Hanging in Here

I’m still here, but only just. Since signing the apartment lease in France three weeks ago, life has been hectic in a way that brings a new meaning to the word. I'm not sure what I was expecting, having conceived and orchestrated a relocation between two countries that I am not native to, nor speak the language of, in a three-week time horizon. I feel like my world has been turned upside down, I’ve been turned inside out, hung out to dry and am hanging by a thread. If I hadn't had the help of two very good ex-pat friends, Karen and Pam, who pitched in and came down to Narbonne to help unload without hesitation, and the sainthood of Michael who drove the truck between Swtizerland and the south of France in one day (over 1,300 km's) while trying to arrange his own move up to Munich, I'm not sure I would have lived to tell the tale. Actually, I'm still not quite sure that I have.

One day after the official D-day of April 30th (D stands for Derangement, as in the corybantic state of mind that takes over on the last day of the month when, after days of packing, painting and cleaning, one has to remove oneself and all traces of oneself from one abode by 12pm sharp, take up residence in a new abode, do inspections at either end with respective agencies and then in my case, negotiate an emigration and a u-haul border crossing in between), I am still in a state of being semi-moved. I have personal effects in both countries but no fully assembled furniture in either. All in all, this is not an enjoyable or sanity-promoting place to be. I'm not even going to talk about how my Canadian credit card company froze my cards on the day I was trying to pay for the moving van in Switzerland and then buy some large appliances - like a fridge - in France, my British bank blocked ATM withdrawals for no apparent reason on the very same day and the only account I could access, my Swiss account, had no money in it since I had diligently transferred all of it out in preparation for my Swiss evacuation. I also won't mention how, while on a VoIP call with Visa made from my laptop in a wifi cafe, answering a series of questions designed to infuriate the most patient person on a good day, my laptop's fan malfunctioned and it became a burning hot slate of aluminum which I had to handle with napkins while trying to explain in French that I needed my bill right away. You can't make this stuff up, and nor would you want to.

As for training, all ideas of scheduled exercise were put on hold three weeks ago when I realized this relocation might be more complicated than my previous moves, although carrying boxes up and down staircases in 19th-century buildings with no elevators has to count for something in a training program. Being vegan is the only thing I can profess to be sticking with, though I would hardly describe my diet as model right now: peanut butter sandwiches have made a strong comeback and feature as the center piece of at least two meals a day. I’ve otherwise been grabbing anything that looks butter-free in early-morning bakeries, picking egg off premade Niscoise salads at autoroute reststops and drinking a lot of black coffee. Needless to say, my grand plan to cut out sugar and flour to lean out for racing has been long abandoned. Any inclination I had to do an early summer race is out the window and the thought of Ironman in September seems obscure and almost laughable (because if I didn't laugh, I would cry). In my brief moments of objectivity and/or lucidity, I tell myself that the desire to pursue my goals will reignite when I am firmly settled in my new French abode and can resume training, along with other semblances of a normal routine such as getting up and having a shower in the morning (haven't figured out how to get the gas connected in my new home yet, but I'm working towards a solution with the authorities).

I will write a better update when I feel like my world is the right way up again. I’m hoping that will come sooner rather than later.