Search
|
As I write this, it’s a little over a fortnight since Stephen and I split up, and almost exactly a week since we told most of our friends. I’ve danced to remember and danced to forget. I’ve been taken care of by family, friends and acquaintances locally and across the world – truly, it’s been a 24hr support network, and to all of you, I am deeply grateful. In particular to all those in Zurich who have provided hugs, and to those at the top of my chat list who have been bombarded day and night, thank you.
Stephen has already published his take on what went wrong, and how it could have gone this badly. Many of you have responded, and I love and thank all of you who’ve supported him, publicly and privately. Some of you have also asked whether I’d write something similar from my own perspective, and a few of you have suggested that I should be taking more responsibility for the breakdown of our marriage.
With those latter few, I respectfully disagree. To me, taking responsibility suggests that blame should be assigned, and implicitly assumes that the breakdown is “bad news”. In fact, when I first shared the news with my family and a very small group of friends, in an e-mail written while I sat at the airport gate, that was the subject of the missive. But someone I trust deeply responded, saying:
I view these things as local minima that need to be overcome so you can reach global maxima.
It’s taken me a while to get my head around that, but I think it’s true. To help make sense of it, let me bring you on a whirlwind tour of the last three years.
Stephen was unwell before we got married. I knew that, and it affected our lives, but I was happy to make those sacrifices. We were a busy couple, and our lives weren’t without stress – my graduation ceremony was the week before the wedding, and our honeymoon brought us to Hong Kong expressly so that I could help out with a conference there. (That didn’t work out in the end, but we had a lovely time all the same!) I also had my moments – our first Christmas dinner was pasta bake with a special delivery of antibiotics for the shocking chest infection that had kept me out of the kitchen 
Stephen’s memory had never been great, but when we moved to Zurich, things got harder. The trouble he had remembering things compounded the trouble he had learning German, which massively compounded the trouble he had with integrating (and Switzerland’s not easy to start with!). Combine that with having to start over on all of the medical care he needed, and it all caused a lot of stress, which didn’t help anyone. Where I had previously had to keep an eye on things (like our finances) that we managed together, I now had to single-handedly take care of all the details.
To give Stephen his due, over time, he stepped up on the things that he was able to do – but, like so many other things, the division of labour was always dictated by his health, and it left me feeling isolated and overworked.
Nine months ago, Stephen went into hospital for surgery that, we hoped, would make things drastically better. So much hope was poured into that operation. If it works, his bladder problems will get better. If his bladder problems get better, his sleep problems will get better. If his sleep problems get better, his memory will get better, our ability to do fun stuff/travel/share time will get better, and so on.
Day surgery turned into almost two weeks in hospital. A few days in, I left for the airport, and headed out to ApacheCon, straight from his bedside – having always planned that there would be plenty of time to get him home and help him recover before I had to leave. Our friends, as usual, filled the gap – and again, huge thanks to those who visited him daily while I was away.
We had planned to take our dream holiday, our second honeymoon, a couple of weeks later. Until pretty much the day we left, it wasn’t at all clear that Stephen would be able to do it – and I remain grateful that I never had to decide whether we should cancel it or whether I should go alone. As it was, we had a wonderful time – but many aspects of it still sucked. In fact, before we had even left Venice, we thought we would have to pack our bags and head to the hospital.
In all of that chaos, as we looked at plans we had made together and re-evaluated them in a context where we couldn’t simply wish things better, I started spending more time introspecting, thinking, trying to work out what was really important to me. And as 2009 turned into 2010, I started building more of those things into my life. After a year of a fairly serious “flight ban” (I took nine flights in 2009), I started to travel more – in fact, I spent the first six weeks of the year in San Francisco, three of them with Stephen.
It was during the latter three weeks, after he had gone home, that I had the epic swing-dancing/Superbowl weekend. But both before and after, as I tried new things or just did the things I wanted to do without having to worry about whether he’d be waiting up for me to get home, I was conscious of how much sacrifice our relationship required, from both of us.
“Life is pain, Highness” – this I know. And I truly understand the value of compromise. But I would say that I now understand it better than ever, having seen how far compromise can go before things break.
There were many compromises in our relationship. On his side and on mine, we settled and agreed and worked within our limitations. But ultimately, the things that had brought us and kept us together were no longer strong enough to make the sacrifices seem reasonable, desirable.
It’s easy to get into the game of “if-only”. If only Steve’s sleep hadn’t been so compromised, maybe we could have had more time to do things together, and maybe that would have seen us through the memory issues. If only I had faced less stress at work, maybe I could have given more energy to the relationship and kept things going more smoothly. If only Steve’s memory had not impaired his language learning, maybe he would have had an easier time integrating and been less likely to get depressed. If only I could have been more understanding and patient, maybe we could have found better ways to meet in the middle rather than relentlessly sacrificing. If only our sex life had not fallen by the wayside, or if only it had been possible to revive, maybe we could have relied on basic instinct to keep us together!
But none of that makes any difference, in the end.
I married Stephen because I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him, and to share in the rest of his. We have split up because those things are no longer true – for me, at least. And as I’ve learnt, slowly, but inexorably, my primary responsibility is to myself. I have dreams, and hopes, and ambitions, and I would willingly sacrifice many of them, but I can’t sacrifice all of them, and I can’t sacrifice the essence of who I am.
Some of you have asked about regrets. I don’t regret a minute of it. Not the worst days I can remember, nor the worse days I’ve tried to forget. I don’t bear any ill-will towards Stephen, I still think he’s great, and although things are hard right now, I hope and intend that we might remain friends.
I met a man who had a dream he had since he was twenty. I met that man when he was eighty-one. He said “too many people just stand and wait until the mornin’. Don’t they know tomorrow never comes?”
By popular demand (no really, half a dozen requests or more!), I give you the hand shapes and rules for Rock-Paper-Scissors-Lizard-Spock-Friends-Pie:
Each player forms a fist, and swings it seven times swiftly, to the spoken count of “Rock-Paper-Scissors-Lizard-Spock-Friends-Pie”. After the final count, each player forms one of the following shapes with the same hand, and extends it towards her opponent.
