight- happy, exhausted, and drunk.

And now that it's all behind us, I can barely remember why we complained so much.

Half-nurse

Today's the day of our inauguration into half-nursedom. Half-nurses know important terms such as:

**scrotal tongue: usually non-pathological, but nonetheless good to have in a working vocabulary. For example: "give him 240 cc's PO. No, make it 245 cc's to account for the absorbant fissures in his scrotal tongue." Or, how about: "He's developing scrotal tongue he's so parched." Or maybe: "bring Daddy a cold one to wet his scrotal tongue." Yes, this is a real term, and Emily's not going to let you forget it.

**black hairy tongue: black fungus of the tonuge, exacerbated by smoking and chewing tobacco. even nurses think this is gross. come on, we're not that out of touch.



**toxic megacolon: self-defined term, making it absolutely impossible not to burst out laughing in class when it's mentioned. if it shows up on our test today, i expect to have even less control over an outburst. toxic megacolon! oh, that's rich. and fatal. don't forget fatal.


Okay, 2 hours to go...