How to Skip Ahead

Getting past my schedule for the next 6 years of med school life is pretty hard to do. But, this weekend, I’ve managed to beat the lines, get the DL, and seize the day. I hope you take time to:

1. Get your patients early.

There are physicians that fly through their same-day surgeries. Once I have people to the holding room in an appropriately early fashion, I can kick back. It’s a trend that’s worth keeping for my second year studies. Get things done before they’re due!

2. Read book 3 before you’ve started book 2.

At work, Hunger Games was the big topic. And so I asked why the second book had this disjointed approach. How was there some explosion left unexplained? What was so bad that they going after President Snow?

That’s when the awsomest, sweetest holding room nurse ever interjected, “Stop reading!” I had nearly finished the third part of the series!!! All by piecing together much of the second book’s plot… which I hadn’t read. But hey, if you’re a smart cookie, sometimes reading ahead will help understand what you missed.

3. Eat ice cream for lunch.

While in ATL visiting the long distance BF, I came across an ad for this ice cream fun day in a park along with family-oriented physical activities. Three of my favorite things–running around, SigO, frozen deliciousness. In one place.



Dearest medical school friends, last year, I would take mini-vacations and skip class to visit people in Detroit or Boston or wherever. (Online lecture studying occurred for sure.) But have a wonderful break before med schools say you should.

P.S. unless you’re enrolled in a compressed medical school program, there’s no true skipping ahead. And, like one wise OB/GYN told me, you wouldn’t want to. Our conversation began as his last case finished:

Doc: what year are you in school?

Me: just finished my first year… unfortunately.

Doc: You mean fortunately!?! The further you go along the more responsibilities you have. 

Me: [frowny face]

Doc: Your excuse this past case and for a long time will be “I’m a second year.”

Me: [Mind blown because I had forgotten where the cervix was and everything else down there during the surgery] So true. 

That’s why I am pumped to be going into and staying in my second year for as long as the system has me scheduled.


A Hear-ty Welcome Back

That’s hear as in your ear kind of hear.

And if you’re reading out loud, which I quite enjoy doing, despite dirty glances and an occasional chiding “keep it to yourself” spat my way, you would especially enjoy taking these out for a spin: otoscope, eustachian tube, transilluminate.

Upon returning from spring break, us first year medical students just wrapped up the head and neck portion of the physical exam. In my starchy white coat, I attempted to decipher words fuzzily familiar to those from anatomy class. My eyes on the patient, my chin nodding in agreement, my brain all aflurry–how is it that I can’t recall what I literally learned a month ago!? An hour of that and I walked out of the examination room hearing a distinct and distant invitation to [word]press on.

And if you’re returning after having ready my lil posts from France, I extend a hear-ty welcome back! to you as well as myself. It has been an awfully long year and some extra months since I last blogged away my adventures. Why not? you may ask, dear reader, and I would reply, without any more French words which are sadly more distant than those pesky anatomy terms, that I have been many a place without much time for recording. But for my sanity and your amusement, I am back.

Let us look back together. How many milestones can we blaze through in a single paragraph? Remember goodbyes in France? Some plane brought me back to undergrad for a final spring semester. My last season of track. 4×4 conference champs. I interviewed to be a doctor. A school sent me some love. I re-met a guy then fell in love. First kiss. An organic farm took me in. A second farm nearer to home won in the end. I left for medical school. Glorious rental home experience. I went whale watching over fall break. 4 Christmases. New Year’s wedding bash! Cheered my spring-breaking, ecstatic heart out at an NBA game…

So no complaints in this first year with many firsts. At least nothing comes to me quite yet, but I’ll keep trying to figure out medschool and maybe share a few laughs, tears, and some sassiness along the way!


Wind a-blowing, fingers about to fall off, I took this picture forreals!

Creeping at Christmastime

I took up for the upteenth time that pastime to which none of us would admit yet of which all are guilty: people watching. This month is dedicated to consumers who ironically purchase gifts which celebrate the birth of him that had no where to lay his head. But for once, I won’t preach on the meaning of Christmas, I’ll merely let my observations speak for the French traditions discovered by firsthand creeping and/or experience. In the spirit of the advent calendar (sans bonbons which, forcement, cannot be transmitted through cyberspace),  the cutenesses witnessed this winter season:

25 days before Christmas (B.C.)– The city hangs these bulky plastic bulbs within cages of lights strung beside rectangular plaques of lights in this hideous pink color. From one side of the street to the other, this arrangment repeats down the length of the busiest, commercial street which, as would be my luck, is en route to the Institute.

24 days B.C. — Unlike the other months out the year, December makes the French relax on their no-work-on-Sunday policy. Result: supermarkets and stores open for a narrow bit of time.

