Lost in Corsica
Holidaying in Corsica is a bit like being a castaway on Lost. Although the island is just a few hundred miles off the coast of France, no one seems to know where it is. There are few visitors, little infrastructure, practically no hotels, and not much to do once you get there except “survive” (although unlike Oceania passengers, I managed to drink cold beer and mojitos all week instead of cave water).
My arrival on the island was admittedly less dramatic – overnight a bright yellow ferry, no 747s, dramatic crash, etc. My fellow passengers on the ferry were largely bearded motorcyclists and station-wagon-driving-families on camping holiday. In my mind, like the Oceania passengers they all conveniently died on arrival. I was forced to put up with a young, mini-skirt wearing companion who tagged along for the ride (sadly there was no exciting and dodgy past to discover).
Like my fellow TV survivors, I found that my island (Corsica) has a rugged interior full of misty and inhospitable peaks (the tallest being more than 2500m). The coastline, like Lost, is idyllic: endless curving bays of fine white sand. I raced up mountain passes and along winding roads to get as far away from any Others that I might meet. The locals have a ferocious reputation; it was rumoured that they are wild and dangerous. But I never met the Others. Scary locals are impossible to find.
Just like a peanut
I’d been sitting on the beach for the best part of a week. Being a fair-skinned red headed lad I’d naturally applied large dollops of sun-screen to avoid becoming Perkins flambé. Too cool down on occasion, I plunged my sizzling self into the cold, glass clear Mediterranean several times a day. Shivering I returned to my towel to warm up under the sun’s searing rays. The goose bumps quickly disappeared and the water evaporated leaving me covered with a fine salty patina like some sort of exotic fish dish. I repeated this routine daily until my skin began to turn a shade of nutty brown (okay, here I exaggerate for I’m incapable of being anything more than off-white, but lets for a moment pretend I am).
I was explaining this phenomenal transformation to Ebba one evening, hoping that she would agree with me that I was now looking like some sort of bronzed Adonis. She sipped her beer and gave me an amused, quizzical look. “I think you are more like a peanut: greasy, salty, and perhaps little brown on the outside.”
Pizza, pizza everywhere and nothing else to eat
You would imagine that Corsica would produce heavenly food; a sublime fusion of French and Italian culinary traditions. But whilst the food is delicious, Italy has actually won hands down. The staple Corsican diet is pizza. And it’s everywhere, utterly unavoidable.
On one two-hour stretch of road which meandered mostly through barren countryside, I counted no fewer than 32 pizzerias. There were battered buses parked in rest stops churning out dodgy flatbreads. I saw full-blown gourmet restaurants with food-fired ovens serving up artisanal pies. I passed some rundown cafes dishing up pizza alongside hamburgers and dodgy kebabs. Every town seem to have at least half a dozen pizzerias on the main drag. Never had I seen such pizzerias per capita density and such willingness to eat pizza.
Yet I shouldn’t complain. The pizza was lip-smackingly good. Fine, crispy and thin crusted, these pizzas came topped with scrumptious local goats cheese and smoky Corsican ham. Nevertheless, part of me was a little sad that all this Italian influence had only brought piazza. Where was all the gelati?
12 June 2008
20 April 2008
Thanks for my new ACL Doc, now onto the boring part
About 10 days ago, Dr Schena and his team gave me a new ACL. In a 1hr 20min procedure he harvested part of my hamstring (apparently we last used this piece when we walked about on all fours), drilled a hole in my femur and another in my tibia, feed the hamstring into the holes, and plugged them with two dissolving screws. Today, the three little incisions below my knee, a few punctures lower down just above the calf, and one tiny hole in my thigh are the only proof that anything happened to me. Oh, and the small fact that I can't yet walk unaided.
If anything, the surgery was a lot easier than the post-op recovery. Although I was a little miffed that I didn't get to hallucinate (the anesthetist promised me "ladybirds and flowers"), the hours immediately following surgery were full of drug-fueled dreams, random conversations with Ebba and Scott, and pleas for more ice on my knee.