  
Rock, Paper, Scissors: The classics. “Rock” is a clenched fist, “Paper” is an open hand with all fingers extended together, “Scissors” has index and middle finger extended and separated, with the other fingers held in the palm of the hand.
 
Lizard, Spock: Newer additions, invented by Sam Kass. “Lizard” has fingers extended together, straight, with the thumb brought up to touch the tips of the fingers. “Spock” is an open hand with index and middle fingers extended together, and ring and pinky fingers extended together, with a V-shaped gap between the middle and ring fingers.
 
Friends, Pie: The newest additions of which I am aware, invented by a sleep-deprived dancer with the encouragement of a pirate who has never had banoffi! “Friends” has the index and middle fingers extended, with the middle finger crossed over the index finger, and the other fingers held in the palm of the hand. “Pie” is a circle made with four fingers touching the thumb.
The precedence rules are as follows:
Rock:
+ Crushes scissors
+ Crushes lizard
+ Crushes friends
- Is covered by paper
- Is vaporized by Spock
- Is made sticky by pie
Paper:
+ Covers rock
+ Disproves Spock
+ Cuts friends
- Is cut by scissors
- Is eaten by lizard
- Is made messy by pie
Scissors:
+ Cut paper
+ Decapitate lizard
+ Stab friends
- Are crushed by rock
- Are crushed by Spock
- Are gummed up by pie
Lizard:
+ Eats paper
+ Poisons Spock
+ Eats pie
- Is decapitated by scissors
- Is crushed by rock
- Is tamed by friends
Spock:
+ Crushes scissors
+ Vaporizes rock
+ Eats pie
- Is disproven by paper
- Is poisoned by lizard
- Is confused by friends
Friends:
+ Eat pie
+ Confuse Spock
+ Tame lizard
- Are stabbed with scissors
- Are crushed by rock
- Are cut with paper
Pie:
+ Messes up paper
+ Gums up scissors
+ Makes rock icky-sticky!
- Is eaten by lizard
- Is eaten by Spock
- Is eaten by friends
Have fun!
Last week, I enjoyed the beautiful environs of Keble College, Oxford, and the rather noisier hospitality of the University Club, to attend TransferSummit/UK, and the associated BarCampOxford.
What a show! It was a great freedom to be able to attend–and speak–without having to run around making sure everything was planned, organized, working. I love putting on the events I’m involved with; I had a fantastic time at the Retreat in Ireland, and we have a brilliant crew who come in to put on ApacheCon, but there’s still always a “background radiation” level of stress and tension that means it was a very different experience to just “show up” and get on stage
My talk was a lot of fun to give – I was delighted that my mum could attend, and it’s always a thrill to have a packed room, whether it’s big or small The audience were a mix – some friends for backup, others for mild heckling, and a whole lot of people, academics and engineers alike, who were completely new to Open Source. I’m too much of a perfectionist to ever be pleased with my presentations, but the feedback was universally positive, and I hope they’ll have me back next year! The organizers very kindly invited mum to share lunch with us before she had to head back home, and it was lovely to be able to introduce her to some of my “Apache friends” 
The conference was unusual, in that it had essentially been assembled by a crack team who decided who they wanted to have speaking, wrote up the abstracts, and then asked those speakers to speak to the chosen topics It ended up being a really solid program, with lots of interesting talks from a great cross-section of the open-source and academic communities.
Once I’d gotten my talk done, it was much easier to relax, and Thursday night started off with a wee dram in my room. We had a variety of things to taste, and some excellent (and knowledgable!) company. We didn’t get too very far before it was time for the gala dinner, in an unmatchably beautiful setting – the Dining Hall at Keble College. It was a lot of fun, although I was eventually warned off dancing on the “precarious” floor, a little while after Paul brought out his whistle. The only thing for it, of course, was to move back to my room, where he kept the music going until well past bedtime! Happily all the neighbours were in attendance, and no one seemed to mind too much
The rest of the conference was, of course, of a standard – unsurprisingly! But the fun didn’t stop with the closing plenary, as we headed on for a pre-BarCamp dinner. I retired early, but sadly didn’t get much sleep – World Cup, a warm night, and accommodation above a bar with a great BBQ menu conspired to keep me awake rather longer than I’d wished. And there was no opportunity to sleep on in the morning, despite staying at the BarCamp venue – some tour organizer was wandering up and down the corridors from early morn, trying to determine where her charges were sleeping by yelling for them 
The BarCamp more than made up though – a packed schedule, great content, fun presenters, and lots of audience participation. Robert of Bunnyfoot gave a particularly memorable talk about the use of eyetracking, and my sincere apologies to the Apache crew, on whom I completely accidentally bailed, and only turned up for the second half of the “Apache Way” talk I had intended to co-present.
We had a truly delicious Indian dinner afterwards, whereupon I discovered the first person I know who didn’t grow up in Dublin but has heard of “Jesus: The Guantanamo Years” Some of the Americans bailed on the Indian to have Whetherspoons fish & chips, so of course we had to rejoin them and provide appropriate mocking! By then, of course, USA/Ghana was kicking off, and we turned up in a (briefly!) very quiet pub to watch the match.
Much hilarity ensued, a good proportion of it stemming from those unaccustomed to the Irish style of sports supporter laughing at me The result didn’t work out as we hoped, but overall I think everyone had fun, and if they were truly traumatised, the Americans did a good job of hiding it.
Thanks to all involved for not one, but two great events! Hopefully, I’ll see you all again next year
If you could just tell me how much you want for that product and/or service, that would be swell. I know it might be more fun for you to give me a number and then expect 10%-20% more, but I’m really rather tired and jetlagged, and it would be nice to know upfront which of the many incredibly-similar pieces of paper in my wallet you want.
While you’re at it, if you could make the incredibly-similar pieces of paper just a little bit more distinct from each other, that would be super-nice, and I would be your best friend forever.