23 days B.C. — Permanently installed in the middle of the main street, Le Marché de Noël has every true and Chinese-fabricated French product that could trap any tourist. I caved and found some homemade goodies. And one vendor had vin chaud which I have been told is quite good… and is considered the equivalent to hot apple cider back at home. 

20 days B.C. — Christmas music only plays in the commerical districts of the city, not on the radio. I try to pretend it is Christmas by playing Glee remakes on Youtube. I end unconvinced.

17 days B.C. — Went to a nifty trumpet plus chorus concert at a local chapelle. It sounded like Bach had come back to life while I had died and gone to heaven.

15 days B.C. — Our adorable crèche (nativity scene) goes up with hand-painted santons from the South of France. My French brother and I wondered how the lady with a fruitstand, the cobbler, others in their 19th century duds traveled that far to see Jesus. Time and space. Time and space.

7 days B.C. — Real tree goes up with all the pretties. The streets of the city are packkkkedd to see the Christmas parade with bands. Alongside the street performers, venders peddle up and down the big street with balloons or other trinkets. I cannot breathe in the mall with so. many. shoppers.

6 days B.C. — My little Baptist church had their Christmas feast comprised of mostly North African dishes and loads of French dessert. Gâteaux au chocolat, anyone?!

***Well our calendar line breaks down because we celebrated Christmas this weekend. But I shall continue as if Christmas had happened on the intended day of it happening and hope that you happen to get a picture of French Christmas happenings.

1 day B.C. — This night you go to a mass late into the night by which you return near or after midnight to open all the presents. There is a very light meal involved with chocolat chaud and not too much else. To express a fraction of my appreciation, my little handmade crocheted this or sewed that were given away.

Christmas — Baby Jesus makes it to the crèche scene having been hidden all this time behind the barn. All rooms occupied at the inn. A big lunch with possibly foie gras and definately a bouche de noël (cake with lots of chestnut flavoring options) is served. To conclude the fête, we nestle up beside the fireplace sipping away at tea and café while playing with our new toys and all the while feeling like, even if but for a moment, time seems to have stopped.

Ma belle famille françcaise!

Nightlife Junkie

I have not been to bed before midnight in a good couple weeks. Scout’s honor. Ask anyone that knows me and they won’t have words for the abandonment of my militant sleep/running/class schedules. Though homework and repeat 200’s are still getting done, the French verb sortir has appeared more frequently in my dinner conversations. And, because “cultural immersion” is this semester’s tagline, I wondered exactly how does one go out in Tours, France?

Taking it from the top, the week before this past week began the process of sleep deprivation habituation. My night-owl behavior was a combination of weightlessness in a foreign country and a new friendship. On the nights that I wasn’t staying up aimlessly reading in my bed trying not to feel jittery, a Bible study was struck up between a Japanese friend and myself. Here, you might be thinking how lame! And I would say, you find an appartment half way across a French city in the shadowy fog to play the synonym game in English and French across cultural boundaries concerning Biblical implications for modern day issues over dinner. Why not throw in some French mouth? (FM, cousin to cotton mouth, occurs when successive attempts to speak French are hopelessly intelligible; whereby the poor fool is left to stutter until he regains sanity.)

If my brains were already there to begin with, my past couple weeks would have still been challenging. Not sleeping does wonders for my French vocabulary retention. It has also rained incessantly adding to the perpetual gray over le Pays de la Loire. Then my bank account read 19.31, in dollars unfortunately, right after the last of my food stipend disappeared. In the face of an upcoming oral production test and biology capstone thesis, I thought to invite a friend over to make a dinner for my French siblings. Somewhere between our vegetable flans and pear crumble, we hit it off… as well as every night thereafter. It only required a single hand, at most four fingers, to indicate the hour at which we returned home. No matter where life took us, gorgeous châteaux or en ville, the company is what made it worthwhile.

Here, again, you might be thinking how lame! And I might reply, you try taking God at his word and follow his will by submitting your every thought, action, conversation. What if he brings you away from the monopoly boards of Tayor University? What if he calls you to make friends in a formality-paralyzed, appearance-obsessed culture that loosens up over late night coffee? And so this past week, my French brothers being  home, my linguistic skills grew from informal lessons meeting this or that friend. Perfecting my accent, there was nothing like explaining the ridiculousness of prom to a French motorhead or debating loneliness with a Russian philosophy major at 3 A.M. I found that whatever they taught me in Sunday school is worthless if I can’t explain it and I can’t explain it if I haven’t internalized it. You learn better by doing. Hands down.

