Wednesday Remnants

Whatta jewel.  Found this banana peel in my backpack side-pocket.  Utterly shriveled, peppered with mould, but surprisingly firm and well-preserved.  The wonders of the cold!  In Singapore it would've been fruit-fly-haven by now.

Surprised as I pulled it out--I vaguely remembered stuffing it in my bag on the way for Wednesday's supermarket rush.  Ah, good old, leisurely Wednesdays!  As usual, training ends at 7.30-7.45pm, but I have to shower, have dinner, and be at the parking lot by 8.15pm to mark attendance.  No joke when I say the 12-hour shift kicks-in immediately.  The nerve-numbing adrenaline rush leaves no room for fatigue hangovers.

Obviously, it's a horrible scramble.  Think grotesque images of food-shovelling, scant showers, and hurrying in the cold with a full head of poorly-toweled, damp hair.  Hideous in form, nature and appearance.  To make up for the literal lack of nutrition, I take out the random banana during the short bus ride.  While I chomp it down, I hope my innards won't burst from poorly-chewed, digestion-inhibited constipation.

It's hard not to feel like I am, this blackened peel. 

Squashed, shriveled, but hardened, tough, and still damn... damn around.

Ties that Run Deep
While walking out of the clubhouse after dinner a few days ago, I was arrested with a startling, heart-rendering sight.

Kids who come and go at Sanchez-Casal are an almost-weekly occurrence.  These souls drift in for a taste of training, and just as they're settling in, they are inevitably whisked away by the next wind of change.  For obvious reasons, friendships formed with others are scant, and family bonds that bring these players here dig deep.

One of the kids I've noticed in the past week is this young teenage Indian boy who's been walking around the Academy with his mother.  While he's on court hitting balls, she's sitting by, sipping coffee.  While he's in the gym, she's standing by, holding jackets.  Her kind of parental love obviously comes in deafening devotion, devoid of distraction and unabashedly unadulterated.

But I suppose that's only half the story.  All too often while the tennis world gripes (read: criticises) professional players with over-protective, close-knit families, they forget the most important thing.  Without family, it's almost always, bloody impossible to make it big.  The media negates the stress families go through, the stressful re-locations, painful spousal-separation, heavy financial challenges.  Most crucially, the bonds between parents and child are tested and re-tested, time and time again.

That evening, that little Indian boy's father had finally touched down in Barcelona.  Just as I was shuffling out of the restaurant, his dad was running into the foyer from the cold.

"What's this?--" I thought,

and before I could think any more,

he had swept his little boy into his arms.  They stood there for a good thirty seconds, still.  The boy's cheek was plastered tightly against his fathers coat, his eyes closed, his arms locked around his father, who, with his face buried in his boy's hair, was smiling and rocking him gently from side to side.  All this while, the woman stood by, smiling.

"How nice," I thought.
"I know how that feels," I thought.
And then suddenly the tears started creeping into the corners of my eyes.

I hurried out into the cold--reluctant to impinge on their private moment.  Reluctant, also, to feed that welling hollow in my heart, yearning for my family.

- Think about other things, Sarah.  Think about other things. -

Maybe about my stilted breath that broke into clouds against the still, cold night.  Or about my numb fingers, as I stuffed them into my jacket pockets.  Searching deeper and deeper for warmth.

My Elbow Room!
Space is so important.  Especially when you come back tired from a long day out running, jumping and god-knows-what-else.  For me, I only want a place (cum space) where I can truly unwind.  Off with the shoes, switch on some jazz, shrug off the sweaty clothes.  Zone out. 

Here's a photojournal of my humble abode--the 15m2 space I've been trying to make home:

The things I like most about my room: 1) The relatively high ceilings 2) The big, beautiful windows, looking out to green boughs.  In the first few nights I was here, the weather was good enough to sleep with the windows open.  I woke up to cool morning air and the sounds of birds chirping just outside!

On another note, cleaning ladies come to make the beds for all rooms in the Residencia Mondays to Saturdays.  They also sweep and mop the room, but obviously, the job is hardly thorough.

Good cupboard space, floor to ceiling shelves.  What's not so cool though is that the doors clack against the wood and because the walls are so thin, I can hear my neighbour's.!

 

Paraphernalia.  Thank God the room comes with a fridge--I keep my stash of huevos (Spanish for eggs) here, among other items like red wine and crackers (holy communion), carrots, orange juice and wholemeal bread.

 

 My desk.  Two computers.  The one on the right is the residencia computer with incredibly fast internet but disappointingly slow ram.  Pictures above desk remind me of home--and more importantly, that I'm not alone in this tennis endeavour.  In the words of my older sister, to a certain extent, it makes things easier because it forces me to realise (esp. when I feel down) that there are a ton of people back home who care and support me, and want to see me succeed... :)

This computer gives me access to cameras located around the residence.  In many senses, it is a like a panopticon, and many a time, I feel like a voyeur!  But it helps lah, especially keeping tabs on the kids.

When I first got this room, it was fitted with horrible florescent lighting.  It reminded me too much of the squalid hdb conditions so remniscent in depressing Eric Khoo movies. I got two lamps into the room, fitted them with warm bulbs, and they basically constitute my entire lighting system now. 

On another note, room in the evenings is always treated to breathtaking sunset sky.  You can't really see it much in this picture, because of the lights, but there it is.  The trees block out the actual sunset, but the sky is always tinged with brilliant shades of purple, pink, lavender, or even red.  Quite literally, what a palette to play with... :)

Lunch Hour: 2-3pm

Menu for the day:

• Tuna Egg Salad (I personally never touch the tuna)
• Braised Beef Slices (super protein fix)
• Brown Rice w Green Peas (tough to munch, but good for lunch..)
• Chinese tea (Actually from China but still reminds me of home. Strangely.)
• Macaroni chicken soup (warm liquids, always welcomed :) )

Teeth-Chattering, Knuckle-Breaking Cold

I know by many respects, the Spanish winter is mild compared to many other parts of the world.  As we start to turn on the heaters in the dorms, the Russian kids have also started complaining that 21degrees is "wayy too hot, Sarahhhh!" 

That said, I am still by and large (pun intended), a tropical creature.  For the past few days, weather has gone down to as low as 3°C in the morning, and I have resorted to walking about on court wrapped up like a muffin.  Sometimes, it means six or seven layers on me (two jackets, and two track pants included) just to keep warm.  Sometimes it feels a little awkward, because some of my more acclimatized team mates still prance around in their tops and shorts, but I have long decided that I'd rather keep warm and look stupid than look cool and get injured.

Regrettably, the only part of me that I can't really cover when I play are my hands.  They have suffered a brutal beating from the blasted cold, especially my poor knuckles.  From lip sores, to torn hamstrings to cracked knuckles--what is there to say?  I love the cold :P

Left hand

Right hand.  This knuckle started cracking first--it has healed some, but it was pretty bad in the beginning.  I'd be playing tennis half way, and I'd look down at my hands and I'd be greeted with oozing blood!

