Wet Hot Slovenian Summer

Lake Bled might be the most famous lake in Slovenia, but Lake Bohinj in Ribcev Laz is the biggest. Surrounded by mountains, waterfalls, and trails of all kinds, tourists of all seasons come here to do outdoor activities. Since our pinnacle activity of the trip would be to bicycle 300km of trail from the Alps to the Adriatic, we focused this part of vacation on watersports and attempting to relax. In classic Mark Schlink style, he'd start our days with the casual comment of "let's take a walk, make no plans" and end up hiking 15 miles. Not all of the meandering was annoying since we'd usually end up at a waterfall or pretty mountain view, but sometimes we found ourselves overly thirsty and sore, or inadvertently looking at very naked sunbathers (a normal thing for Europeans).

The highlight of Ribcev Laz was canyoning, a general term for people dumb enough to jump, rappel (abseiling when it's done in water), and slide down waterfalls. In order to earn the fun stuff, we had to first hike up about a mile wearing 10mm thick wetsuits, boots, helmets, and harnesses. In Margo's case, she canyoned in two left foot boots, because I wasn't paying attention when I tossed them into the barrel. But she made it work. Our most important instructions were: jump and land with flat feet, slide with arms straight and cross-crossed, and no peeing in the wetsuits. Check, check, and check.

our cottage: bigger only on the outside

walking to "town" 
Ribcev Laz

Slavica Waterfall

Mostnica Gorge

Mostnika Gorge

water break and strudel stop in Voje Valley

Jake and Elwood

Mostnica Waterfall

Lake Bohinj

gear prep

watersliding

surprisingly warm wetsuits

jumping with two left boots

abseiling down to dad

holding onto my butt

Slovenia says to get outside. Maybe you should.

Regarding singles-life in Slovenia, someone recently commented in a Tales Mag post report that only those who absolutely love the outdoors should live there if they have hopes of meeting a mate. In my opinion, if that's the perceived reputation among expats, then Slovenia is surely doing something right. While the Slovenian Tourist Board capitalizes outside acticity and exploring the "green boutique quality" of the small Central European country, Slovenia also has a chic indoor scene with world famous cuisine, cool museums and shops, and spas galore. Despite its size, the place is packed with natural wonders and things to do, so even the most hermity of hermits can enjoy fresh air at least once in a while.

After marinating in our own sweat during an 11-hour layover in the Istanbul airport due a missed connection and nugatory airline staff, we landed in Slovenia with renewed determination to get outside and stay outside. The Tour of Slovenia coincided with our stay so we headed to the mountains to watch stage 4 from Ljubljana to Kobarid. Swag-vans threw out "I Feel SLOVEnia" flags, while cyclists threw out empty water bottles to cheering fans. Deets snagged one a blue one and declared himself loyal to Bahrain Victorious therafter.

We made friends with a couple (Ljubjanians? Ljubjanites?) living in the capital who recommended a steakhouse where we could celebrate Mark and Deets' birthdays in coming days, and we shared beers with like minded fans, screaming like goons as the competitors rode past. An Italian named Philippo Zana won the tour despite crashing on a descent, flipping over his bike and nearly hitting an unsuspecting horse: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IYytaV1Rn3Y. He and the horse were unharmed from the incident. Happy with our day, we felt that vacation had officially started. Kind of.

Unfortunately, we took more than a few wrong turns and a few extra hours to reach our next location. I blame Google Maps for not playing nice. Carsick, tired of each other, and very hungry, we arrived to a town called Ribcev Laz located on the other side of the mountains, where the best burgers in the world exist. On a previous trip to Slovenia 5 years ago, we ate at a restaurant called Forksner three times in a single week. The curt staff don't write names on a clipboard or take reservations, which matches its aloof online presence. It's strictly first come, first served, so if you can ignore the line of people mentally willing you to leave the table once you finally make it, the local beer and beef are well worth the wait despite mediocre staff.

By the end of this trip, we would repeat our visit twice more. Physically, between hiking, biking, canyoning, and swimming, and mentally just being outside, we would earn it.

