Monday, August 8, 2011

Every profession needs its Mark Madsen

Let’s not call it camp next time. I know camp. This…this was not camp. Camp evokes glee and adventure—it elicits cherished visions. Visions of camp fires or face painting or  competitive games of dodgeball. Camp is spending hours making ugly, horrid paper maches our parents keep out of weird obligation. Camp is finally beating Susie across the monkey bars. Camp is grass stains and knee scuffs and, yes ok, perhaps an occasional bee sting (nothing is perfect). Those are the camps I know. This…this was not camp. I can, however, think of another—no, a better 4 letter word for what this was though, I’m glad you asked. Hell. A far more fitting and adequately representative name for what the last 4 days of my life actually resembled. When you hear hell you think running till you forget how to walk and then trying to play basketball for 2 hours after. And you think of doing this 3 times a day. Of course I wasn’t expecting we’d go away for 4 days to braid each others hair and play truth or dare. Least not the WHOLE time. Please, I'm a realist. But you wouldn’t call dialysis a hobby, right? Just sayin. (Don’t think too much about the metaphor). But for all my bluster, somewhere deep, deep, deep down I did like "camp". It tested my limits and challenged every part of me. I know, I know. What a cliché. We’ve all seen this movie. I’ll wear it. Let’s just not call it camp. 

                                     The hostel we stayed in during camp.

                            Where we practiced--just outside the hostel

I love food. Period. Anyone who knows me knows at least that. So, to be fair, "camp" did have one redeeming quality that I will surely miss: great food. Every meal was fantastic, and most importantly, cooked by someone other than me. What a treat. After minimal consideration, I decided I need to become a food critic when this whole basketball thing ends. Basically I'd be eating for a living. Yup, think I'm qualified. I would be awful at the actual "critic" thing, I agree, but we can't all be great at everything. If everyone hooped like MJ, there would be no MJ. I could be the Mark Madsen of the food critic world. You know what that is? That's a win-win. 

I am not sure when it happened, but it seems I have blended my fine english speaking with a pseudo-german accent and cultivated a brand new way of embarrassing myself here. I think I believe it makes me less conspicuous--helps me blend in somehow. Sid, my teammate, informed me how backwards that was. Live and learn. 

Did anyone know they don't have ice here? My mind was blown when I discovered this. They have water, they have I missing something? No one likes warm drinks. It's inhuman. Maybe they lost all their ice cube trays in a freak fire accident. I'd buy that. If you could send me a couple--actually a couple dozen, that would be great. Those will sell like hot cakes. 

Today is my day off. Translation: laundry and errands day. Ha, that's rich. I have errands to run in Germany. Some life :)


  1. I hate the no ice thing, too! I had ice trays waiting for me at my apartment, so I'm sure you can find them somewhere. If not, we will go on a search for them if you ever come here, because I know they exist.

    Rest up!

  2. Damn son, you can really write. Good for you :). But good job making it thru hell. Tell the girl on the left I said hi. Miss you lots!!!!

  3. RJ! I miss you :) thank you. Haha, you would. I well tell her hi. Give my favorite lil man a kiss please!?