Bourdain, Borscht, and Life's Tiny Blisses

My host family, resting after a tough hike in the Carpathians 
and quenching their thirst with natural spring water.

"He taught me early that the value of a dish is the pleasure it brings you; where you are sitting when you eat it—and who you are eating it with—are what really matter. Perhaps the most important life lesson he passed on was: Don't be a snob." Anthony Bourdain, talking about his dad, Pierre Bourdain

Over the past 24 hours, my feeds have been flooded with old interviews, quotes, tributes, and conversations* about everything from mental health issues and suicide prevention to how Anthony Bourdain circumvented stereotypes and opened doors to cultures around the globe, all without being patronizing or indulging in poverty tourism. These are all important topics, and I was going to write something about one or all of those things, but there are already so many good write-ups out there it doesn't seem necessary.

I've been lucky enough to do my own occasional travel down paths unknown, usually on the cheap, and Facebook's "On This Day" has been bombarding me today with images from my trip a year ago to Ukraine. I'm staring at these algorithm-forced memories, and I'm seeing landmarks and landscapes that were amazing to behold, and quite agreeable subjects for my camera. But the most intimate, meaningful times didn't come from those postcard moments.

Instead, they were shared with wonderfully snarky, selfie-taking teens who reminded me of my own over an ice cream cone in front of the Lviv Opera House. Or while splitting a bowl of greasy varenyky with colleagues at the Kyiv train station. Or chatting with my host mother, Natalya, in her kitchen and learning about each other's families over a hearty breakfast rabbit stew or after-school bowl of borscht, of which she knew how to make about 100 exquisite varieties. Or eating till I felt like I'd burst with even more borscht, butter-smeared kielbasa, and stuffed cabbage with Marie and Marianna, teachers in the town of Sambir who graciously opened up their own homes to me. Or drinking sulfur-smelling (but delicious-tasting!) natural spring water from a rusted pipe peeking out of the earth during a hike in the Carpathian Mountains. Or enjoying barbecued sausage, fresh vegetables from the garden, and cold local beer in Natalya and Vasily's backyard at sunset while their 15-year-old nephew Oleg grilled me (it was a barbecue) on American idioms and filled me in on some useful Ukrainian ones so I could surprise the kids in my classes the next day. Or downing Odessa wine and horilka late at night with Vasily while watching Bear Grylls on the Ukrainian version of the Discovery Channel. Or even wolfing down cheeseburgers from the McDonald's on the Maidan, a farewell dinner with new friends from India, the Philippines, and Germany before we headed off later that evening on our separate sleeper cars.

So many people loved Anthony Bourdain because he seemed to be just like us—a down-to-earth, self-effacing, non-pretentious guy who also just happened to be a world traveler living the dream life for our viewing pleasure. But I think it's been distressing for many to realize that he was also just like us in a different way: often struggling internally, putting on a happy (or happier) face to the world, fighting off demons that no one really knew the extent of. If he couldn't be happy living the life he led, what chance could there be for the rest of us?

I don't know the answer to that. But what Anthony Bourdain was always trying to tell us, I think, is that we can also be just like him, our much-lighter wallets notwithstanding. The tiny blisses that can help many of us get through the day-to-day drudgery are accessible, simple, and within reach, and if you can throw food into the mix, do it—it's hard not to bond when edible treats are involved. 

Make s'mores with the kids, throw a backyard barbecue with the neighbors, meet a friend for lunch at a local eatery you've never tried (and please be extra-nice to the staff), pick a tomato from the garden and eat it like an apple without even washing it (ew, I know, but also—yum!). Shit, even start a conversation with a stranger during the lunch rush at McDonald's. If the back-and-forth is good, the McNuggets will be, too. (OK, maybe that last part on the nuggets is a reach, but you get the gist.)

All it takes to suss out this particular type of joy is a willingness to be open to new dishes and new friends, generous, and appreciative of the moment. And to not be a snob.**

* A couple of my favorites from around the 'Nets:

https://blogsofwar.com/anthony-bourdain-talks-travel-fo…/…/…

https://www.thenation.com/article/bourdain-gave-us/

** I'm also not offering this up as some kind of Pollyanna-ish panacea. I know some of us are dealing with deeper stuff that can't be remedied with a fresh-baked pie. But in the meantime, if something can help us mitigate the day-to-day, I say we go for it.