On Saturday and Sunday I entered my own personal world of pain. Percoset did nothing for me (why couldn't they find a better opiate?). Irrational me surmised that such pain must be abnormal - surely you should be back in the hospital getting some serious treatment? no? - and it wasn't until two burly paramedics talked some sense into me that I gritted my teeth and got on with it.
But being hapless and bed-bound has it's upsides. You get fed and watered. Every whim is attended to. You ask for ice and it arrives. People shower all sorts of kindness on you - they even bring the party to your bedroom. Nothing is too much of a hassle. So, I tried to forget about the pain and enjoy my time as maharajah of 2 SFP 219.
Now that's all over of course. I'm stuck with 6-8 hours in my constant passive motion machine (looks sort of like this), reading cases, and watching Lost (by the way, you can watching it for free online here. Amazing!). The recovery will be long and laborious. They say 5-6 weeks in the brace, 4 months of physio until I can jog, 5 months until I can sprint, and 6 months until I'm physically ready for Tortin. Fine, I can deal with that. But what worries me most is will I be mentally ready?
If anything, the surgery was a lot easier than the post-op recovery. Although I was a little miffed that I didn't get to hallucinate (the anesthetist promised me "ladybirds and flowers"), the hours immediately following surgery were full of drug-fueled dreams, random conversations with Ebba and Scott, and pleas for more ice on my knee.
On Saturday and Sunday I entered my own personal world of pain. Percoset did nothing for me (why couldn't they find a better opiate?). Irrational me surmised that such pain must be abnormal - surely you should be back in the hospital getting some serious treatment? no? - and it wasn't until two burly paramedics talked some sense into me that I gritted my teeth and got on with it.
But being hapless and bed-bound has it's upsides. You get fed and watered. Every whim is attended to. You ask for ice and it arrives. People shower all sorts of kindness on you - they even bring the party to your bedroom. Nothing is too much of a hassle. So, I tried to forget about the pain and enjoy my time as maharajah of 2 SFP 219.
Now that's all over of course. I'm stuck with 6-8 hours in my constant passive motion machine (looks sort of like this), reading cases, and watching Lost (by the way, you can watching it for free online here. Amazing!). The recovery will be long and laborious. They say 5-6 weeks in the brace, 4 months of physio until I can jog, 5 months until I can sprint, and 6 months until I'm physically ready for Tortin. Fine, I can deal with that. But what worries me most is will I be mentally ready?
14-16 March: New Mexico
We arrived from all corners of America. 144 students from 74 countries pursuing masters and PhDs in everything from medicine to infomatics, plate tectonics to architecture. The State Department has brought us here, organised three days of activities, and put us up in a smart desert retreat, all in the name of cross-cultural exchange. This is one of seven Fulbright Enrichment Seminars that take place around the country from January - April.
New Mexico is sort of as I imagined it: a desert state full of cottonwood, tumbleweed (the fabled brush was bundling across the airstrip when we landed), cowboys, mountains, and not much else. After the densely packed housing and historic streets of Boston, New Mexico feels enormous, and it is. It's the fifth biggest state in the US (though 3x smaller than Texas) and has a population of just 2.5 million.
The theme of the seminar was "Engaging the Electorate: The Dynamics of Politics and Participation in 2008". We did have a few high-brow discussions, but generally we spent most of our time exploring the area and chatting to each other. HBS talks about diversity, but really we are all the same (straight-laced, business-focused people). This bunch was wonderful and wacky. For some reason I was accosted by the Latins and ended up playing their mad drinking games, singing songs which I didn't understand, and generally pretending I was Don Juan.