Kobarid and Soca River view

watching the racers begin the climb

credit: Mark

20km to go after double summiting a 10.3km climb at 9.5%

so HAPPY

credit: Mark

beefed up in Ribcev Laz

walking off the food babies by Lake Bohinj
credit: mark

Urungach Lake, Uzbekistan

Knowing what I know now, February is not best time to visit the Jade Lakes (aka Urungach Lakes) when ice, snow, and mud make for a painful and dangerous journey. A better time is in April, where landslides, boulders, livestock, and narcissists suffering from selfitis make for a painful and dangerous journey instead. Much later than April, we were told, the glacier water stops flowing which means stagnant, filmy water and hordes of mosquitos.

Sighing in resignation, we agreed to drive the gauntlet once more because a friend of ours really wanted to see what is probably Uzbekistan's most famous lake. And, we had to follow the advice we dish out to the kids, that in order to have a friend, you have to be a friend, especially when interests aren't aligned.

 

This particular weekend marked the end of Ramadan, which equaled extra days off, which equaled many people visiting the park. The upper and lower lakes were very much an Instagram versus reality: the sound of rushing glacier melt filling the nearly translucent blue-green lakes, the cool air and no bugs, versus the noisy diesel engines of the Lada 4x4 taxis, piles of trash, lines of impatient hikers, and people attempting to picnic along the rocky, narrow edge of the water. From bottom to top, the hike took us about 90 minutes, but the view was worth the effort of dodging Ladas gunning up the unstable terrain, dealing with the large amount of soda-drinking, must-disobey-all-rules kinds of visitors.

Reality: 4x4s and roaring engines. The driver was
filling the radiator with creek water.

IG: clarity

Reality: smoking, music, and nowhere to sit

IG: nothing but the sound of rushing water

IG: glossy, crisp, green

Reality: lines with nowhere to safely get off trail to avoid the pushy types.

Reality: Lada, Lada, everywhere. However, it was fun to watch them
navigate the tiny parking lot ala engine revving Tetris.

The Case for CPR/AED Training

I can't decide if this story should start with me boarding the 2:30am flight from Tashkent to Istanbul (then onward to London and Orlando) when I got the call, or if the story should start with my dad working out at the gym in Colorado. Either way, the story ends the same.

The original plan was to meet Mom and Dad in Florida. While I would attend a nursing conference for work, they would hang out at the beach and visit friends. In the evenings we would enjoy dinner and each other's company. Considering the Schlink's not-so-great winter start with David's appendicitis, the unexpected and painful death of my brother-in-law, and various orthopedic injuries between Mark's parents and mine, we all agreed our short reunion would be a very welcome break. Even if it had to be a place like Florida.

Well, we planned, and God laughed.

Two days before the trip, while working out at the gym, my dad went into sudden cardiac arrest. Thanks to quick recognition and response by Conrad, a 71-year-old gym member, CPR, 911, and the AED were started, called, and executed. He was dead for about 8 minutes when the rescuers got his heart pumping again. Two ribs broke on the right, five on the left. The paramedics started two huge IV lines, intubated him, and loaded him into the ambulance for the 45 minute drive to the hospital. Mom, who was at lunch, got a notification that the gym would be closed for the rest of the day due to an emergency. Then she received a call from the emergency room but they wouldn't discuss on the phone what had happened. Unsurprisingly, worry and panic set in.

His heart was beating again, but how much brain damage did he suffer? We wouldn't know until he could be extubated and breathe on his own, if he could breathe on his own. Their other plans were to stabilize Tom's blood pressure, cool his body temperature, and rebalance his acids, bases and electrolytes. Only then could they evaluate heart by way of cardiac catheterization. All we could do was wait: mom frantic in the hospital waiting room, me trapped on airplanes with crappy (nonexistent) internet for the next 9 hours. Finally supplied with wifi upon arrival to London, I reconnected with my mom (no news) and I rearranged my tickets for a Denver arrival. I'd have to transfer from Gatwick to Heathrow, and connect in Chicago, but I'd arrive after nearly 48 hours of travel, front-door to ICU-door. I didn't know if I'd be coming back to say hello or goodbye to my dad.

Part of my own heart was/is broken, living so far away from family and when emergencies come up like this, the distance is especially painful. This part of the Foreign Service sucks. However, I had the help of an amazing General Services Officer and the embassy's travel team to assist me in changing tickets without having to be placed on hold, or standing in line for hours. They got me to where I needed to be in record time.

