Fortunes, I gather, change as quickly as the weather here in the mountains. I awoke yesterday morning feeling slightly below par; my resting heart rate was higher than normal, and my back and was a bit sore. I attributed it to the long flight and the time change, and assumed I would feel better after practice.
This being our taper period, practices are easy. Our morning row went very well, though my heart rate was still high. I was ready to race, confident in our inevitable success. When we came back to the hotel though, I was exhausted and starting to feel a bit feverish.
It’s hard to ask yourself a question if you’re afraid to learn the answer. However, the tide still rises though you turn to face inland, and I was already waist-deep before I acknowledged the terrifying truth: the internet in our airy four-star hotel was down.
What would 15 young Americans abroad do without internet? Panic. It was as though somebody stepped on an anthill. Quiet whispers of “Hey, is your internet working?” arose from the hallways and ascended into shrieks. Ned started sobbing. Brett clicked “Try Again” every 30 seconds until he broke down and BOUGHT internet. (Desperate times…) I went to inquire at the front desk and convinced the hotel receptionist to give me access to their secret internet supply. No easy task, especially across a language barrier. Finally though, I got in.
I immediately checked WebMD. As suspected, I was getting sick. I had hopes it would go away with a bit of rest, but this morning I felt worse. OK, no big deal, I just need to get better by race day. I took today off rowing completely, and did nothing but sleep and visit the pharmacy.
This week being one for new experiences, another was added to the list: at the pharmacy, I really wished I knew German. Unlike at American drug stores, where you can browse through aisles of medicines and compare them, in Switzerland (or at least at this place) everything useful was behind the counter. This required my interaction with a real human being, which was a bit like reinventing language, a difficult task even when you’re feeling well. She did speak some English, but I suspect gave me things based on my apparent condition, which was rapidly deteriorating.
“What could this sweaty, red, snotty, congested American want?” I imagine her thinking. “Ah! I have just the thing.”
Some flu medicine. Perfect. “And a thermometer, please.” (She knows what this is.) “Danke schön.” *cough*
I think Wayne Newton, by way of Ferris Bueller, has taught me 100% of my German.
Back at the hotel, I check my temperature… 38.5? What does that even mean? I may be dea—no, wait. I’m not dead; I’ve just been foiled by my old nemesis the metric system again. Well, I’ll just Google this and find out what it me—Page Load Error?! Oh right. Who would have such obscure knowledge without access to Google?...Kris Korzeniowski, rowing coach. He was hardened in the forests of Poland before the internet made us all into marshmallows, and probably before Farenheit was even alive. I find him.
“Kris, my temperature is 38.5. What does that mean?”
“Oh, that is quite serious. Go and get rest.” Sweet.
