I know I’ve written a lot of blogs about what it feels like to start training again after a long break. But I don’t think anything quite measures up to level of pitiful state my body had reached when I got back on the treadmill and hit the weights once again this week. Two months of holidaying in Norway, with the country's delicious food, drinks, and not to mention (lots of!) wedding cake, followed by an even more sinful two-week stay in Florence takes its toll on muscles and heart. The uplifting thing, though, is how incredibly thankful your body becomes when you do decide to treat it to some cardio and muscular exercise again. All is forgotten; the pimples disappear, the joint aches vanish, and the concentration of your mind is suddenly top notch once more.
Today, I managed to do TEFL, university work, the kitchen tidy-up sorely needed, bake cinnamon buns, Skype with my oldest friend, go to the shops, and still write this blog. This fascinates me. Particularly because last week, when I hadn’t started working out yet, I struggled with an hour and a half of study in the morning. After this ordeal, I felt tired, exhausted, and uninterested in any other form of physical or mental exercise. That knot of stress and unease in my chest was still very much alive, and the first thing I did in the morning was worry about how I was going to finish everything I needed to do during the day. Keep in mind, this was just seven days ago.
Now, fast forward to the amount of stuff I got done today. And the fact that my brain is still capable of writing this blog with some coherence. I know there have been studies done on all this, and I probably seem like a bit of a dimwit for saying it, but exercise seriously enhances your physical and psychological state of well-being! I cannot reiterate enough how wrong people who say exercise will make you more tired really are. It’s a flat-out lie. These people, they’re lying to you. Their argument is like doctors' recommending heroin to prevent a nasty cough in the early 20th century. Heroin is bad for you, and exercise makes you more energetic, joyful, and capable of doing whatever it is you need to do the day after your exercise. Can I get an “endorphins”, anyone? I’m off to make dinner now.
When I was 17 years old, I moved to Swaziland in Southern Africa. My experience with gyms at this point was, to put it subtly, limited. I don’t know what makes a person who’s never gone to the gym tick, and suddenly decide to start going, but for me it was a close to two metres tall, severely bulked up kid from Africa, who said there were plenty of girls who would go to the gym, if the option was there for them.
So I started going. I felt, literally, like a baby lemur in a male gorilla cage. These guys were growling and howling with their 20’s and 50’s and 100’s, and I stood there, in a corner, feeling like the most awkward person in world, struggling with three sets of 10, 2 kg’s in hand. But it got to me. Going to the gym is like getting the travel bug; it’s a lifelong obsession and once it’s got you, it never lets go. After a while, I was organising gym times for girls, and doing 150 sit-ups five times a week.
It feels like an eternity since I got up at 6 AM twice a week to open the dusty, worn-down gym; the excitement I felt when the coach had bought a treadmill over one of our term breaks, and the happiness at the number of girls in attendance rising. I think back to the time before I started pushing weights and hitting the treadmill, and I cannot fathom how I ever didn’t. It seems like such an integral part of me now, like breathing or eating or watching films or writing.
A few months ago, Ariz said to me: “I think you’re just going to have to accept you’re going to be one of these fit people who runs around in the forest and leaves the gym last at night.” This was a strange concept for me to take in. I never thought I would ever be able to even do a push-up, and now I can do five angled ones - ten if I really want to. Squats were an impossibility up until this winter:
“My knees are too weak,” I’d say to Ariz at Aqualife, “I can’t keep my balance and there’s too much pressure on them when I sit down.”
“If you do them more, and carefully, your knees will get stronger,” was his solemn reply.
And he was right. Tell me to do 50 squats with 10 kg of extra weight? No problem.
I look at the journey the gym’s taken me and my body on, and I have to admit it fascinates me that the simple feeling of being tiny, and uncomfortable, and weak in a busted, African gym, is enough to get you hooked on a lifetime of strength, discipline, and fun. 2kg’s, I salute you.
Early yesterday morning, I arrived back in Kurdistan and thus, real life. I’ve had an absolutely amazing summer vacation, in which food has been one of the main foci, and particularly so on my honeymoon. This blog, then, will quite simply be a tribute to good food, Florence, and enjoying one of the simplest of pleasures in life. Let’s face it, I ain’t getting back on that treadmill just yet.
Florentines have a marvellous way of relaxing with food. They eat all the time, everywhere, everything, and they enjoy it to the fullest. At the B&B Ariz and I slept in Florence, fresh croissants, biscuits, as well as port wine was at hand 24/7. Around the corner, at the gorgeous Caffe Sant’Ambrogio, you could buy a glass of wine for 4 Euro, and enjoy complimentary prosciutto, pasta, nuts, and mini pizzas free of charge. A few shops down from that; the best chocolate ice cream I’ve ever tasted in my life. And then the beautiful Cibreo, where I enjoyed both cod mousse and stuffed rabbit, both cooked to perfection. All this, in the area of just four blocks. It is amazing to put this much delicious food into your mouth. And even though it’s not conventionally “healthy” food, I do believe there is something thoroughly good for your soul in sitting down, enjoying a glass of wine, and eating a dish someone has clearly prepared with skill and not to mention, love.
Florence is a beautiful city in all its aspects; the sights, the people, the history. What you can’t read in a book, though, is how good the minestrone at Oleandolo just off the Duomo tastes with a glass of ice cold, fresh prosecco. You can’t describe the subtle hint of bacon in a porcini mushroom risotto at Olio and Convium, a few blocks down from Ponte Vecchio. And you certainly have to go there, be there - smell it, taste it, feel it - in order to fully experience the genuine hospitality and kindness Florentines treat their guests with. And this, this amazing feeling the city provides you with at all times, is best enjoyed over a glass of wine and some cold cut salami and pancetta from the wonderful Italian pantry.
It is almost as if eating is a kind of breathing to Florentines. And a different one to anywhere else in the world. In Norway, we breathe quickly, while catching the bus or chasing through the woods on skis, thermos in backpack. In New York, they breathe hot air, and run across blinking pedestrian lights to reach work on time, sandwich in hand. And in Bangkok, there’s a different kind of breathing altogether, preferably over some street food in the steaming humidity. But in Florence, ah, in Florence, lunch may take half an hour, or three, and either way, your breath will become calm and steady, over the immensity of pure pleasure that can come from a simple espresso and tiramisu at noon.