Thanks,
Noirin
I’ve just counted back and realised that it wasn’t eight weeks ago that I started swing dancing, but seven. Just fifty days ago, almost to the hour (as I’m writing this), I was sitting in a San Francisco diner drinking a gallon of ice-cream milkshake, having thoroughly enjoyed my first taste of swing dancing.
Now, fifty days later, I’m sitting in an airport lounge, sipping pink champagne, having thoroughly enjoyed my first real swing dance event Once again, it was Tiarnan’s fault – I’m an impressionable young thing, and when he suggested at the beginning of the month that both the Atlanta Lindy Exchange and the Boston Tea Party were on this weekend, I started looking for flights.
The British Airways strike almost got in my way, but happily, I made it safe and sound to Boston late on Thursday night. After an early morning, a long day’s work, and 8+hrs travel (yay timezones!), I checked in to the hotel, then headed down to the Lindy Living Room. The bad taste lingered from my first social dance in Zurich (I asked someone to dance, and they responded with “Do I know you?”), and I was utterly exhausted, so I didn’t get out on the dance floor, but I very much enjoyed watching
Friday morning started very slowly, with my favourite American breakfast – a plate of French toast – served for lunch! I made no attempt to adjust to local time, but rather tried to fit in with the schedule of dancing, which seemed to work out pretty well over the weekend. I registered, got my wristband, and wandered around to find the various rooms and get a feel for the layout of the hotel. So far, so good (although even by Sunday, I was still turning the wrong direction when I came out of my room!).
At 3pm, the workshops started. I had planned to spend the whole day in the Lindy Beginners track, but the first hour only offered a limited selection, so I decided to try out some Hip Hop. It was a good warmup/work-out, and surprisingly increased my self-confidence – I really didn’t expect to be able to follow the choreography, but we had a great teacher and it actually went pretty well! I can only remember the routine in parts now, but at the time I had it pretty well down, only fudging one tiny bit of footwork to get it to work for me
Then it was in to the beginners room, where I was to spend much of the weekend. The first class was Lindy Basics – David’s usual partner was unavailable, so Karen Turman stepped in, and we had a thoroughly enjoyable introduction to the swingout. I think it was the last class of the weekend where I really felt like I knew what I was doing! Over the following three hours, we went through a huge array of skills, old and new, with three more sets of teachers.
You’d think after five hours, I’d have had enough of dancing, but I was only getting started Having met several leads in the classes, I was now all set up for the social dancing to follow. Lindy classes, in my (limited!) experience, all seem to involve rotating partners – so whether you come to the class with a partner or not, you’ll end up dancing with a variety of different people. It works well for learning the moves, it’s good practice for social dancing (where, hopefully, you can dance with anyone who’s willing ), and it’s a nice way to get to know people (which makes the social dancing a little easier, since you’ve already gotten over the basic introductions phase).
The “general dancing” got started, and I had a few slightly precarious whirls around the floor. It was jam-packed, but nonetheless fun. Once again, my American experience beat the Zurich one hands-down – anytime there was a collision, my lead said sorry to the other couple straight away, giving me just enough grace to regain my balance before I made my apologies and danced on The Strictly Swing competition heats cleared the floor for a while, and then it was back to busy again before the Invitational.
The “Strictly Swing” competitions involve a lead and follow who enter as a couple, as opposed to “Jack & Jill” competitions, where each lead and follow enters individually, and then they’re randomly paired up. The Invitational Strictly Swing began at 11pm, and featured a selection of the teachers, all professional dancers. It was, as expected, truly fabulous I’ve no idea what the social dancefloor looked like during this time, but based on what the competition ballrom was like, I imagine it must have been almost empty!
Tiarnan arrived in time for the midnight buffet, which was basically a cooked breakfast. It’s the first time I’ve been to a midnight buffet that actually started at midnight – like Midnight Mass, in my experience, they usually start earlier But having danced through lunchtime and the evening, it was really very welcome. And tasty!
Dinner turned into dancing, and dancing into more dancing. I was still a bit nervous about asking people to dance, but rarely had to sit one out when I felt like dancing – everyone was super-friendly, and there were more than enough leads to go around I wrenched my knee a little bit during one particularly fast dance, with a lead who had clearly discovered “momentum”, and was keen to test the limits of physical laws! But the endorphins kicked in pretty quickly, and cutting out the occasional triple-step was all that was needed to keep me on the dancefloor. By the time I got to bed it was almost 5am, and I had stopped counting after three clean t-shirts!
Saturday morning dawned while I was still fast asleep, but by 9:30 I was halfway through breakfast. Now, I’m not usually one to eat before lunchtime, no matter what the cereal commercials recommend, but there was only a very brief prevarication before heading in to the restaurant on this particular morning! The first workshops started at 10am, with “Footwork Fantastic”. An hour of triple-steps in a dizzying array of combinations was perhaps not exactly what the doctor had ordered for my knee, but it was still a great class!
For the second slot of the day, I headed out from the Lindy Beginner track to the Lindy Living Room. It was much busier up there, but I enjoyed a jam-packed session of Charleston variants, and worked on a fun routine to practice partner skills, all before lunch! I definitely felt at the bottom of the class, but was still more or less able to keep up.
Once I’d gotten some nutrition, I decided to go shopping – dance shoes! I ended up with a pair of super-simple Aris Allen plain white plimsolls, with suede soles. Style-wise I preferred the black ones, but this was time for instant gratification, and the white was all that was available on the day.
And gratified I was. Suddenly, the morning’s triple-steps actually made sense! I slipped and slid on any smooth surface I could find, and tried out some suddenly-simpler footwork in my social dances, before heading back upstairs for a nap. Having the dancing and accommodation in the same building was awesome, and the Tea Party is firmly on my list of must-dos for next year A white chocolate mocha at Starbucks woke me up, and somehow the caffeine didn’t give me the jitters, just powered me on for the next few hours!