Middle knuckle left hand is my current star attraction.  She bled quite a bit during practice today--my coach was shocked when he saw her scarlet and all.  Here, the wounds, as you can see, sear quite deep.  It only really hurts when I rub hand sanitizer on it--obviously, because the wounds are still open.

Visiting Strangers, Dogs Barking, "Women" Wailing
I'm going to use this post to share a little more about my new job with the Academy--as resident guardian and overseer to 28 kids over 18 rooms in the Academy's dormitory, known as The Residencia.  The Residencia is on the second floor of a stock block grey building that also doubles up as the school's administrative block and classrooms.

I have 20 boys and 8 girls under my care, with ages ranging from 12-17 and they come from all over the world.  The kids come from Russia, Israel, China, Uzbekistan, Liechtenstein, Germany, Romania, Ukraine, Malaysia and the UK, to name a few.  It all sounds pretty cool but when you factor in the fact that many of them are rebellious and going through that often problematic puberty-adolescent stage, my "job coolness" factor gets notched down. 

My job scope follows such:

1. Being on night duty at the Residence from 8pm to 8am, Mondays to Fridays and a full day on Saturdays.  Aside from
2. Doing call every night at 10.15pm, making sure that all are present.  This includes menially asinine task of asking/getting them to brush their teeth.  This is something especially tiring (and trying!) after a long day of training, particularly when they don't want to listen.
3. Locking up the building and switching on the alarm system every night.
4. Throwing out kids who don't live in the Residencia, and who aren't supposed to be there (sometimes a tiring task).
5. Checking their rooms in the morning to make sure all are in school/at training, and that none are loafing around/oversleeping.
6. Switching off the security alarm in the mornings.
7. Giving weekly updates to the administrative manager during my precious lunch hour, on what's happening at the Residencia.  Often, this includes telling her about problem kids, unpleasant incidences that have happened. 
   Aside from all this, I also have to
8. Stand guard at the restaurant during dinner to make sure they don't throw food across tables (has happened before)...
9. Collating feedback on the food from the kids, and giving suggestions to the restaurant on ways to improve its menue selection.
   
   

I've been at the job for a total of one month now, and it was initially very, very stressful juggling a full day's worth of practice, having no time to relax, and then starting work almost immediately.  My first night at the Residencia was pure rot--the older boys decided to see how far they could go with their limits, and so at 1am in the morning, they all went into cahoots and started screaming and banging their doors together.  The problem with the Residencia is that the walls are very thin--so you can effectively hear many many things from one end of the corridor, to another.  If that wasn't enough, some of them started playing porn movies in their room and cranked out the sound really really loud.  A few others went down to the boy's locker room downstairs and started screaming/wailing at the top of their lungs.  After a while, I also heard what sounded like a dog barking.  Yeap... all past mignight.

I didn't get much sleep that first night.  None at all, actually.  Curled up in my new room, my tired body was unspeakably tense in this new... environment.  No, it honestly felt more like a hell hole.  With past midnight bloodcurdling screams, deafening shouts, doors banging and a host of strange noises, for the first time in my life, I simply didn't feel safe.  I didn't feel safe, so I couldn't sleep.

In exchange for this, I get free room, board, meals, and a grand total salary of EUR300 a month.  Numerically, it's worse than a cleaner's pay back home!, and I initially honestly felt pushed between a rock and a hard place to accept the job.  I had to because I wanted to keep my chances of training here.  But I didn't want to because I knew it would affect my training.  I get interrupted sleep and less hours, simply because I am on stand by and have obligations and duties to fulfill.  Sometimes during roll call, I feel so tired I feel feverish. 

The plus side to all of this is obviously the full room and board, and the fact that I can use the extra 300 (though not much) to offset my steep training costs.  That and that the room I have is a nice spacious one with big windows and a big cupboard.  Minus the horrible walls and the often antagonistic kids, the job would be tolerable.... :(

Tree-Clapping, Field-Singing Joy :
Salvation Comes to My Family!
I believe that the older we grow, the more separate our paths veer from our biological family. Nature dictates we branch out to new roads, into matrimonial families, individual units, independent entities. Considering that most of us in Singapore live our entire childhood, adolescent, and young adult life with our families, this process of separation--though progressive--is a painful one. Particularly when 1) we are close to our families, 2) when we become conscious of this yawning, inevitable distance.

This process of separation is always something that's been for my five siblings and I. It started off when the oldest two got married, when the grandkids started multiplying, when girlfriend and boyfriends started creeping into the picture, and we all, well... got older. We plucked the courage to venture and live our own lives. Amidst this excitement, there always was also a tinge of sadness—that the love we so know between us was being forced to change, in lieu and light of other loves arising. I guess this Barcelona endeavour is the perfect case in point.

When I woke up this morning, I was crabby and tired. With only 6 1/2 hours of sleep and a 7am Wordswright conference call to prepare for, I felt like a slug that'd just gotten salt sprinkled on it. As my toes tingled and (what little of) my leg hair raised in the chilly air, I sat down with a thump at my desk. I fumbled around, grumbling for my phone.

What greeted me on screen were two messages. One was an advertisement (bah, delete!) and another, interestingly, was a text from my oldest brother.

I've always loved my brother. Tremendously. All my siblings for that matter. But as is with most Chinese families, we are shy to be frank, blatant, and perfectly honest with our feelings. Which explains the heartening, thankful feeling that welled when his initial “How are you Sarah?” quickly gave way to sharing how he was now experiencing the start of a greater love from Above. As I read his text, 10,900km away on a frigid Spanish winter morning, the fatigue that was hovering above me dissipated into thin air—quite quickly, and quite literally. Like a Cyril Wong poem I once read, here suddenly was honesty peaking like warm sunbeams, past dark clouds. In its place, I rediscovered that indelible warmth and confidence that can only exist between siblings.

From surprise to excitement to a massive grin, what finally replaced that cheek-aching smile were warm, fresh tears. Of joy. So strange considering I was feeling crap just moments ago. But still, even when we are faithless, God remains good and ever faithful. My precious brother’s salvation is the perfect case in point :)

*A toast, to a day filled with incredible rejoicing :)*

SP Lactic Glue--Best in Singapore, JB, and some say Batam
Quick note before I hit the sack.

I lost my match yesterday a blisteringly disappointing 2-6, 3-6 to a 17 year old Indian girl also from the Academy.  She was #5 (in my excitement I got the rounds wrong!) and in many respects, I should've beaten her easily.  But let's face it--should'ves are always lousy excuses because they focus more on could'ves instead of what really was.  Should'ves ignore what really was, and what could've been improved.

So what went wrong?

I started strong, kicking off the first game of the first set with a slew of terrible serves.  The first was so fast, she didn't even have time to move out of its path before it smacked her right in the chest :P  I kept on keeping on and nabbed the first set 40-0, game.  We kept on with our cat fight till 2-2 when something started to feel amiss.  I wasn't taking her serves as well as I was giving them, and I could feel my strokes and my footwork slowing down.

"Oh no... oh no!  What's happening?!"