It would be just before I leave that I finally get it! You can choose to be a hermit or live on the edge by placing confidence in a God, who, if you let him lead, invite him into every thought and situation, and lean on him, can turn every moment into something that brings him glory. I will say that his Bible is a lifeline, pertinent to any and everything, more evident this semester than ever in my life. I will also add that this has been one of my best weeks ever. For whether in ‘lil Marion, Ohio, or talking politics in a French café, there’s something to this laissez-faire contentment and trust. There might even be something to sharing a little light in the cover of night.

P.S. Your thoughts are more than welcome. And I’ll add some cutesy pictures tomorrow.

TG Sans Turkey

Is that even possible? is the question I posed on the eve of a day slotted for merriment and gluttony. The morning of, 0715 brought me to wake then open my shutters like a good French girl. Traces of the words “H.TG.” were forbidden from my mouth lest all the associated memories spill over and wash what little sanity I had. Under the rare and sunny sky, this day would be and had to be fantastic, an answer to mine and mom’s and everyone else’s prayers for joy that overflowith like gravy over turkey. 

My apple tart rested between my little gloved hands during my 15 minute walk past the glass music hall, the train station, and post office. In passing, many stares were garnered and a man even condescended to say “bonjour” and see if I were sharing un gâteau that morning. The excitement over understanding a stranger for the first time without requiring a second listen nearly convinced me. But my name was already put to the desert column for the class luncheon. How could I forget all my new friends, three whose birthdays required une fête!? 

A snippet of us that attended the class partay.

 Around noon, everyone sat at down to a thick clump of desks and paper-plated Spanish and Texan appetizers. Our Vietnamien nun had outdown herself with shrimp pasta to compliment the Chinese and Tiawanese chicken dishes. Finshing the meal with cafés, we laughed over different food cultures. The shrimp, thankfully, were not traditionally presented–semi-alive. When most had left, a friend mumbled that he felt like dancing. So I poked and prodded until he offered a couple pointers! And making a fool of myself (to “Billy Jean” with a Japanese friend before a clapping, tapping audience of apple tart, prof, a handful of classmates and gawkers outside) ran clear up to the last class!

There remained a get-together at a restaurant that night, the very antithesis of all tradition. But my opinion changed once cozied next to familiar faces under rustic beams in the warmth of English conversation. Oh, the salad with whipped, honey-covered camembert was divine. The duck tender. La tarte tatin impeccable. With rosy wine cheeks, we split our sides over faux-pas in this foreign place and stories of past groups. While no one gave one whit to the time at dinner, I peaked at my watch before falling to sleep. 1230. AM. 

Let the loudness and Americaness echo from the rafters. Le Zinc. TG '11.

That was the same time seen the following night along with 0230, 0430, 0530 until I gave up to get ready for the early train to Paris. At the heart of the city, amidst the pyramids of the Louvre, two dear friends and myself clasped for the first time since May of track season. There are not words for gasping simultaneously at Rembrandts or oohing in chorus over animated Christmas windows. It just is. And somewhere between the Champs-Elysées Christmas markets and a pick-pocketed wallet, I felt like the me of back when… a bit more French, a touch less fanciful, but completely and totally loved all the same.

You only throw it up if you're feeling it. Evidement, a little TUTF in Paree.

Thank you to those you prayed and/or made this turkeyless Thanksgiving quite memorable.

You Are What You Eat

Me amid healthy-French-organic-(at times free-trade) gastronomie at its height. Paradise.

Today I attended Eurogusto, an exposition of responsible Slow Food International. Probably half of Europe’s eco-friendly producers and a few of their free trade counterparts from operations in Africa and South America showed up. Within an enormous hall, rows upon rows of vendors skirted around various stages for teaching French cooking techniques or debates etc.


Slow Food = you make it yourself then enjoy while sitting down with other people.

And was my tummy was happy to have liberally partaken because one presentation went well past the topic of “Rats of the City and Rats of the Country: Can we understand each other!?” The panelists began slowly and ended heatedly which obliged me to a second round of taste-testing… amidst bits of free-range goat cheese and piles of free-trade spices, I stumbled upon an exhibit called “4 Cities 4 Dev.”  Each cardboard panel explained how we are what we eat with these one-liners (translated, of course):

–Dignity and Pride: Keep employment and stability for farmers.

–Forests: Every 2 seconds, we deforest the size of a football field.

–Farmers without Land: “Land-grabbing” is common to developing countries where corporations set up monoculture crops amounting to the size of Spain.

–Industrial vs. Small Scale: Monoculture crops use pesticides and fertilizers which impoverishment the soil and the smaller farmers.

–Desertification: 12 million hectors are rendered unusable every year due to climate change, unrestrained use of pesticides and fertilizers, water abuse, and monocultures.