First up were the Jack & Jill semi-finals, then time for a couple of dances before Nick & Carla’s fantastic “Mixing 6’s and 8’s” workshop. Although I’m pretty sure it was 6-count rhythms that Tiarnan had taught me seven weeks previous, once I’d started going to classes they all seemed to be 8-count rhythms. I had rapidly adapted to the 8-counts, and forgotten about the 6-counts, which led to some weird-feeling dances where I would have to keep skipping a triple to come back to the beat in time. It took the full hour to really get into the swing of just following the two rhythms, and I spent the rest of the night just practicing swapping between them when I wasn’t dancing My new shoes continued to prove fabulous, though, so it was truly no chore to keep rockstep-triplestep-triplestep’ing!
The Strictly Swing finals were great, but much overshadowed by the Crossover Jack & Jill that followed. Five pairs of pros from each discipline were randomly mixed and matched, so that there was a lead from one discipline dancing with a follow from the other. They danced one Westie song and one Lindy song, and they were outstanding The leads had obviously choreographed their arrival on stage, and the whole thing was just an absolute spectacle.
After the midnight buffet, Tiarnan gave me some pointers on how to improve my dancing, which mostly boiled down to “have some frame, or they will break your arms off”. Frame is slightly tricky to grok, more tricky to explain, and even more tricky to remember and maintain while you’re also trying to keep your footwork going and possibly stay in-time But he wasn’t wrong, and lack of frame almost did lead to my arm being snapped off when I danced with one truly excessively energetic lead. Still, when I did manage to include it, several things got suddenly easier/possible, including some fun turns
Several jam circles sprung up over the course of the evening, with some truly outstanding showing-off dancing, and the rowdy Baltimore crowd streaked across the dancefloor in their underwear, led by a roller-skater who made a very impressive job of getting up the stairs at the exit!
By three or four o’clock, the dance floor cleared out a little, and I enjoyed some really great dances – including one with a teacher, who had the most charming “sorry sweetie!” any time anything went wrong (although the problem was most often my failing to follow his lead)! I got my new favourite compliment after a spectacular blues dance – “I love your energetic slowness”. Blues was definitely a new experience, and a lot of good practice for following weight shifts etc.
It was barely an hour before dawn by the time I got to bed, and the next morning’s classes looked a little tenuous. But Max and Annie were doing an “Essential Swingout” workshop, and their unadulterated fabulous was enough to drag me out of bed. It was well worth it, but the balance workshop that came next almost made me ill with the infinite spinning, so I headed upstairs to pack up.
Then it was back down for more Max & Annie, and their Charleston variants – probably my favourite moves of the weekend. Again, back in the Lindy Living Room I was hovering near the bottom of the class, but had the routine pretty fluently by the top of the hour. After that, everything went by in a blitz – the Lindy Jack & Jill finals, lunch with some New Yorkers, several “just one last dance”s, including one with a charming if mildly confused Westie lead (there was music, there was a dancefloor, there was a lead. I asked him to dance, not noticing that his shirt still looked freshly pressed and he didn’t have a hair out of place. What do you want from me? ).
I hopped in with some of the Westie teachers for the ride back to the airport, had dinner in the lounge, practiced my triple-steps and Charleston on the smooth stone floor, was glad of my exit-row seat which gave me some room to stretch out, and Google suitcase to rest my feet on once I got on to the plan, and finally made it to London, where I flew through some more triple-steps, had a shower and a visit to the spa, then started writing this post.
Now it’s back to life, back to reality. But I had a complete blast at the Tea Party; I’m looking forward to Is There Hop?, Zurich’s weekend of workshops, this weekend; I’ve been inspired to start cutting out some of the things that drag me down to have more room in my life for the things I love; so really, all is well in the world
I almost didn’t take part in Ada Lovelace Day this year. Between recently taking up dancing, where I find myself suddenly in a pretty solid majority, and being bogged down with work (both $dayjob and Apache), the unicorn status has firmly lost any sheen it might ever have had. The performance is just exhausting.
But perhaps at times like this, it’s even more important to reflect and to celebrate those women whose achievements have inspired, have made possible, my own participation in technology and science.
Dr Sheila Gilheany was the first female lecturer in Astronomy at the Armagh Planetarium, a place I still remember visiting as a young girl. My first encounter with Sheila, however, came when she took up the directorship of the then-new Irish Centre for Talented Youth (CTYI). (Yes, I’ve heard all the jokes about the spelling of the acronym.)
In that role, Sheila was not only a vocal supporter of Ireland’s academically-gifted youth, but also an inspiring educator. I first learnt to program at CTYI, using Logo to learn simultaneously about geometry and angles, loops and variables Over the course of several summers, I studied everything from Visual Arts to Creative Writing, from Pharmacology to Psychology, from International Relations to Legal Studies.
When, at twelve, I was in bits trying to get my head around what exactly pH was, Sheila was there to cheerlead, and wipe away the tears if necessary! (I already knew pH was a measure of the acidity of a substance, but trying to calculate the anti-log of the hydrogen ion concentration should perhaps not have been introduced on Day 1!)
Later on, when I decided that Decision Maths just wasn’t what I wanted to spend my summer on, she let me switch to the International Relations class, which turned out to be even more bizarre than the discussions of Martians and umbrellas that I had left behind Sheila always expected the very best from everyone she worked with, but she provided support in abundance. From the Quaker we elected (democratically!) to office of God, to the girl who wore a Beanie Baby on her head for three weeks, if she was fazed, she never let on! (If any of you have pictures of the Beanie Baby, I want a copy!)
By the time I went back as a teaching assistant, the range of classes had grown vastly (I helped teach Forensic Science, as well as Computational Linguistics). Sheila had, by then, moved on, but her legacy was clearly thriving.
But Sheila’s infectious love for science benefitted not only the CTYI students. As Director of the Centre, she also oversaw the launch of the Pfizer Science Bus, possibly the coolest coach in the country The Science Bus contained a well-equipped mobile science lab, fully connected with gas, water, electricity and even an internet connection! The bus visited schools around the country, and students were invited to investigate everything from optics to satellite technology, from chromatography to the chemistry of food. Of course, there were also explosions, colourful experiments, shiny demonstrations, and much more!