Perhaps it was the lack of a good night's sleep, or that a gajillion people had asked me how my previous match went, but slowly and surely, my body gave way to a paralysing fatigue.  I could feel lactic acid flowing into my muscles, seeping into my bones.  I could feel my right leg aching, my left elbow throbbing from golfers elbow pain, and no matter how hard I tried to focus, simple exhaustion started to cloud my sight.  Very painful to realise, especially when you see easy balls coming towards you.  Instead, what blurred my mind was a series of asinine distractions.  "Those kids are standing there watching the match... my opponent's coach is side-coaching her...boy the wind is damn cold... I hope it doesn't make my elbow worse...I wonder if I waddle like a duck inbetween points?"   The thoughts kept on flying, uncontrollable.  They launched on everything and anything.... but the ball.

After the match I went to Nacho (resident physiotherapist) to tell him about the fatigue and soreness I was feeling.  My left elbow felt sore, the top of my right foot painful, my right quad tight to the point of pain and my right glut painfully sore.  At the core of me, a dull dull sensation of fatigue rested.  Rested!  Ha! 

Nacho took one look at me and simply said "REST."  By sanction and order, I am off court for the rest of the week, and only allowed rehab sessions.  Capi has very kindly offered that I join him for morning sessions, so I get two a day from Thursday, Friday, and our stretching class on Saturday. 

In many respects, I'm enjoying the rest and know I will be better after it, than worse.  I see these niggling pains as part of my adjustment process to this new environment, and the fact that I am clocking close to 40 hours a week of tennis.  A big jump by anybody's standards, and so I should embrace the rest even more. 

Tournament wise, I don't think it turned out that badly.  I am quite pleased with the progress, and though the league was small by any standards, I did reach the quartersfinals.  I'm glad I beat #3 (big mental hurdle crossed for me), and most importantly, I know what I need to do next to push my game to the next level.  I've learnt that it's not about dashing as fast as you can.  It's about lasting longer, as fast as you can!

The next question to ask now is, how do I last longer?

Tournament #1
I was quite surprised when my tutor coach Sergio caught hold of me last Thursday and told me I was going to play a tournament come Monday.  "Are you sure I'm ready?"  was my hesitant, indefinintely reluctant reply.  I'd been plagued with a hacking cough and flu for the past two weeks, and my performance had been as sticky as the green goo I was hacking out :S

Sergio only blinked his eyes slowly and shrugged his shoulders.  "Yes, I think you can play this one."  It was going to be held on S-C grounds, with players both from the Academy, and around the province of Catalunya. 

Here's the receipt I got after being surprised-slapped with a EUR25 entry fee at the registration counter (ouch!).

This is in Catalan.  According to Google translate, it reads:
"Have received from Sarah Pang, the amount of EUR 25 registration fee for Monty Tour tournament to be held in the Catalonia Open Sports Club facilities between days 02/11/2009 and 06/11/2009"

I played my first match on Monday and it was ridiculousy windy.  So much to the point that balls 30cm out would've been blown back in, and vice versa!  But what to do?  We kept playing and I had to concentrate super hard on my ball toss.  In the effort to just keep the ball in, I was guilty of serving like a pondan at times.  I won the match 6-4, 6-0 but walked away knowing I had to work on moving my feet more, adjusting more quickly to the flight and bounce of the ball.

Today's second round match was against the #3 seed, and I beat her 6-4, 6-1.  She was a skinny, gaunt girl  with strong groundstrokes and an aggressive backhand, and she charged ahead 2-0 in the first set (my nerves gave her one game FOC with four double faults!)  On the whole though, after I got past my jits, the game went considerably well.  I was playing better than I did on Monday, more agressively, and with greater fluidity in my strokes.  My feet were moving faster too, and that helped generate more power and pace in my strokes.  The next thing to start working on is keeping my game more consistent(ly agressive).

I play the #1 seed tomorrow, am going to give it my best shot.

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.
So it has been a rainy season, and I have to admit that I have a tendency of keeping very quiet when the going gets tough.  Maureen, my good friend, just sent me this article, and it's too good not to share.

http://www.lookingforgod.com/?/2/god-has-changed-their-life.html/198/jonathan-edwards.html

The sun is just starting to peak through the clouds, and I'm starting to peek out from my shell.  The past three weeks were filled with painful niggling injury (tennis elbow), a terrible flu bout (think hacking green gooey phlegm), starting my new job as night warden for the academy residences (very stressful), and adjusting to the horrid cold (very cold!).  Amidst the obvious roller coaster of emotions, the only thing that stayed constant was God and His abiding patient love. 


So I'm back!  To throw more updates (too much has been happening), and to take a deep breath, and start talking again.

I end with something I saw in the sky after a huge downpour a few days ago.  An amazing, hearteningly wide double rainbow :)

Tomatoes from Little Shop of Horrors,
Egyptian Cookies from London
Robin my Australian friend bought one GIGANTIC mother of a tomato during his rendevous on Wednesday's weekly supermarket outing.  Amir, my other British friend brought over some Egyptian cookies (he's half Eyptian, half English) for me to try out.  I've never really seen either before, and I was so tickled, I had to take pictures:

Juxtaposed against my archaic 5th generation 30GB ipod.  Just look at that!

Sheesh!

From the angle the tomato looks like Botero's backside...haha!

In the background: Robin oogling at a random blog post.

Mother of a tomato with her minions.

I ate one of them, btw. It was pretty good.

 

Amir: Over and showing us his wonderful box of Egyptian cookies (bought in London... hrmmm)

Robin: Frolicking in the empty bunk bed in my room.

"Okay, so there are a couple of different types of cookies here..." -Amir

"These are called ghor-ro-yeh-bah.  You've got either minced dates or mixed nuts fillings in them.  The pastry's made of flour, eggs, sugar and ghee. And coated again on the outside, is powdered sugar."

"These doughnut-like looking ones are the most fattening of the lot,"

"And these pistachio pastries are my favourite." 

They were, by far, the best among the lot.  Flakey, crispy and sweet to the taste.  Fortunately, these came before my diet got imposed, so I got to nibble on a few :)

Back on Court
I'm finally back on court and doing physical.  It's been some week alright--starting off slow and largely stressful for a host of reasons (injuries, staying possibilities, and the general task of tuning my body back to training).  It helped that the coaches were understanding and patient about the recovery process, and it involved more than a few tears and being put on a diet to expedite the healing process.

Food wise, life was restricted to organic produce--no simple sugars, no sauces, no processed, deep or pan fried foods.  Only lots of multigrains, brown rice, pasta, lemons, vegetables, fruits, clear soups and water.  It's no fun eating pasta sprinkled in lemon juice (the teeth get a little edgy)--but still, it's moments like this I'm thankful dad raised us up very organic.  His tirades against soya sauce and ajinomoto have helped me develop a natural, holy love for all things whole and healthy.  I still miss mee pok and hae mee (prawn noodles), but am happy with the food we get here.  By far it's not tasty or delectably finger-smacking, but it is mostly very heavy and healthy.  None of the processed fishballs, chee kueh or simple-carbed chee chong fun we get back home.  A tomato is a tomato, a chicken leg is a chicken leg.  That's about it, really.  And no complaining because it helps you crap on time, and that's something everyone needs here.  Hahahahah.