One of the best things I did was have dinner with a local stockbroker. He was an avowed Republican who was curiously pro-choice, pro-gay rights, and vehemently anti-Bush. The dinner he served at his home was fitting for a 61-year old bachelor - ravioli and a little salad followed by ice cream. But I didn't go for the food. I went for the conversation which was engaging and lucid. He wanted to know our opinions on everything from marriage to Iraq, climate change to Mark Twain. It was the most frank and honest conversation I've ever had with a stranger (Me: "Do you own a gun?" Him: "I own five". Me: "Five?! Why do you need five" Him: "I two from inherited them from my father.") More disturbing was his defence of the death penalty ("It's the quickest way to clean the gene pool. And why should tax-payers cough up $40,000 a year for people who are guilty of terrible crimes."). He was passionate, informed, and opinionated. The best combination. It's refreshing to meet people with strong convictions that are not your own.
New Mexico is sort of as I imagined it: a desert state full of cottonwood, tumbleweed (the fabled brush was bundling across the airstrip when we landed), cowboys, mountains, and not much else. After the densely packed housing and historic streets of Boston, New Mexico feels enormous, and it is. It's the fifth biggest state in the US (though 3x smaller than Texas) and has a population of just 2.5 million.
The theme of the seminar was "Engaging the Electorate: The Dynamics of Politics and Participation in 2008". We did have a few high-brow discussions, but generally we spent most of our time exploring the area and chatting to each other. HBS talks about diversity, but really we are all the same (straight-laced, business-focused people). This bunch was wonderful and wacky. For some reason I was accosted by the Latins and ended up playing their mad drinking games, singing songs which I didn't understand, and generally pretending I was Don Juan.
One of the best things I did was have dinner with a local stockbroker. He was an avowed Republican who was curiously pro-choice, pro-gay rights, and vehemently anti-Bush. The dinner he served at his home was fitting for a 61-year old bachelor - ravioli and a little salad followed by ice cream. But I didn't go for the food. I went for the conversation which was engaging and lucid. He wanted to know our opinions on everything from marriage to Iraq, climate change to Mark Twain. It was the most frank and honest conversation I've ever had with a stranger (Me: "Do you own a gun?" Him: "I own five". Me: "Five?! Why do you need five" Him: "I two from inherited them from my father.") More disturbing was his defence of the death penalty ("It's the quickest way to clean the gene pool. And why should tax-payers cough up $40,000 a year for people who are guilty of terrible crimes."). He was passionate, informed, and opinionated. The best combination. It's refreshing to meet people with strong convictions that are not your own.
26 February 2008
Pop goes the ACL
It was mid-afternoon on 16 January. Two days earlier I'd returned from the beaches of Contadora just off the coast of Panama. I was super-relaxed. The boys from Section G were in Shad, kicking the football about - a friendly yet competitive scrimmage. We'd been playing about 45 minutes and my side was behind. Seeing an opening, I put on a burst of speed and charged towards goal. Scott stood just outside the box, blocking my path. As I approached, I turned my back and readied myself to receive a pass from Nicolas. I planted my foot, and spun to volley the ball and shoot on goal.
My leg gave way beneath me and I heard a sickeningly audible "pop". I lay gasping on my back, on the floor. My immediate thought was that I'd dislocated my knee. I looked down, half-expecting to see my foot dangling lamely, or sticking out at a strange angle. But it all looked fairly normal.
10 days later...
Dr Schena tapped on the screen with the tip of his pen. "That's your lateral meniscus - shredded". Then, click click, with the mouse. "And that - see that little stump here and that little stump there?" He gesticulated at two shafts of black. "That's all that remains of your ACL".
In the hours after the ambulance swept me away from Shad to Mount Auburn Hospital, my knee began to inflate to the size of a juicy grapefruit. Over the coming weeks the grapefruit began to rot; my knee turned putrid shades of yellow, then blue, and finally black. The joint stiffened with all the fluid inside, causing my thigh muscles to atrophied. My leg turned flabby and sponge-like. It wasn't pretty.
PT: Turning the corner
Enter Lynn, my physical therapist and savior - at least when it comes to walking. She soon had me doing all sorts of leg lifts, calf extensions, and hamstring contractions. Slowly but surely my joint began to loosen.