Sheila is now a Policy Officer at the Institute of Physics, but it cheers me greatly to hear that she is still keenly involved in science education
When I point out that something you say is ostracizing a minority of which I’m a part, or demeaning them; when I point out that something you’re doing seems exclusionary to the minority of which I’m a member, or just plain hurtful…
You really shouldn’t come back with “well, we asked around the rest of the group, and the majority think it’s ok”.
Please, just don’t do it.
Yesterday, I joined some of my colleagues on a cave walk. Having previously experienced Ailwee Cave in the Burren, I was expecting a leisurely walk through some beautiful geological features. In retrospect, the name of the cave–Hölloch, or Hell Hole–should perhaps have provided a clue.
Switzerland’s wonderful public transport got us easily to Muotathal, where the cave is situated. Four-minute connections between Swiss trains are a solid guarantee that you’ll get there on time – unlike Ireland, where they’d be a pretty good guarantee that you’ll miss your connecting journey and have to re-route via the furthest point on the island.
The first clue should perhaps have been when we got to the caving center, and they asked for name, address and phone number – specifying that they didn’t want our mobile numbers, but a number that could be used in case of emergency Next clue, had I been watching, might have been the welly boots, full suit overalls, heavy gardening gloves, and good solid helmets. But I wasn’t watching, and once we were all suited up, we headed off happily up the mountain to the cave entrance.
We crossed a few small bridges on the way up the mountain, which I found a bit terrifying – but I pressed on, assuming that once we got to the cave, all would be well. Our guide stopped for a moment along the way, and asked if anyone had asthma, was afraid of heights, or narrow spaces. Thinking back to the last time I was asked that latter question, in Newgrange, I thought “well, yeah, I am petrified of truly narrow spaces, but the spaces in Newgrange weren’t so bad, so maybe this will be fine.”
I am, I will readily admit, an idiot.
So, we walked in to the cave, it’s not nearly as beautiful as Ailwee (and we’re all on headlamps – no artistically arranged electric lighting here!), but that’s ok, we’re only at the entrance. Next up, the guide warns us, is a little bit of scrambling. I’m mostly ok with that – I’m afraid of real climbing, and heights, but this is more just low ceilings and craggy floors.
Mild terror sets in when we come to a bit where you have to lie down and wiggle through the crack, but it’s a very short stretch, and I can see that it opens up to standing-room on the other side, so it’s fine. We all get through, and the guide takes a photo of us from way above, down through a fairly narrow gap. He had gone around the other way, and I’m assuming we all now go back the way we came, and on the way he had gone. But no. Now we’re meant to climb up there!?
With a bit of a boost to get me up as far as the first foothold, and plenty of encouragement from those who’ve done it, I manage to get up. Argh! Scary!, but I’ve made it. We get everyone out, and start walking down further into the cave. As we walk along, I’m thinking “y’know, he asked about heights and claustrophobia, but he never asked about fear of the dark. It’s pretty dark in here. I’m kinda scared”. I try not to be a scaredy-cat, but heights, narrow spaces, climbing, and the dark are all things that will set me off.
Next stop, whaddaya know, it’s time to turn the lights off. There is no place darker than a cave with all the lights off, unless it’s a few hundred meters into the cave, and several hundred meters down, and even if there were cracks to the air above, they’re all filled in with an alpine winter’s worth of snow… And now he wants us to walk along like this!?
I put my left hand on the shoulder of the guy in front, and the guy behind me puts his left hand on my shoulder. Right hands are on the rock face, and off we go. The guy in front races ahead, and I’ve lost him within seconds – the guy behind keeps gently pushing me forward. I didn’t scream, but only because my breathing was far too panicked to get enough power into my lungs. I’m sure we can’t have gone too far, but it was horrific.
We spent about 3hrs exploring the cave, and I’d estimate less than half an hour of that was in spaces where I could stand straight. We climbed and crawled across sharp rocks, wedged ourselves into spaces to keep from slipping back on sandy spots, and at one stage traversed a two-foot-deep pool across a space that can’t have been more than 3′6″ before the water came. I was crying by the time I made it across – and I would never have made it at all if it weren’t for a colleague holding my hand, coaching me, telling me to breathe, keeping my balance right! Thank you Matthias!!
Two-thirds of the way through, we stopped for a rest, and an optional side tour. Stephen, Pierre and I opted out, and sat down on the rocks. Then, it started to get cold. So Steve and I found the one spot where we could stand mostly-upright, and broke into the Charleston With a bit of encouragement, he even managed to do a swing-out, although I had to be careful where I stepped, as we had a “slot” just wide enough for one foot at a time between the rocks!
The break, and the dancing, did me good. When the guide returned with the others, he suggested that I stick straight behind him – keeping the whole group at the pace of the slowest member. I would have felt bad at doing so earlier, but I was getting tired and sore, and I was glad of his help. With lots of grit, and plenty of help from my friends, I made it through to the last hurdle.
“There’s a ladder”, he said. “You should go last, so I can help you”, he said. We got to the spot, a ravine with a ladder stretched over it. Hard to see what was on the other side. The guide went over, then the first of our gang. Across the ladder, and then somehow “up”. Rocks in the way, no way to know what happened next. Sitting beside the chasm, petrified of the ladder. Everyone else goes across. The guide tells the other person who’s afraid of heights “just look at me, don’t look down”.
I can do that. I have to, to get out of the cave. I crawl across to the ladder, fix my eyes on the flame of the guide’s lamp, and slowly make my way across. Hang on, it’s a dead end. Where now? Up!?
The way out of the cave is a 50m climb, straight up. Through a narrow crack. In the dark.