What I am thankful for is how faithful God has been through this trying time.  I was hit by horrible bouts of home-sickness during the week--I think largely sparked off by the very real possibility that I might be staying here for much longer than I expected.  Wonderful news from the tennis front!!  The coaches seem to like me and so much of my game has improved thus far in just one short month.  But the week-long lay-off, Sunday's late-night fright and the stress of injury recovery played out a melody of strain I hadn't prepared myself mentally (or emotionally) for.  And it was all welling up.

It was particularly bad on Tuesday, when my hamstring started to feel pain again after morning fitness.  I was angry at Roman (the angsty fitness coach) for making me join the main group that morning instead of letting me ease back into the weight of physical training.  I had done a full evening session with Kapi the day before, with a series of exercises to test out the leg.  Roman was there to see it all happen, and accussed me the next morning for slacking off on the rowing machine instead of joining the group for the daily morning run.  "If you could do it then, why aren't you joining the rest of the girls, Sarah?" I didn't like the ice in his voice, or the insinuatory way he stressed "if you could do it then".  Truth be told, my right deltoid was still hurting, my legs were feeling cold, and I didn't want to shock-stress them with a pounding morning run when I'd done a full work out less than 24 hours earlier.  "Stupid ass," I thought to myself, as I looked at his hunched back, accusing eyes.  But it was difficult saying no.  "Sure, if you think I can take it, I'll join the group", I forced out a smile as I got off the rowing machine.   We did legs again that morning and the pain came back

As I felt it, I also felt anger and frustration rising.  "Why the hell did I listen to him?  Why couldn't I just stand up and say 'No'??"  The pain wasn't as bad or sharp or piercing as it was when I first got it, but it was there.  Small, tight, slight, but oh so present.  Predictably, Nacho told me "NO tennis" for the day, and the more I focussed on the inevitable disappointment, the thinner and more stretched I felt.  The tears were welling in my eyes, my breathing was getting short, and I had to blame someone.  Quick, throw it out, lash out.  "Damn you, Roman, damn you." I thought to myself, lashing out at the man with all the honest inner vengeance I could muster.  As I seethed in the blame game, held it tight in my chest, there came bleeding in another underlying train of thought.  "Damn him." -Wait a minute.-  "No, damn him!" -Wait...- "DAMN HIM!!" -Am I sure.?- Why was I so eager?  Was it not really him but actually... damn me?  Damn him or me?  Why do I feel a little guilty blaming him?  Fine, I feel guilty.  Why?  Dammit, what's wrong, Sarah?  What's wrong??  Make up your mind! The questions kept swirling in my mind, turning and upturning themselves in a maddening vortex. 

Lord, I need you here.

And just like that, the thought came true and sudden, like a tired sigh.

I went back to my room, plugged in my ipod, and listened to Hillsongs.  The guilt and anger got stuffed under the rug as I took out my bible and opened my daily devotional.  Take your eyes away from Roman, from trusting that he has the power to make or break your body.  Take your eyes away from trusting in man, and place your trust in Jesus, in His love for me.  As I read about Abraham building altars of worship to God (Genesis 12:7), about casting our cares on that altar that remind us of His love, goodness and faithfulness, new calm came seeping into my soul.  "You are my child, Sarah," was His voice.  "I am here with you, to take care of you, love you.  I'm here!" 

As I logged onto Skype after that to reconnect back home, God similarly moved loved ones and close friends I was thinking of, online.  With miraculously good internet connection, I spoke with five of them in my afternoon off.  I got listened to, loved and supported.  The last person I spoke with was my good friend from NUS, Calvin Xie who prayed for me over Skype.  It was an amazing prayer, filled with the life and the exact promptings that God had been filling my heart with during my quiet time.  Seriously, the power of prayer and the spoken word in faith is full of incredible power.  At the end of that afternoon, my lenses were adjusted, perspectives were refocussed, and my heart was filled with a supernatural love and joy in Jesus and His finished work.  Strangely, after my quiet time, the niggling pain in my right deltoid that had been bothering me for the whole week--had evaporated.  My left ham felt better, I didn't feel any more pain.  Praise God!!  He is indeed faithful, even when we are faithless.  When I went back to the gym that afternoon, instead of scowling at Roman, I couldn't help smiling back :)

The rest of the week only got better--fitness sessions with Kapi were fun fun fun.  On Wednesday we danced the rumba, salsa, tango and waltz (LOL seriously!), on Thursday played this insane three-personed game that involved person A throwing a ball against a wall, person B hopping over it after it bounced, and person C catching it before it touched ground again, all in quick succession!  On Friday we did running and footwork, and on Saturday wrapped the week off with an hour-long stretching session by the pool, in lovely 11am sun.

Court work also went ever-progressive with the coaches slowing the pace down for ball drills and being very, very patient.  The hamstring occassionally felt tight, but there was no more pain and I did all the footwork  effortlessly, with increasing pace as the days went by.  The week off seems to have done good to the footwork, because I can feel myself moving more cleanly on court.  I don't know how, but it's gotten easier getting into balance for most of my shots during the drills now--I can feel my legs stronger, more measured.  In a sense this gives me space to concentrate on my strokes now--which is great.  The next thing now is to keep improving my footwork, learning how to move faster, and translating that into actual game, rally-play, beyond just drills.  One thing that has also changed greatly this week is my serve motion, which has gone through an overhaul.  When I figure how to post up a vid on this blog, I'll be sure to show it off.  Hahahaha.

Look forward to more posts to come this week guys :)

Chicken curry, fireworks, and a series of unfortunate misadventures.
Yes. Things happened in roughly that sequence.

Sunday was such a blast for a host of reasons—misadventures included. I was invited to lunch by a very kind Singaporean family living in Barcelona. By some stroke of God-given blessing, I was introduced to Lenard Pattiselanno—a Singaporean doing his Masters here, a week before I left Singapore. We kept in touch via facebook and over the week, he and his wife invited me for lunch over at their humble home. It was nice getting out of the Academy and getting exposed to a real Spanish neighbourhood and speaking Singlish with fellow Singaporeans, all on the same day. Oh, and I needn’t forget mentioning the smackalicious chicken curry and fragrant white rice Leanne whipped up for lunch : ))

The company was fantastic. Lenard and Leanne were unspeakably warm and helpful answering questions and sharing more about the finer intricacies of getting by in Barcelona. Zachary, their cute little two year old made me feel at home almost immediately, showing me his toys and reminding me very much of my own adorable nephews and nieces back home. So we talked, ate, watched the Singapore F1 on telly, and what was meant to be lunch continued with an extended invite to dinner  As shy and hesitant I was about imposing on them, they were so chill with their “Oh no, no laaaa!” “Don’t worry!” chillness. I really enjoyed hanging out in their living room, just being around people who were from… home  To think that I’d asked Jesus to hook me up with Singaporeans in Barcelona, He really answered my prayers above and beyond by giving me a Christian family to connect with.