–Say Yes to Local Varieties: It’s an opportunity to support local markets.

–No to Monoculture: Eating in season guarantees food available in that season and removes dependence on oscillating prices set by corporations.

–Out of the Cage: Nearly all of our chickens are from batteries whereby 5 or 6 are shoved in a cage and force-fed. The meat industry in general fancies caged situations.

–Eat Less Meat: 1 kilogram of beef requires 7 kilograms of grain and 15,000 L of water.

–Stop GMOS: Most if not all of genetically engineered crops go to animal feed and bio-fuels instead of the hungry.

–Losing Assets: 90 % of the market of one of the most important agricultural aspects, the seed, is controlled by 10 nations.

–Seas without Fish: 80% of the fish stocks are overexploited. Eat local fish obtained through traditional methods.

–Plundering African Waters: Corporations from China, the US, and the like are buying fishing licenses indiscriminately and robbing the local people of their means of living.

–Water: 70% of the human body to which 1.5 million people in this world do not have clean access. It might be the big business of the 21st century.

And I felt sick taking in number after number whirring around terms of biodiversity and community.  7,000,000,000 mouths and counting… 700,000,000 cases of obesity estimated for 2015… 30,000 children die daily of starvation… 60% of those who starve are women and children… 60-80 % of developing countries’ exports come from their efforts… 30 % of what they produce is wasted annually…

My thoughts brewed with the Wednesday/Saturday market in Tours. 3 minutes under running water serves just as well as 5 minutes. Use two lights not ten. Is there a charity for that? Do I need that new ___ which supports some Asian sweatshop, my consumer mentality, and the local landfill?! Amidst old and young faces, an image of a community half-clinic, half-garden started to materialize. Then everything, like most dreams of grown-ups, went blank, and I bit into an organic cookie with an expectant crunch.

La Clusaz

Whatever you’ve heard about lighter European meals is not true in the Alps. At all. Le pire is that the pounds sneak up like the Freshman, or rather in the gastronomical capital of the world, the French fifteen… ok, I’m fibbing. But really, the only way they maintain their paint-tight-skinny-jeans-sveltness is by skipping their breakfast and walking everywhere. One can tralala to the patisserie, bounce over to the fromagerie, then finish up at the boulangerie (not to be confused with the boucherie where the only pain you’ll find is stomaching the sight of freshly hung/dead rabbit and the like.)  After an eternity of hunting and gathering, the national sport, they walk a few blocks home sans breaking a sweat.

Prepped to play along? Are the eyes closed enough to imagine and read?

(Setting: Six hours from home base, you’re living with your host family and their friends with their 4 kids in a 250 year old chalet nestled on the top of a mountain.)

Before “à table” was called, you sip an apéro along with a snackie dish. As the token foreigner, you wait to be told where to sit and know it will be at the kids end. Next you dig into a warm dish of either un planchet randonneur, an assortment of melted cheeses and ham, or une tartiflette, this sausage-potato-cheese casserole gone haywire. Or if it was Saturday, les raclettes. You take your little pan, load with cheese, place on a hot plate then dump over potatoes with lots of Savoie sausage. Repeat. 

Since you're clearly not full enough, have a baby portion of salad and top it off with a tarte aux framboises or à la rhubarb or la glace faite maison, mon péché mignon, my Achilles’ heel.

 (Setting: You’re a speck on a mountain dotted with ski lifts overlooking the curves of a valley where you’ve discovered a little trail for sprinting.)

In endorphin euphoria, you laugh out loud having just realized the extreme blessing of your location. The fact that there is nothing to do but romp around under a brilliant sun makes you forget the cheese sticking interminably in your stomach. With the mountainous air burning your lungs, you fly over the hills. You almost get your heels nipped off by the dog of random hikers.

Blue skies for 3 whole days!

(Setting: Your heels live to see the next day.)

Descending towards a restaurant, you start down a diamond ski course up until a cow path. Alpines rise on your right and roads carve the hills to your left as you and the kids and a mom crunch, crunch, crunch over leaves. The swapping of childhood songs and prancing and laughter are all heightened by the unusually warm weather. You perform a show choir number in an attempt to avoid the crottes of cow, goat, and rabbit variety in the mountains.

Over a couple brooks, past gigantic roots, the lingering stench proves your jig was unsuccessful. To be amid two families, neither of which is your own, stinks as well. You thought that a rural trip would take care of the odorous aspects of France… But glance by glance at the surrounding magnificence, your nose is drawn up. You take in proof of a Creator who refreshes completely. And you know that no matter in which corner of the globe you find yourself, he will navigate you through the crottes of this life.

The earth is the Lord's, and everything in it, the world, and all who live in it... Ps. 24 quite true.