My favourite moment was on the bike at the gym. When I began with Lynn I could only manage to rock the pedals backwards and forwards. After a few days, I completed a rotation or two. Gradually, I increased the time and speed. But it wasn't until the second week of PT that I managed to peddle fast enough so that the bike actually recognised that I existed, and offered me a workout programme. I didn't see "knee rehabilitation", and so opted for "fat burn".
Schena will fix it
Dr Schena tells me that I need a minimum of 120 degrees of articulation before they can undertake the surgery which is needed to get me running again. It involves an autograft - effectivley a donation of my own tissues - and some skillful orthoscopic surgery (For the morbid fascination of seeing what will happen during the operation, click here.)
Two asides
A couple of interesting observations extend from this episode. First, I've always taken my mobility and my legs, feet, and knees for granted. It wasn't until I was stranded, hobbling around on crutches, that I realised how much harder life is if you can't walk. You really need your friends. It sounds obvious (duh! you say), but as I sat on my bed, too physically exhausted from all the hopping to move, my mind was ferociously frustrated. For a few fleeting moments, I was the caged lion, a fox with his leg caught in the trap, a man stuck inside a disabled body. More than anything I wanted to go back to how I was. But I was helpless. I could only accept my fate.
Second, this experience brought the US healthcare debate into vivid Technicolor. This little episode has cost my insurance company almost $10,000 ($1200 for the ambulance, $600 for the orthopedic surgeon, $6,000 for the MRI scan) and will probably cost me another $12-15,000 for the operation and rehabilitation - around 50% of my 1st year tuition ($41,900). Why is it so expensive? How can the service possibly cost that much? And if I were uninsured - like 40m Americans currently are - what would I do? Again, this is not a new or controversial thing to say. But I didn't appreciate how scary is feels until it happened to me.
My leg gave way beneath me and I heard a sickeningly audible "pop". I lay gasping on my back, on the floor. My immediate thought was that I'd dislocated my knee. I looked down, half-expecting to see my foot dangling lamely, or sticking out at a strange angle. But it all looked fairly normal.
10 days later...
Dr Schena tapped on the screen with the tip of his pen. "That's your lateral meniscus - shredded". Then, click click, with the mouse. "And that - see that little stump here and that little stump there?" He gesticulated at two shafts of black. "That's all that remains of your ACL".
In the hours after the ambulance swept me away from Shad to Mount Auburn Hospital, my knee began to inflate to the size of a juicy grapefruit. Over the coming weeks the grapefruit began to rot; my knee turned putrid shades of yellow, then blue, and finally black. The joint stiffened with all the fluid inside, causing my thigh muscles to atrophied. My leg turned flabby and sponge-like. It wasn't pretty.
PT: Turning the corner
Enter Lynn, my physical therapist and savior - at least when it comes to walking. She soon had me doing all sorts of leg lifts, calf extensions, and hamstring contractions. Slowly but surely my joint began to loosen.
My favourite moment was on the bike at the gym. When I began with Lynn I could only manage to rock the pedals backwards and forwards. After a few days, I completed a rotation or two. Gradually, I increased the time and speed. But it wasn't until the second week of PT that I managed to peddle fast enough so that the bike actually recognised that I existed, and offered me a workout programme. I didn't see "knee rehabilitation", and so opted for "fat burn".
Schena will fix it
Dr Schena tells me that I need a minimum of 120 degrees of articulation before they can undertake the surgery which is needed to get me running again. It involves an autograft - effectivley a donation of my own tissues - and some skillful orthoscopic surgery (For the morbid fascination of seeing what will happen during the operation, click here.)
Two asides
A couple of interesting observations extend from this episode. First, I've always taken my mobility and my legs, feet, and knees for granted. It wasn't until I was stranded, hobbling around on crutches, that I realised how much harder life is if you can't walk. You really need your friends. It sounds obvious (duh! you say), but as I sat on my bed, too physically exhausted from all the hopping to move, my mind was ferociously frustrated. For a few fleeting moments, I was the caged lion, a fox with his leg caught in the trap, a man stuck inside a disabled body. More than anything I wanted to go back to how I was. But I was helpless. I could only accept my fate.