Tom made an impressive recovery. Once he could breathe on his own and his labs improved, he was scheduled for a cardiac catheterization where a specialist would insert a wire and inject dye through his right, radial artery to take pictures. Depending on the number and location of arteries needing repair, he'd get either a stent(s) or need open heart surgery. By the time we returned from lunch, he had already been evaluated and treated. Interestingly, my dad has an extra bifurcation to the left anterior descending artery (LAD) the one famously known as the Widow Maker. The bifurcation called the ramus artery and only 35% of people have it. I couldn't find much information about artery in my medical apps, textbooks, or even google.

Tom was discharged from the hospital after just 5 days, oddly anticlimactic but very much welcomed. Soreness and exhaustion have been the main themes at home, he's had no brain injury apart from the amnesia of the gym day and days in the ICU. Four weeks from now and he will get a stent placed in his LAD after his heart recovers from the trauma, and also after my mom gets a new knee. (My parents have spent the last couple of years trading off being surgical patients, it's almost a running joke).

My brother, mom, and I had the pleasure to thank the people involved in saving our dad. We celebrated with cookies and fruit, hugs given, and stories were shared. So many happy tears were shed. Most importantly, the gym staff, police and paramedics reaffirmed the value that CPR and AED training brings to the table. We literally have NO idea when it will be our turn to save a life, or when ours needs to be saved. To say I am grateful would be an understatement.

My dad with his ICU nurse and 
his pressors, heparin, antibiotic drips, freshly extubated.

Crappy lab values in the ICU. Dx: NSTEMI in ramus artery,
resulting in ventricular fibrillation.

My dad with his new stent and heart pillow I coincidentally brought for his birthday. 
I planned to give it while in Florida.

Man Of The Year.
Mom with Conrad, my new favorite hero: retired high school
biology teacher, football and ski coach, and CPR doer.
  

Lt. Ron who helped Conrad shock my dad back to life.

Gym staff who fielded phone calls,
directed the paramedics, and kept everyone calm.

Celebrating life. Literally.

Touring Old Dhaka

Zia, our guide with Tours and Trips BD, covered a lot of Bangladeshi history in a short amount of time. After the morning market, we proceeded south into Old Dhaka to see a handful of heritage sites: a Catholic church, Armenian Orthodox church, a Hindu temple, their famous Star Mosque that is also on their currency, a garish pink palace/museum, the state university, a red fort, and a port on the Buriganga River.  

Even though he did a splendid job explaining the importance of each place, I had more fun making my way through the narrow alleys that were full of textiles for sale, street food, and jewelry vendors. Most people, he explained, lived upstairs and ran their shops downstairs on the main level. Housing is super narrow, some apartments legitimately measuring no wider than 6 feet across, but are 50 feet long and several floors tall. Lighting and wiring these places are nightmare, so the wiring stays outside, and most buildings under construction are never completed, lest the tenants have to start paying taxes. Legal loopholes, he said, are key to surviving and thriving for many.

Not all experiences in Dhaka were marvelous. Amongst dodging people and rickshaws, we also had to dodge open sewage and men taking leaks into them. Most of them wore lungis without underwear so they could gain easy access for a pee. I wondered aloud how women made it through the day, and Zia said they had to either hold it, or plan their days around bathroom breaks because modesty is a MUST. Women would get into serious trouble if they were caught "popping a squat" anywhere in public. 

Trash was everywhere. The sanitation services in Dhaka are lacking and underfunded, plus the communities are apathetic to a problem that seems insurmountable, according to journalists from the Daily Star (link). They argue in order to change into a habit of accountability, the community needs to change their psychology of how they think about trash management and break the habit loop. That said, the government needs to develop and enforce policy (link) and prioritize funding for municipal services. It doesn't help either that the land of Bangladesh is seated upon a delta, and countless inlets from the ocean mean they inherit whatever the ocean washes up to shore. In the end, the country deals with over 25,000 tons of trash per day (link) so a multifaceted plan of attack is needed, no matter who's to blame. (And to be fair, depending on who is conducting the study, Americans (link) generate the most trash in the world, so we can't really point fingers either. Unless it's to blame Canada (link), who are also listed as big time trash monsters.)