Misadventure #1: Close Shave With Determined Pubes
In the interim between lunch and dinner, Leanne and I took a stroll to the supermarkets in the neighbourhood to get some groceries I needed for the Academy. Talking on our way back, we stopped at a pedestrian junction, waiting to cross. It was lovely light afternoon: think Singapore-in-aircon weather, the leaves were rustling in the breeze, calm streets, the body naturally slipped into relax-mode. Standing there, I turned my head to the right to look for oncoming traffic. Unfortunately my view was somewhat blocked by huge recycling bins that were parked by the side of the curb (recycling’s a big initiative in Barca). I noticed a small old man with grubby stubble and shabby clothes, sorting out trash, and while I gave him a cursory glance, our eyes somehow met. He looked like a grim old man, hardened and made small by a long life of grind. His heavy lids were rimmed with that undeniable sick pink that fatigue often brings. His mouth was lined with wrinkles, and the lower lip pursed itself with a sort of obscene, grim, determination. To my surprise, as all this flashed through my mind, this old man in contrast, started unbuttoning his pants with a sick sort of nimble, furious dexterity…

Too focused on the strange way he was returning my gaze, I ONLY realized what was happening when my peripheral gaze registered the sightings of a pale lower abdomen and a brazenly held out, unzipped fly.!!
Thank God I only saw the beginnings of his pubes (pronounced “pew-bb-s”, i.e. slang and short for pubic hair) before I immediately turned my head in the opposite direction. Leanne was on my left. “Oh my God!! I think that guy just flashed me!!” I exclaimed, shocked and eye-balling her to look in the other direction (probably a wrong thing to do, in retrospect…). Thankfully she was the more experienced of us two. She held my gaze, smiled calmly and said “Yes, every neighbourhood has a couple of these old weirdos.”
We briskly crossed the road and right after the initial shock registered, I started laughing really hard at the ludicrousity of it all. No wonder he looked so determined! I just got flashed!!!

*****
After a hearty dinner, Lenard and Leanne sent me off with a big paper bag filled with the 1101 essentials to successful Singaporean living (abroad version). Leanne’d packed me a big bag of milo sachets, 6 packs of Koka and Cintan maggi mee, a red twin pack of Bee Cheng Hiang lap cheongs, and a Barcelona guidebook “on long term loan” :). To balance that off (health-wise), they also passed me a carton of milk and nectarines for everyday healthy living at the Academy. Hahaha. Trust me, it felt like Christmas!
I left their place at 9pm, and by right, it would’ve taken me, perhaps, slightly over an hour to get back to the Academy (it’s actually not very far away—probably from City Hall to Commonwealth by MRT. It’s just that public transport is painfully sparse). Unfortunately, what I didn’t know was that Plaza Espana, the square where my bus stop was, was also centre stage for the final leg of celebrations for the La Merce festival. When I got there, the place was thronged with crowds eager to catch the final fireworks display.

What was cool was that I managed to catch (entirely by fluke, mind you) the final firework display for the festival. By and large, it was a breathtaking display of musical and astronomical genius—the fireworks danced to music played over a massive square-wide sound system. The entire performance lasted for about half an hour, and in a sense it numbed the 2 hour waiting episode slightly. I’ll attach pictures soon, and in advance, sorry if they’re not that fantastic—my mind was preoccupied with avoiding pickpockets and looking out for my bus : S

Misadventure #2: 11.20pm, Shady Streets, No Taxis. Stranded alone.
It’s remarkable, how different a place can look and feel, just by a simple change of light and temperature.

After the fireworks ended, I resumed my position at the bus stop and waited for the throngs of people to clear the square. “The bus will come eventually,” I was staring at the gps display screen at the bus stop:

Bus 94—2 minutes
Bus 95—38 minutes

And so I waited. Faithfully. The elements though, weren’t so kind. The wind started coming in
(think: dipping temperatures),

I started clutching my arms harder
(think: “I’m feeling cold”),

and the buses continued to roll by
(think: damn 94 and 95 weren’t there).

By the time I realized the bus was never going to come, it was two hours past, my teeth were chattering and there were only a few stragglers left at the bus stop. There were a lot of pockets of people sitting in the shadows, just “hanging around” when Leanne’s recount popped fresh in my mind. Some guy had stalked her, then attempted to get her to Plaza Espana with him

I started to get edgy.

Cab. –I thought.
CAB!

Unfortunately, the bus stop was in the direction of traffic was moving out of the city. The cabs were no where in sight—so I crossed the road and tried to hail one in the opposite direction. No luck. The bulk of traffic going city-inwards was taking the expressway underpass about 50 metres up, and to get there, meant trekking through a stretch of poorly lit residential blocks. Not so good either. But what was I going to do? I was tired, cold, and feeling alone. Entirely alone.

—No, Sarah, you cannot freak out now.—

I decided to walk towards a posh-looking hotel down the street, in the hopes that reception might be able to give some advice on where to hail a cab. Sticking out my chin, big grocery bag in hand, and haversack slung close to my body, I started taking long strides, as if it was my place and I knew where I was going. It was probably my best bet against looking vulnerable and uncertain.

As I neared the hotel, I spotted a cab five metres into a dark alley to my left, free and totally available. Immediately, I thought, "CAB!".  And yet, instinctually, something told me not to walk towards it either.  There was a man standing a metre away from the taxi, lurking in the shadows drinking in the last dregs of his beer, and a bike rider on the other side, waiting with his motor running.  Clothed in shadows and pale streetlight, it all looked kinda dodgy.  Not surprising for the area—but none too cool for a young woman to venture towards, either.  So I stood at the main corner, looking into the street, and waited for the cab to drive up. Just as it was edging nearer, an elderly tourist couple waltzed right past me and started hailing the cab.

“Oh nooo…. NOO!”

If I were back home, I would’ve walked right up to them and told them off. But no, I was in a foreign city, I didn’t want to walk into that dark alley, and I certainly had no mind to get into an argument just then.  So I continued waiting like a dumbo, hailing the cabby furiously in my corner—standing pathetically on the light side.

It was Jesus. Or one of His angels that guided the cabby—because the taxi ignored the tourist couple and rolled slowly, but surely right up to me. Teeth chattering, fingers freezing, I was close to tears and relief as I opened that door. Got home in one piece (two detours included), and the cab fare set me back by EUR23. Still, I could only smile and squeeze the taxi driver’s arm just before I got off. “Gracias, tio, gracias.”

A small price by far, just to feel safe.

Blogpost for Thursday, 24th September 2009

La Merce
Today marks the start of Spain's arguably biggest festival, spanning till Sunday with tons of activities, music and dance performances littering the city.  Being a holiday for the Academy too, I tramped down to Barcelona centre with Kiko and Robin after lunch, to check out the festivities.  Here is a photojournal (of sorts) of the day, kicking off with lunch at the Academy.

Lunch consisted of fried salmon fillet and paella--the typically Spanish dish of fried rice with condiments meat condiments--usually of seafood origin.  This had the cheaper, chicken substitute.