Second, this experience brought the US healthcare debate into vivid Technicolor. This little episode has cost my insurance company almost $10,000 ($1200 for the ambulance, $600 for the orthopedic surgeon, $6,000 for the MRI scan) and will probably cost me another $12-15,000 for the operation and rehabilitation - around 50% of my 1st year tuition ($41,900). Why is it so expensive? How can the service possibly cost that much? And if I were uninsured - like 40m Americans currently are - what would I do? Again, this is not a new or controversial thing to say. But I didn't appreciate how scary is feels until it happened to me.
02 December 2007
Recruitment and existentialist angst
Wake up! You have to get a job!
Since early September we have focused almost exclusively on academics: prepping for class, mastering the case method, fiddling with excel models, that sort of thing. Okay, so that's not entirely true. We have been turbo-socialising too - in my case this involved regressing to undergrad habits and antics but with less sleep. But by and large our professional energies were directed towards learning.
Soon, however, I was rudely reminded that I have to get a job post-HBS and that I should start thinking about it now. The first wakeup call was having to rewrite my CV for the HBS resume book. How did I want to pitch myself? As a general manager? A financial wizard (impossible in my case!)? How can I demonstrate my entrepreneurial spirit? Which bits of my experience are more "impressive" than others? Befuddled, I drafted something respectable and clicked submit.
But I had little time to draw breath. On 5 December, the recruiters were unleashed. My inbox started filling up with dinner invitations, coffee chats, and ads for company information sessions. I complained to Careers Service that I has getting recruitment spam; they told they would investigate (in other words, grow up and get used to it!). Hordes of suited and booted HBSers trekked over the Larz Anderson bridge to the Charles Hotel to munch on mushroom puffs and swig chardonnay.
The Best, Big, Bold, Bad-boy Firm, looking for...
Curious about the hype, I went to one of the bulge bracket investment bank's presentation. The room was full of pin-stripe suits, canapes, and bubbly wine. The ubiquitous Harvard Business School hoodie was out, and slick shirt-tie combos were in. We were given the manadtory 20-minute "hurrah" pitch from the Senior Vice President for Corporate Greatness, and offered a thick book full of nuggets of advice on how to get through the grueling interviews.
Then potential recruits began an elaborate dance with recruiters, asking questions ("describe your company's culture? What would I be doing as a summer intern?") and receiving disturbingly saccharine answers. I soon figured out that the aim of these little 1-2-1s was to get your hands on the recruiter's business card so that you could send a follow up note the next day ("Hi Jim, it was great to meet you last night at the Charles. I was really fascinated by ...."). This was shameless networking at it's best.
Anyone for Satre or Camus?
As the tempo of the recruitment drive reached a frenzy - 15+ presentations a day, numerous coffee chat emails, dinner invites from Wall Street's finest, war stories of how a classmate had secured a great lead into a top PE shop - I discovered an interesting corollary: HBS was offering group therapy sessions.
Until now we've spent most of our leadership class learning about organisational behaviour, thinking about how to manage upwards/downwards/sideways, and pondering what makes a great leader/manager.
Last week we transitioned into the "personal" segment of the course. I was asked to solicit feedback from colleagues, peers, friends, and family to find my "reflected best-self". I was given a selection HBSers' memoirs coming to their 10 and 20 year reunions, and challenged to write my own fictional memoir 10 years out of business school. What would I have accomplished by 2019? How do I define success? What trade-offs would I have made? And what would the consequences be?
It is easy to see how this exercise combined with the relentless stream of recruitment activities can quickly lead to a severe bout of existentialist angst: what is life all about? what is my passion? do I want to make money or enjoy myself? can I do both? how am I going to change the world?