Regardless of the trash and pollution and noise, it is the local staff at the embassy with whom I spent the majority of my time, and shine brighter than anything. Hospitality in Dhaka is amazing, and kindness was noticed everywhere. We ate delicious homemade food, and were given valuable advice and knowledge about thriving in a hardcore city like Dhaka. We trained hard, laughed a lot, and shared common goals and ideas in deepening and strengthening community relationships. I walked away with more memories and appreciation for the country than I could have hoped for.  That, and lot of scarves. I may have gotten carried away with their beautiful cotton scarves.

Standing on the wall at Lalbagh Fort and not knowing what to do with my hands. 

First president of Bangladesh upon gaining independence from Pakistan, 1975.

University of Dhaka campus.

Port of Dhaka, Buriganga River.

Kids playing in the Buriganga River.

Buriganga River Port: overnight ferries and water taxis.

Piles of pineapple at the port.

Pink Palace, aka Ahsan Manzil Museum

Inside the Pink Palace: where all fashionable ladies gave birth,
on a marble bed self-draining capabilities. Metal cradle for bebe.

Netflix installation.

Marigolds and garland available for purchase
outside a Hindu temple.

Early morning setup before the breakfast rush.

Hazy commute to embassy,
crossing over Gulshan Lake.

Daily commute from annex to chancery through the Field of Snakes.

Bengalis capitalize on cricket,
but football will never die.

Dhaka: Everything, Everywhere, All At Once

City life in Dhaka screams 'everything, everywhere, all at once.' Stepping into the unrelenting noise, color, and people-filled streets can be a little intimidating even for someone who already lives in South Central Asia. With Dhaka, the energy has an urgent vibe where cars, trucks, scooters, rickshaws, bikes, and people jockey their way to the front of never-ending traffic. A single, green uniformed police officer might be around to attempt to control the impatient crowds, using maybe a light stick or single plastic barricade. The melee of constant pushing, revving, "strategic" lane changing, and blatant disregard for traffic lights (which often have 360 second countdowns) make for impressive choke points in the gridlocked streets.

Sidewalks are not much better, especially during peak commute hours. People of all shapes and sizes show up, walking, begging, proselytizing, and vending. Some are masked to protect themselves from the persistent dust and pollution that unfortunately pairs too well with the constant, rock-concert-level decibels of the city. Five times a day, call to prayer is played over speakers loud enough to be heard on top of everything else. Mosques are everywhere. While Bangladesh's constitution designates Islam as the state religion, the government also upholds the principle of secularism, so flourishes of Hindu, Buddhist, and Christian religion can been seen too.

A recent tour of Dhaka's old city made efforts to prove the secularist look is a thing. I was working at the embassy there, teaching mass casualty management classes for two weeks and I only had one weekend to explore, so I hired a guide to check out the prides and joys of Dhaka. We started with a 7am pickup to visit a wholesale market that runs daily from 4am-9am. Bulk purchases only and bargaining is required. Zia, our guide, told my friend and I to lead and he would follow so as not to lose us in the crowd. We walked through the aisles packed with fruits and vegetables, over piles of discarded greens and garbage, and under dimly lit warehouse roofs.

Hoping to impress buyers with bright, fresher-than-thy-neighbor's, green colored foods were placed under green colored lightbulbs, red with red, etc. Papaya vendors wore thick rubber gloves to sort their stacks because the pesticides sprayed on them would leave blistering welts and cause organophosphate poisoning if they didn't. We smelled luxurious mint and coriander, admired huge sized green lemons, and pondered what some of the root vegetables even were. Emerging on the other end, we walked past the bulldozer whose driver impatiently waited to for the crowds to disperse so that he could begin the job of shoving the refuse... somewhere else.

After several attempts to track down his driver, Zia ushered us to walk through a tunnel of rush hour, horn blaring traffic, and hastily run-walk on the haphazardly placed rocks to skip over the muddy sections where asphalt had long disintegrated. He perched us on a corner like everyone else who was waiting for a ride, under an overpass that was meant for their future metro line. I stood on that corner, catching my breath, and appreciate our victory of not dying from carbon monoxide poisoning or vehicular manslaughter. I watched lines of double decker busses pick up and drop off passengers without actually stopping. Finally, the driver picked us up and we continued into the city for more fun.

Cabbage life.

No such thing as two way traffic in the market.

Papaya.

Dried fish.

Closing time.

 Modems and bike delivery service.

Sidewalk-less tunnel that we had to hoof thru.