When we got to Barcelona centre, we were greeted by a host of colourful vending stalls, selling almost everything from Hello Kitty balloons to snacks and fizz drinks.  To the left of the picture you can see the beginnings of one of the many massive stages the city council has set up for performances this entire weekend.  Exciting stuff!

Picking balloons. There were tons of families walking about or sitting down, all soaking up the sun.

One of the many typical, colourful vendor stalls in the Square.

They even sold birdfeed for the pigeons...

There were tons of people lining the streets at different parts of the city centre, craning their necks to catch the passing processions.  I thought these three ladies here were especially funny.  Uno, dos, tres!  On a separate note, it seems that Spain does have a rather large elderly population.  They fill the buses, streets, everywhere!

Another old man enjoying the parade... :)

Robin--my Australian friend with a fetish for pistachio nuts, insisted on bringing a big glass jug of them along.  "What forrrr?? We won't be eating it!!"  I wailed.  (I actually didn't want to carry it.)  It found its way into my bag, and I lugged the whole lot through the city.  Here he is, caught nibbling on them during the parade.  I nibbled on some too.  Fine, they were good.

Some random cafe I chanced upon on one of the smaller streets, that I MUST go back and visit!

The adjourning inner courtyard to the cafe.
Took my breath away.

Gelare shopping.  Tons of stalls littering the city--all, surprisingly, with different distinct tastes.

Strawberry at one doesn't taste the same as strawberry at another.

It makes me happy, nonetheless :)

La Colmena--one of Barcelona's oldest confectionaries. 
It was tempting not to buy any chocs, but I saw EUR53/kg choc there... -Choak!-

 

I thought of my very fat, cute, 3.5 month old sausage-looking nephew Brucie when I saw this. The bar in contrast was old, quaint, rather run down, but cool nonetheless. Something like Yet Con at Purvis Street, back home.

Just look at the drawers hanging off the wall!  Love it!

Kiko's and Robin's pose are cool too.  Added with the random passerby and the stall owner's, their bodies plot a sort of guiding linear disjoint amidst the semi-chaos.  Interesting.

Pity it's slightly blurred, though.

Blogpost for Wednesday, 23rd September 2009.

Chopping Wood
Fitness this afternoon was particularly enjoyable—mostly for the wide (and interesting) range of exercises I got to do. It seems that being in the recuperating stage of injury has its own benefits—my training focus has moved to the upper body, and I’ve been put through a series of workouts focussing on my arms, abs, shoulders and hips. I’m glad about this because in a sense, it means I have time and space enough to rest, and focus on this area of development. Bulk up the stick thin arms, strengthen the back, solidify the core, add mobility to the hips.

And so, thus, immobilized by my current hamstring reparations, today’s exercises involved a wall, a medicine ball, a big long hammer, and a massive tyre.

How strange!

Yeah, pretty much. After the routine warm up on the rowing (elliptical) machine, things fired off with throwing a 3kg medicine ball against the wall in a series of patterns. From my left, this meant thrusting my hips and swinging my arms forward and then releasing the ball, as if I were hitting a forehand. Similarly on the other side, rotating my shoulders from perpendicular to parallel to the wall, and releasing, as if I were hitting a backhand. Forward overhead throws involved sticking my heels to the ground and using only knee flexions and arms to generate as much momentum as possible. Then there were backward overhead throws (with my back facing the wall, hauling the ball over and behind my head). Forward pushes—involved using more of the wrists, forearms and a quick forward toss to rebound the ball off the wall and catch it again, without touching the floor. One of the more interesting ones was to push/throw the ball at an angle downwards, at the floor just where it met the wall—so that it bounced right back up at you.

What made it all particularly interesting (and challenging) was that these balls have an almost zero bounce return. They’re weighty, made of solid thick, dull rubber, and have no air in them whatsoever. Instead of a springy “Boinggg!” (think: taut basketballs), or the neat “Dook!” (think: fresh tennis balls), all you get from a medicine ball is a deadening, almost depressing “Dud.” And yes, you get it no matter how hard you throw it against the wall. What you expect to bounce back up to your waist comes lolling back to your shins—or in worse cases, your ankles(!)

In a sense, this makes med balls good training tools because their sheer unresponsiveness forces you to make every throw a good throw. After twenty minutes of throwing balls against the wall like a maniac, you learn how to distinguish a good “dud” from a bad “dud” (sheesh…). You learn how to welcome the weight of the ball back into your arms after a rebound. You learn how and when to release the ball to generate maximum power through the arc of your swing. You learn also, that a half-ass throw always ends up with a rebound to your shins—which throws off your rhythm—forcing you to pick up and start again from scratch. I don’t think I’ve mastered the finer intricacies of med ball throwing, but it’s definitely fascinating in a Dudley sort of way. Hur hur hur.

What was equally fascinating was the second exercise with the hammer and the tyre. While wall throws were done in the courtyard outside the gym, we moved on to under the trees by gym for our next exercise. There greeted us, like black, over-sized polo mints, two humongous tyres. Kapi went into the gym briefly and came out with two big hammers. “Have you done this exercise before?” he asked, as he looked, frowning, from tyre to hammer, hammer to tyre again. “Erm… no?” I shook my head slowly. What was he going to make me do? I didn’t have time to think much before he thrust one in my hand and said “Watch carefully.”

Remember Kapi’s “once-only” mantra I talked about the last time? Here it was again, and I stood fascinated, wide-eyed and (slightly) open-mouthed as he began to re-enact the entire motion of chopping wood, hammer in hand, on the rim of this wide rung tyre. “The bottom hand does not shift… you swing your other arm back like this… lift the head, always, in front of you…and then swing down hard like this… BAAHHH!” (Kapi likes to use sound effects when he’s teaching to heighten understanding. It really helps.) He hit the tyre so hard, the rubber mass quivered and, to my astonishment, out buzzed at least a dozen mozzies, startled awake from its dark depths.

“Wah! So many mosquitoes!!” I thought. “What if they’re dengue?”
I must admit that for the briefest moment, I thought about calling the dengue hotline to report. Haha!

For the next half hour, I stood under willow trees outside the gym, lumbering with a massive hammer in hand, pretending to cut wood. “Doong! Doong! Doong!” I reckon everyone should attempt to hack wood (or at least pretend to) at least once in their life. It was surprisingly stress-relieving, and more of a work out than I’d expected. For the first since I stopped court work, it felt glorious to feel tears of sweat running down my brow and cheeks again. What was also cool was that Kapi seemed happy with the way I was hitting the tyre, and decided to film me going through the motions. “Good technique, very good technique” he repeated every now and again, as he whipped out his dslr to take a video. Wearing a ratty tee shirt, grey berms and specs, I joked about how I would’ve worn something nicer had I expected this!

What wasn’t half so glam was that I went to the bathroom right after to wash my hands and realised that I had one big pee sai dangling from my nostril all that time -_______- Wah lau!! I was grossly startled for a second--"Damn unglam lah!" I grimaced. But then I thought about camera close ups,... and just had to laugh out loud.

-Shakes head- Sarah, Sarah!!!!

Snap
I've torn my left hamstring.