I applaud HBS for forcing us to think about these issues, but in actuality some questions just don't have simple, pat answers. And what might be the right answer now, won't necessarily be so in five years time. So instead of lying awake night worrying about whether I'm really a leader "who will make a difference in the world", I'm going to fall back on a simple way of making decisions: (1) stick to my passions and don't do anything which I know won't enjoy day in, day out, (2) think of my life in 2-year bite-size chunks - know where you are going, but don't plan 10 years out because life will get in the way, (3) if I would shudder to see it in my biography or on my epitaph, then I won't do it. And I'm going to remember that success, like leadership, can be defined in many many different ways.
Since early September we have focused almost exclusively on academics: prepping for class, mastering the case method, fiddling with excel models, that sort of thing. Okay, so that's not entirely true. We have been turbo-socialising too - in my case this involved regressing to undergrad habits and antics but with less sleep. But by and large our professional energies were directed towards learning.
Soon, however, I was rudely reminded that I have to get a job post-HBS and that I should start thinking about it now. The first wakeup call was having to rewrite my CV for the HBS resume book. How did I want to pitch myself? As a general manager? A financial wizard (impossible in my case!)? How can I demonstrate my entrepreneurial spirit? Which bits of my experience are more "impressive" than others? Befuddled, I drafted something respectable and clicked submit.
But I had little time to draw breath. On 5 December, the recruiters were unleashed. My inbox started filling up with dinner invitations, coffee chats, and ads for company information sessions. I complained to Careers Service that I has getting recruitment spam; they told they would investigate (in other words, grow up and get used to it!). Hordes of suited and booted HBSers trekked over the Larz Anderson bridge to the Charles Hotel to munch on mushroom puffs and swig chardonnay.
The Best, Big, Bold, Bad-boy Firm, looking for...
Curious about the hype, I went to one of the bulge bracket investment bank's presentation. The room was full of pin-stripe suits, canapes, and bubbly wine. The ubiquitous Harvard Business School hoodie was out, and slick shirt-tie combos were in. We were given the manadtory 20-minute "hurrah" pitch from the Senior Vice President for Corporate Greatness, and offered a thick book full of nuggets of advice on how to get through the grueling interviews.
Then potential recruits began an elaborate dance with recruiters, asking questions ("describe your company's culture? What would I be doing as a summer intern?") and receiving disturbingly saccharine answers. I soon figured out that the aim of these little 1-2-1s was to get your hands on the recruiter's business card so that you could send a follow up note the next day ("Hi Jim, it was great to meet you last night at the Charles. I was really fascinated by ...."). This was shameless networking at it's best.
Anyone for Satre or Camus?
As the tempo of the recruitment drive reached a frenzy - 15+ presentations a day, numerous coffee chat emails, dinner invites from Wall Street's finest, war stories of how a classmate had secured a great lead into a top PE shop - I discovered an interesting corollary: HBS was offering group therapy sessions.
Until now we've spent most of our leadership class learning about organisational behaviour, thinking about how to manage upwards/downwards/sideways, and pondering what makes a great leader/manager.
Last week we transitioned into the "personal" segment of the course. I was asked to solicit feedback from colleagues, peers, friends, and family to find my "reflected best-self". I was given a selection HBSers' memoirs coming to their 10 and 20 year reunions, and challenged to write my own fictional memoir 10 years out of business school. What would I have accomplished by 2019? How do I define success? What trade-offs would I have made? And what would the consequences be?
It is easy to see how this exercise combined with the relentless stream of recruitment activities can quickly lead to a severe bout of existentialist angst: what is life all about? what is my passion? do I want to make money or enjoy myself? can I do both? how am I going to change the world?
I applaud HBS for forcing us to think about these issues, but in actuality some questions just don't have simple, pat answers. And what might be the right answer now, won't necessarily be so in five years time. So instead of lying awake night worrying about whether I'm really a leader "who will make a difference in the world", I'm going to fall back on a simple way of making decisions: (1) stick to my passions and don't do anything which I know won't enjoy day in, day out, (2) think of my life in 2-year bite-size chunks - know where you are going, but don't plan 10 years out because life will get in the way, (3) if I would shudder to see it in my biography or on my epitaph, then I won't do it. And I'm going to remember that success, like leadership, can be defined in many many different ways.
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