I can’t even get my foot to the first foothold. I climb up on the guide’s knee, and make it from there. I have never been so afraid. There are metal rungs sticking out of the rock. Some of them, I can get. Most of them are a few inches too high. Sometimes, the guide can push my foot up, and I make it. Other times, I just have to wedge my back against the wall behind me and make that leap of faith. It was, without exaggeration, the scariest thing I’ve ever done. It seemed to go on forever. Towards the end, the rungs turn into a ladder. There’s more space, but there’s also a ladder in the way And it’s offset, a couple of feet to the left of the rungs I’ve been relying on.
I’ve screamed a couple of times along the way, and cried once. But it’s nothing to this ascent, which is punctuated by a stream of terrified invective against the cave, the ladder, and my slippery wellingtons! By the time I make it to the top, I’m barely breathing, and shaking from head to toe.
In the finest Swiss tradition, we finish with an Apéro. Beautiful plates of cold cuts are laid out, with fresh bread, and delicious wine. I go straight for the bottle of water, fill my cup, pass it on, take it back to refill my cup, and repeat until I’m almost calm. I’m still shaking, but the food helps a little. My lungs are full of cave dust – it’s a solid eighteen hours before I can breathe properly again. We head out of the cave, and back down the valley, where the wonderful Swiss transport system conveys us safely home.
Yesterday, every muscle in my body was jelly. I could barely stand (although I did an almost-convincing Charleston a couple of times on railway platforms to keep warm!). Every movement felt like fire. My legs were constantly threatening to cramp.
And yet, amazingly, today, I’m generally alright. By some miracle, I can move, I can walk, I’m not a solid mass of stiffness. My right shoulder is oh-so-sore, and my neck is beyond painful. My knees are skinned, and bruised to halfway down my shins. My back is blue and purple, my left forearm is yellow and blue, my right upperarm is just solid purple. But overall, I’m just thrilled that I made it out alive!
Lessons learned:
- When someone suggests an offsite, do some research before signing up.
- When someone suggests an offsite outdoors, be doubly careful.
- When someone suggests an offsite in a cave, just say no.
- When in doubt, Charleston! It’ll keep you warm if you’re cold, take your mind off the cave if you’re panicked, loosen your muscles if they’re threatening to get stiff (A swing-out is an acceptable alternative, but requires slightly more space, and should perhaps be avoided on busy train platforms.)
Does anyone have some arnica?
My little sister, probably the coolest person I know, laughed down the phone at me this morning, when I told her that universal suffrage did not exist in Switzerland, at the cantonal level, until 1991. The year before she started at school, the women of Appenzell Innerrhoden got the right to vote. Now, Rosie’s not wrong to be shocked. She’s a talented singer and a hardworking medical student, but she’s really not that old, and she had been halfway around the world by the time the country where her big sis is living got around to universal suffrage.
Women’s lib isn’t our usual go-to topic of conversation. But what got us onto it, and what brings it into sharp relief for me, is the thornier topic of reproductive rights. This weekend, I discovered that the contraceptive implant on which I have relied for the last two years had broken. Wikipedia describes Implanon as the most effective form of birth control currently available. But mine is currently in two parts, inside my arm, and I’m pretty sure that’s not the way it’s meant to be. I don’t know for sure that it’s non-functional in this state, but I’ve had a pretty awful withdrawal bleed, so I’m just guessin’…
I’ve been lucky with the timing of this failure. I’m pretty confident that I’m not at risk of an unexpected pregnancy. But that’s sheer luck on my part – and it’s just lucky that I noticed it when I did, too. I’m happy in my career, I love to travel, I’ve just taken up dancing. I don’t want a kid right now. I’m married to a wonderful man, who has medical problems that mean his sleep is extremely precious. He doesn’t want a kid right now. We’re not reckless teenagers – I’ve always been careful about contraception, and a large part of the reason I chose the implant was because of the combination of reliability and ease-of-use that it offers. It works very well, and it’s hard to get wrong.
But “hard to get wrong” is not the same as “impossible to get wrong”. I’m in a fortunate position – I know a pretty good amount about contraception, at least for a layperson. I’m reasonably familiar with the menstrual cycle, I’m bright, I’m numerate. I can remember when I last felt the implant intact, and it’s not all that long ago. I can do the math, and I know when I was last sexually active, and I’m confident that this will all be fine. And despite that confidence, I’m stressed and freaked because I made a choice about my reproductive organs, and the method I used to enact that choice has failed.
I can’t say what I would or wouldn’t do in different circumstances. When it came down to it, I hope that I would choose not to have an abortion – but I’d sure as hell want it to be my decision! It’s my body, it’s my future, it’s my career, it’s my family, it’s my life. Ultimately, this is one decision that’s not about you, it’s about me. And I believe that every woman should have the right to make that decision for herself.
So let’s back up to my shocked little sister. She wasn’t even two years old when Ireland elected a woman to the highest office in the land. And yet she still lives in a country where, were she to need or want an abortion for any reason – personal, social or medical – she would have to get on a boat, or a plane, and leave the island where she has lived her whole life, in order to make that decision. She’s every bit as lucky as I am – she has a supportive family, a big sis in Switzerland, and the brains to work out what she needs and how to get it. (She’s also very familiar with the world outside her island, make no mistake!) No matter which way I look at it, that just seems wrong to me.
Having reproductive choices taken away from you, for any reason, is horrible and scary. Forcing you to go to another country to make those choices is cruel and twisted. And this, dear friends, is why I’m pro-choice.
Or “It seemed like a good idea at the time!”
Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve made several new friendships, and spent time with old friends, among my Google colleagues. It seemed like half the engineers formerly-known-as Sysops were in Mountain View, and I had already stayed up til 6AM with Tiarnan more than once before last weekend.
Last weekend, however, truly set the bar for future great nights out, or indeed whole weekends The previous bar was hazy: depending on how you measured, it could have been any of many nights at CTYI, one of a few nights in Munich, or a particularly memorable night during the offsite-residential part of one of my courses while I was studying in Munich, when we stayed up til dawn singing (including some awesome German on-the-spot rapping, a citronella candle full of bugs, and swimming in Chiemsee).