Well, marginally, according to Nachos, the resident doctor. It happened last Saturday during a measly TWO HOUR session of tennis (it wasn't even a full day, dammit!). Think cold weather, a half warmed up body, and an assignment to hit controls (rallies with specific shot sequences) with a boy who smacked the ball really fast, really flat. The sense of pressure struck again and maybe it was the fact that it was a new coach watching me hit, or that it was a new sparring partner, but I definitely over-stepped my footwork limit and felt a cruel, sudden pull in my hamstring as I stepped out for a backhand.

“Ouch!”
-brief pause-
“That really hurts. I can’t move my leg properly.”
-another brief pause-
“It must be a muscle pull. I can probably stretch it out later.”

Over-determined, I ignored the pain and muscled through the entire practice, including the 2 tie breaks we later played. Despite the pain, I managed to get into optimal position and balance for most of the rallies, varying the shots and cracking sharp with my serve (new toss included). I lost the first tie break 6-8, and won the second 7-5, and it felt good to have nicked 1 from him. I could tell he thought he was going trash me from the get go, so in a sense, it was a definite confidence boost. The niggling pain didn't go away, and while I forced myself to totally rest on Sunday, it returned on Monday during morning fitness.

We did a lot of running that morning and I was determined once again to muscle through the pain and finish it (sigh…sound familiar? :) ). Laps for us at the Academy are done around the perimeter of the swimming pool compound, and I believe it spans about 300 metres per round. I honestly thought Roman (pronounced Roe-mahn), our frequently angsty, sullen-faced fitness coach went ku ku. It was a hell lot of running—3 jog laps, 1 sprint lap, 2 jog laps, 1 sprint lap, 1 jog lap, 1 sprint lap; per set, two sets. What made it worse was that we weren’t allowed to stop after either sprint or set, so in all it was doing 18 laps and sprinting for 8 of them. That roughly translates to doing 13.5 laps around a 400m track, non-stop.

Needless to say, I could feel from stride #1 that my leg still wasn’t alright, and rightly so, I got a sore scolding from Nacho when I finally saw him. Thankfully the tear isn’t very big, so I will only be out for the next 4-5 days. I was instructed to ice my ham (mmm, yum yum… haha!) every three hours, and to come in everyday for ultrasound and stretching.

When I came in this morning for treatment, Allez (Nacho’s partnering physiotherapist) got me to lie down for another look. He made me do a series numb-inducing stretches, twisted my leg around in ways I never knew it could twist, then got me to lie on my tummy while he felt my ham (string and butt included). Verdict? He and Nacho think it’s not so much my hamstring that was weak, but my hips and abdomen that needs to give my legs better support—or in Kapi’s words, “protection”. While my legs are strong, my hips mobility and lower back are commensurately less—and so during rigorous movements, they tighten up and in this instance, pulled my left hamstring a little too much. Hence the tear.

Allez told me my sciatic nerve needs to loosen up—it probably caused the injury and its current equal tightness is impeding my healing process. He went on to pummel my butt while I yelped like a pathetic puppy in pain. “You’re probably going to have a little bruise here after this ok?” He laughed as he pressed down hard and I grabbed his knee, yelling “GAAARRRGHHH!!!!”.

When I told Kapi about my leg, he patted me on the shoulder and went “Don’t worry, training won’t stop. We can still do a lot of exercises for your upper body.” And a lot of exercises it has been. I am constantly amazed at how the fitness coaches, tennis coaches and medical team communicate with one another. Before I even told Kapi about Allez’s opinion I heard this morning, he nodded and said “Yes, Nacho told me.” What on earth? Yes it’s some reassurance for sure… I guess. Haha. Allez gave me a few exercises and stretches to focus on, and for fitness today, Kapi focused on my core and back. I wish I could show you guys how cool (and difficult) these exercises were, but this blog post will end up a little to long. Maybe in the next one!

(P.S. Sorry about the typos if any. It’s late and I have only time to type but not re-read through. I’ll edit it later, trust me :) )

Visit to Barcelona centre's oldest market.

Our hawkers could def. learn a thing or two about presentation!

Sweet vendor--my nephews and nieces would swoon, I'm sure!

Hur hur hur.

Kiko was with me when I took this shot.

"How long do you think it'd take you to eat all this meat?" I asked.

He could only blink his eyes in response. Lol.

"You have to play with your eyes."
I had the opportunity to hit with Sergio Casal two days ago--the other half of the Sanchez-Casal Academy, just last Friday.

It was an incredibly windy afternoon, and I was surprised when Andreau, our WTA group coach, patted me on the back and told me "Sarah, you go and play with Sergio now." Grinning, he added "Be prepared to get killed!!" Sergio, standing nearby, laughed and blurted something along the lines of "Sooo not true!"

As tired as I was from the accumulated days of training, I was very excited just to walk on court. Think about it, what opportunity! And just me with him! Woot! We did a couple of drills, starting off with volleys and passing shots--he stood at the net and I at the baseline, hitting lots and lots of passing shots. It's strange--the first few balls I hit were good, deep and fast. But then my brain started working overtime and I started feeling pressure to keep up the qualities of rallies I had initially set upon with such freedom. Then I started getting tired and making mistakes. Hahahah.  Not so cool.

Thankfully, Sergio was understanding about the fatigue.  Whenever the drill stretched out long and I'd start hitting like a pondan, I'd start to compromise the correct movement/footwork, in order to force in more speed.  Each time this happened, he slowed down the feed, shorten the court, and kept on reminding me "I wait for you! I wait for you!"  One thing I really appreciate about the system of training here, is that the coaches are willing to adjust themselves to the individual's pace, especially during ball feeds.  Pushing but not necessarily forcing the player.  There is none of the paranoia to do it fast and furious--the focus is more on control and precision.  Are you moving correctly?  Are you hitting it cleanly?  If you have to go slow to get it correct first, let's go slow together.  It's more about control, precision, positioning and balance.  Once these things are in place, the power and the pace come naturally.

One thing that's also tremendous about the training system here, is the emphasis on understanding the drill before doing it.  Good coaches bother to explain the particular relevance of a drill to the actual game situation.  Why are we hitting the ball down the line instead of cross court?  Why is the alternating shot an approach short cross instead of another down the line?  The particularly exceptional coaches take further pains to differentiate and explain to the player when and why it's a tactical drill or a technical one.  Thankfully there are many of them here--and it amazes me how they all sing the same, cohesive tune.  It's true that there are different grades of coaches here--no one is the same--but still, the variations range from good to incredibly brilliant, so there's really marginal short changing going on.  In my two weeks here, I've trained with 12 coaches and worked 1-1 with about 4.  In between, we are usually assigned to hit 1-1 (2 per court) or do drills with a coach in the ratio of 1:2.  Rarely do we have 1:3 coach:student ratios, or 1:4 court:player ratios--which is fantastic, really.  This really provides space enough to hit and play, and grow properly.

Among all of these, obviously, the 1-1 sessions are the best, because that's when you have the time and chance to ask more questions, and when the coaches themselves have enough focus to explain things in depth.  What I've learnt most during my 1-1 sessions was understanding how these series of drills serve as fractions that add up to the sum total patterns of rallies in an actual game.  Sergio ended up spending more than half of the time we had together explaining the significant relevance of the drills, and then analysing how I could use my specific body type (long arms) to hit my backhand better.  I've been having problems getting into the grove of my backhand, partly because of my old footwork, but also how I'm so used to using a lot of my left hand instead of my right.

But all it took was one astute observation, one simple tweak and I could angle and hit my backhand approach shots so much more easily.  Incredible!

Super duper uber tired. I joined Kapi for fitness today, after my normal day of six hours tennis and fitness. I thought it would be an hour, hour half long session. It turned out to be a two hour ordeal of explosive exercises, running, weights and more running. One of the antics I was asked to engage in (I really shouldn't call it antics) was to do a head stand. Yikes! Kapi's style expects a quick catch-on from the athlete. He repeats the exercises once, yes, only ONCE and you have to catch on and replicate it quickly. If you can't, he will repeat it one more time, but by that time, you're embarrassed enough for not being as quick or apt. Pressure, some. Admittedly. For the head stands, for example, he demonstrated it once ("Lace your fingers, hold your head between your palms, square your elbows, and push up!") and left me to it. Wah lau stress man. I tried once, but ended up tumbling (rather unglamorously) over a pile of stretch mats nearby. Sigh. Pick up. Focus, try again. I managed to do it on my second try. Now it's a matter of doing it again, without any wall support.

Needless to say, I was flat out after the whole day. But it wasn't the end of things yet. Every Wednesday the Academy takes us out on a trip to the supermarketto get our weekly supplies. Because of the session with Kapi, I had to shower, have a pronto dinner and then catch the Academy bus to Carrefour. On the ride there, I was so tired I didn't even want to lift arms. Only just close my eyes.

I bought:
EUR 1,35 A bunch of Delmonte bananas

EUR 4,96 Two big cartons of eggs (30 pieces each) Dad would be so proud! He loves eggs :)

EUR 0,55 5L bottle of mineral water

EUR 0,65 Carrefour isotonic drink

EUR 13,95 A small tub of isotonic powder (like Gatorade)

EUR 0,85 200g pack of salted pumpkin seeds (I just munched a few. Very salty!)

EUR 0,59 200g pack of salted peanuts (I expect this to be just as salty...)

EUR 1,35 1.5l bottle of orange juice. Couldn't resist lah.

EUR 1,31 Pack of green grapes

EUR 0,80 400g pack of Carrefour digestive biscuits (I hope these taste good...)

EUR 1,95 Carrefour soap bars, 4 in a pack

EUR 1,00 Green cotton top on sale

EUR 1,00 Blue cotton top on sale

TOTAL: EUR 30,01

On the ride back I apparently annoyed a blonde-hair-blue-eyed boy on the bus. I was one of the last to get on--and he was sitting right in front, hogging two seats with his groceries and his bum, while everyone else was squashed like sardines on their small seats. Unimpressed, (I was struggling with two big cartons of eggs, come on!) I stopped right in front of him and pointedly asked if I could sit down. The girl sitting across the small aisle raised her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders as he gruffly got up, making no pains to show he was pissed for being asked to move.

For the next two minutes, I sat next to him, scowling about his attitude and how I was in the right, he was so inconsiderate, blah blah blah. Obviously, I wasn't too happy either, but something inside somehow felt bad for feeling annoyed too (strange, isn't it?). I ended up forcing myself to talk to him with the "Hi, what's your name? Where are you from?" routine. I did mean the questions, but what I meant more to do was to let him know I wasn't intentionally being a pain. I come with peace la, I just needed a seat! Turns out the conversation went really well--he was surprisingly friendly once past the icy cold exterior. 16 year old Russian boy, 3 years at the Academy, curious about, but equally looking forward to College.

We ended up talking about a college education for most of the trip back. Surprisingly, he started off the topic after I told him I'd just finished Uni. He asked a lot of questions, and I could tell, was genuinely interested in the intricacies of the entire experience. In many ways, it really was nice sharing how I felt a University really moulds you into a fuller person in every sense of the word. It expands your mind, your thoughts, your interactions and experiences. He listened with his eyes, his ears, obviously hungry to hear, taste, absorb more--and I was surprised at his eagerness. Tennis Academy aside, how often do we meet people enthusiastic about going to University? Not many in my books. And so, as he asked more, I shrugged and shared more. Introduced more ideas to him, drew more worlds in the semi-darkness as the bus trundled along, past sweeping highway lights and the constant glow of faraway factories, misty in the horizon. I kept on pushing boundaries, recounting experiences, and he kept on keeping on. It's slightly ironic that it took four years of University to expand this young mind's borders in a single bus ride conversation. But what a privilege! As we alighted, I smiled to myself.

Wasn't half that bad a ride back, after all.

Just a short note. Lunch has finished but we´re stuck in the Cafe because it´s been raining. It´s freaking cold today--my fingers were frozen on court, despite the two hooded jackets, cap and two tee shirts. Not a fan of the cold at all!

One week on and I can feel less energy and rigor in my body. It's probably an accumulation of stress of the previous week, a knotted back, and the fact that I haven't gotten a good night's sleep for the past two days. Memories of Eli surface, and precisely because dreams can seem so real, waking up to reality can be distressing.

I started out with the WTA group today--and here is our daily schedule for Mondays to Fridays:

9-10.30am: Fitness
10.30-10.45am: Break Point (you get a fruit and a little bottle of water)
10.45am-1.30pm: Tennis
1.30pm-2.45pm: Lunch/Rest (not much time for rest, you can just about imagine!)
3pm-4.30pm: Tennis
4.45pm-5.30pm: Stretching

I was really looking forward to the group, and seeing their level of play. True to form, all of them play well, move well, hit well. Still, I was genuinely surprised to realise the different work ethic some of them held. Over fitness, they ignored instructions and argued with the coaches. One instance was when the fitness coaches were encouraging us to start writing down things we were weak in and things we needed to improve on--in preparation for the coming fitness test we're going to have in two weeks. "Write down your strengths, weaknesses, and even the things you eat for every meal." To my surprise, one of the girls started arguing and being openly sarcastic about how much effort it would take jotting everything down. "I'm not going to write an essay man." Sheesh.

Over tennis, two out of the four girls I hit with pulled a long face over drills. Their body language and general demeanor reeked of attitude and disinterest--maybe it was because I was the one on the other side hitting with them (ha ha!), but it was challenging being patient, and genuinely disappointing because it was obvious they had a lot of talent. That said, not all of them are like that--but it's still hard to improve and train when half your hitting partners seem too self-involved to give training their best shot.

I'm off to do a little bit of back massage with a good ol' wall and tennis ball before I sleep now.

I hope tonight spells a better sleep, and tomorrow, a better day.

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Dinner:
Aglio Pasta (that tasted like fried noodles, thank God!)
Veal with pepper sauce
Steamed cod
Orange walnut salad with feta cheese
Baguette with olive oil
Watermelon + something-that-tasted-bitter drink
Peach Juice