Looking back, the following seem to be common threads in any great night:
- Staying up far later than is reasonable…
- With people who are generally insensibly bright, and experts in their chosen field…
- But who still manage to be socially stimulating…
- Listening to good music, particularly if it’s of a genre I’m not especially familiar with…
- Telling stories, sharing jokes, having a laugh…
- And trying things I wouldn’t normally do, or that I haven’t tried before, or that are generally inadvisable (in the sort of “but why would you want to set a styrofoam cup on fire?” “Just to see what happens?” way)…
Last weekend involved all of these, and more!
Friday/Saturday
It started out on Friday evening, with a reasonably sedate dinner at a delicious Vietnamese place. Present were Dim, my flatmate in the corporate apartment; Gordon, a Sysops manager; Liam, another Irish EngProd exile visiting from Zürich; Tiarnan, whose official function is not yet clear to me, but appears to be some kind of anti-productivity mission; and I, your humble narrator.
After dinner, Dim, Liam, Tiarnan & I had planned to go to Bourbon & Branch, possibly my favourite bar in San Francisco. Our plans were sadly foiled by the fact that Liam’s passport was back in Mountain View, and they were being especially strict about the types of ID they would accept (which they had failed to relay to me in either the phone call or the e-mail I had received that afternoon, confirming our reservation ). Not to be put off by such a piffling defeat, your intrepid party carried on to an almost-equally-fine establishment nearby, which was immeasurably improved by the presence of a pool table down the back, which had lots of free space around it.
(At this point, I must refer back to my foursquare feed to be quite sure of what that establishment was called It was Rye.)
I was disappointed to learn that a strawberry daiquiri was out of the question, but found myself suitably consoled by their Hemingway. We stayed at Rye until well after midnight, at which point we attempted to relocate to Swig. Unfortunately, they were being just as fussy about ID as B&B had been, so we retired to the corporate apartment that Dim & I were sharing.
We happily polished off a bottle of the delicious Judd’s Hill “Magic”. As I went to explain the story behind the wine, Tiarnan idly remarked that the magic was that it erased memories, and pointed out that we’d shared a bottle of the same stuff previously
Liam left us sometime about 02:00, and Dim retired closer to 03:00, leaving Tiarnan and I to sort out a bottle of the eminently drinkable “Hess Collection Mount Veeder 19 Block Cuvée“. We did our best, and Tiarnan gladly educated me on the talents of several artists I’d never before heard of, including the truly fabulous Jewel, using the magic pixies behind Grooveshark! I also had my first taste of swing dancing, and was utterly confused by what now seems like a relatively simple triple-step
Shortly before 06:00, we continued on our way, and finding the Muni just about to pull out as we got to Brannan, we hopped onboard! Happily, we were on the right line, as we headed towards Carl & Cole on the N Judah. Our luck wasn’t entirely to last, as we missed our stop and ended up walking back a ways. We stopped in to an early-morning cafe, where they took one look at us and pointed us straight down the street to Kezar Bar & Grill. We missed the kickoff, but caught most of the Ireland-Italy match, interrupted only briefly by a reasonably authentic full Irish.
The England-Wales match saw us sharing our second-breakfast, a plate of French toast deep-fried in sugar. It kept us awake until Liam arrived to rejoin us, and once the match was over, some bright spark suggested we head to Dottie’s. Unfortunately, some time between leaving for dinner the night before, and leaving the pub after the second match, a flaming ball of nuclear energy had appeared in the sky. We were none too pleased with this development, but soon found ourselves queuing up for a third breakfast.
In front of us in the queue were a teacher with her 5mo old baby, and her cousin Stacey. The teacher was in San Francisco for a conference, and Stacey had come to help with the baby. We chatted away, laughed at each other’s jokes, and generally shared good cheer as we waited for yet more food (preferably tiramisu), deep-fried in sugar. At some point, Stacey gave me not only a phone number and an e-mail address, but also directions, in case I should ever find myself lost or bored in Dunsmuir, all charmingly scrawled on a sheet of beautiful flower notepaper
Saturday/Sunday
By the time we had eaten breakfast, Tiarnan & I were thoroughly broken, and Liam had to return to Mountain View. For those of you keeping score, I had been up for >30hrs by that time, and Tiarnan was only an hour or two behind. We headed back to the hotel for a brief kip, and woke again conscious, if not refreshed, some time around 18:30. Tiarnan was planning to go out dancing, and just as I was about to head home, foolishly extended an invitation for me to join him
But before we could dance, it was time for fourth breakfast dinner. Dim rejoined us for a delicious Indian, and Tiarnan & I made plans to be at The Rent Party in time for their drop-in Swing class at 21:30. We got there at 21:00, only to find out that the class had started at 20:30. Tiarnan graciously offered a crash-course, during which I learnt the aforementioned triple-step, and succeeded in tying myself in rather impressive knots every time he tried to swing me out
It wasn’t long before his friends (henceforth, the Sacremento posse) arrived, and our lesson was interrupted. Tiarnan’s friends, it should be pointed out, are overwhelmingly female. This worked out famously for me, coming from the typical Google world, where I can tell that it’s a writing-team meeting if the proportion of women tips above 10%. The Sacremento posse in particular are people who know him from the dancing world. For the record, Tiarnan has been dancing for many years, and is, to put it mildly, accomplished. This became relevant sooner than I had expected.
Tiarnan graciously shared the first dance with me, and I think I acquitted myself reasonably. This may have been because he confined his dancing to the two steps he had taught me so far, but we won’t speculate too far on that. I was about to sit down when one of the Sacremento posse invited me to dance. Knowing full-well that there’s only one polite reply to such an invitation, I acquiesced gladly. This dance went about as badly as the previous one had gone well. It improved somewhat, about halfway through, when the lead stopped for a moment, looked at me, and said, as politely as I’m sure he could, “you don’t know East Coast, do you?”. I explained that no, we hadn’t been introduced, and in fact, I had only started dancing in the prior half hour, which he took with great grace. He proceeded to teach me the basic East Coast step, which I promptly forgot.
My third dance, in which I learned the value of a good lead (or the additional difficultly that a poor lead presents to a new follow ). Nonetheless, I had fun, but now I needed a break, and some time to shove my rapidly-melting brain back in to my ears. I found the water coolers, wrote my name on a cup (not much contention for “Noirin”, really!), and tried to process.
The rest of the night went swimmingly. I managed about a dozen dances, with no fewer than eight leads. I mostly survived, and the leads were all very gracious. I may have broken one of them just a smidge, when I proceeded to hijack the dance slightly, and teach him the triple-step, but overall I think all involved had fun. I enjoyed watching some stunning dancers, particularly in the Blues room, and suffered only a minor shock on returning to the Lindy room from the Blues room and discovering that the music was approximately twelve times faster
Tiarnan having warned me that he planned to leave before midnight, I was not entirely surprised when we ended up closing the joint, and the magic of the internets (and the cars of the Sacramento posse) got us to Grubstake. I wasn’t really ready for their delicious chips, but did enjoy the gallon of ice-cream that I was served in the guise of a milkshake.
I managed to remain conscious long enough to get out of the diner and into a taxi. We headed back to the hotel, and rounded three sides of it before we found an open door, and crashed into bed. It was about this time that Tiarnan sent the following tweet, and yes, noirins was well and truly broken, although I would point out in my defence that it wasn’t so much the 30 hours that killed me, as the night of dancing that followed.
Sunday, I’m almost sure…
We were woken at some truly unmerciful hour, it can’t have been much past noon, the next day (for those of you who’ve lost track, the narrative has now made it to Sunday, at least in some universe), by the hotel fire alarm. I was perfectly content to die in the fire, as long as it didn’t involve moving anything below my hips. Tiarnan, on the other hand, insisted that we evacuate, a decision that was happily overruled by the lady on the intercom assuring us that the alarm was under investigation and we would be informed if there were any further developments. It wasn’t long before she returned to tell us that it was a false alarm, but by then we were awake.
For full disclosure, we had woken to the sound of Tiarnan’s alarm shortly before 07:00. Happily, he had been unable to stream the Scotland-France match over the internet fumes that the hotel provided, so we had rapidly returned to the embrace of Morpheus.
Anyway, once the fire alarm had woken us for real, I conducted a thorough study of the ceiling while Tiarnan conversed with no fewer than a dozen people via at least three media. We got up and found the most hip of San Francisco’s many hipster cafes. I had a swig of his mocha, and was surprisingly impressed. Tiarnan had thus introduced me to Swing and coffee in one weekend, a combination I feel confident will reoccur at some point.
At this point, I had planned to go home, get changed, and head to a Superbowl ad-watching party. Not the most dreadful state, but one from which I was rescued by yet another invitation to join Tiarnan’s friends. Given that the ad party was being held in the Internet Archive’s location, I figured I’d find a more fun gender-balance with his mates, and the decision was made. San Francisco being truly, wonderfully San Francisco, it was no problem for me to run out, get clean socks and a t-shirt, even in the twenty minutes I had before we were due to leave. For the record, if you’ve been wearing the same clothes for two days straight, and can only change one thing, make it your socks. OMG, that felt good!
Who dat!?
After possibly the wildest taxi ride of my life, including both San Francisco hills and driving down the street on the sidewalk, we found the party, and I settled in between the wonderful N’Awlins Helena and a dancer called Dana. Helena provided illegally delicious BBQ shrimp, with a sauce you could just drink. Dana, not to be outdone, explained the rules of American football as only a woman can, and we proceeded to transmit as much sound energy as possible directly back through the screen to the Saints.
I will readily admit to a certain fondness for New Orleans, and was only too happy to support the Saints. The football was, surprisingly, more entertaining than the ads, although I will give full props to Dove for possibly-unintentional comedy value, and to Google for a very well-received Parisian Love. (The football may also have been made more fun by the fact that Dana had placed a small bet, and we were therefore screaming for specific scores at both half- and full-time, not just for a single winner )
Once the game was over, and the victory celebrated, the weekend seemed almost complete. But no! What of the ad-watching party!? We headed back towards the Tenderloin to meet up with Tom, and find out how the party had been. Sadly, Tom’s companion had just been turned away from Swig, because her ID didn’t meet their exacting standards So we retired to the hotel bar for a bevvy (and no, I still hadn’t gotten my strawberry daiquiri!). Tom & Pam left us after one, and since both Tiarnan & I were in possession of the magic harp-stamped documents, we returned to Swig just one more time.
The lack of strawberry daiquiris at Swig rapidly became moot, as we shook our booty to a rousing chorus of “Oh when the Saints” from the live band. It was almost as fun as Hallowe’en in New Orleans, and possibly better since it involved slightly more manageable crowds. I had my first taste of Blues dancing, and any preference for Lindy that I might have expressed on Saturday was rapidly forgotten as I fell in love with yet another new dance.
The end of the night was marred by a drunken Irish idiot, who didn’t understand the basics of “no”, but Tiarnan did an absolutely impeccable job of looking after me, and really, the whole affair should not be mixed up with the absolutely fabulous weekend I enjoyed.
And thus you have the tale of possibly the best weekend I’ve ever had. I made new friends, I got in more girl-talk than I’ve had in the last very-long-time, I fell in love with two new dances (and I’m already signed-up for Lindy classes when I get home!), I got to talk all night long, for several nights in a row, I discovered new music (listen to Jewel & Sarah McLachlan’s “Water is Wide”!), I had, in short, an absolute blast.
Unfortunately, I have now returned to work, where I am trying to write concise, informative documentation, on a shockingly short deadline. I would have made this post more brief, but I just didn’t have time. If you made it this far, my apologies for the length. Remind me the next time we’re in the same city, and I’ll buy you a pint
|
Calendar
September 2010
| M |
T |
W |
T |
F |
S |
S |
| « Aug |
|
|
| | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 |
| 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 |
| 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 |
| 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 |
| 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 |
|
|