Tweets and treats at @jenngidman.

Suck It, Walt Disney: Why I Froze Myself in Liquid Nitrogen for My Birthday

GTFO.

Each year around my birthday, I celebrate my mom's long-ago labor pains by planning something outside of my comfort zone, mainly to crush my weltschmerz (new word, showing off) and bust myself out of ruts both trivial and fathomless. Sometimes I go big—last year I forced my introverted self to Eastern Europe to teach English—but most times, due to finances, employment logistics, and desired proximity to my kids, I explore prospects closer to home.

I happened to have three days of comp time banked at work, so I started scouring the Internet and my own brain (you never know what repressed resources you might find there!) and ended up discovering a tantalizing trifecta within a 10-mile radius to home base: cryotherapy, sensory deprivation, and halotherapy. No worries, that last one has zero to do with attaining angel status—I'm still on-brand.

Phase 1: Cryotherapy

What it is:

Exposing your body to system-shocking liquid nitrogen vapors set to a bone-chilling minus 250 degrees for a period of two to three minutes ("they" say it's not safe to go beyond that; "I" believe "them").

What it's supposed to do:

Reduce aches and pains, alleviate stress, and burn calories, among other perks.

My experience:

This was the part of my holistic journey that gave me the most agita. In my pre-cryo research, I dug up thumbs-up studies cited by NIMH (cool, in both a literal and practical sense), but also a few horror stories, including one of a woman who hadn't made it out of the cryo tank alive (more chilling than cool). More than one website mentioned the "f" word ("fatal") if a patient went beyond a few minutes in the chamber. 

The liability waiver I'd spied online before my session didn't mitigate my anxiety. Although I hadn't ever suffered from any of the maladies listed therein, I was more than convinced that my lingering heart murmur, the gestational diabetes I'd last experienced 12 years ago, or my general malaise (shut up, Laura) would work in tandem with the frosty vapors and do me in.

When I arrived at the venue, shoehorned into the corner of a nondescript Long Island strip mall next to Sushi Palace, my nerves were somewhat soothed by the relaxed, cheerful ambiance within, replete with smoothie machines, a workout room, and shelves crammed with nutritional supplements and glowing amethyst clusters. A preternaturally energetic attendant named Tara (I know her name was Tara because she later sent me an e-receipt that said, "Thanks for coming—Tara!") led me into a prep room illuminated by lime-green Christmas lights.

It was here where I was instructed to strip down to my skivvies and adorn my still-98.6-degree body in a white robe, compression socks, green Crocs (they like green here), and enormous wool mittens:

Some of my cryo attire.

I looked ridiculous, but Tara explained it was important to protect the extremities from freezing. I've seen my fair share of Shackleton documentaries; her advice seemed sound.

Tara left me alone to stare down the machine as it was "warming up." I resisted the urge to say, "Don't you mean cooling down?!," because I didn't want to be that customer. 

Anyway, here is the machine:

I studied said machine carefully. One of the warnings on the waiver I'd just signed was to keep your head over the swirling eddy of liquid-nitrogen fog during your session so you didn't huff it and pass out. I spent a good 10 minutes overthinking the ways in which I'd have to contort my body and swivel my head to fend off asphyxiation.

Tara finally came back and instructed me to hop into the machine and discard the robe. After asking for my reluctant go-ahead, she flipped the switch to activate the machine, chatting away while my body was slammed with sub-zero smog. I was surprised to find it was a pleasantly dry deep freeze that felt, in a good way, like my skin was being seared. More accurately, it felt like someone was smothering me with Vicks VapoRub, or perhaps a giant York Peppermint Pattie.

As Tara inquired about my daily habits to suss out the reasons for my geriatric-level creakiness, I confessed to my Quasimodo-like, hunched-over-the-computer work posture, leading to a helpful tip Tara had heard on the John Tesh radio show, which until that moment I hadn't known existed: Always sit with your ears directly over your shoulders. By the time I'd had time to contemplate and place that Tesh tidbit deep within my mental reserves for future retrieval, the cryotherapy session was over.

How I felt afterward:

I once half-heartedly tried to freeze myself to death in the snow, à la The Shining, during a low period when I was 16, drunk at a house party, and irrationally pissed at my friends, as tends to happen when you're 16, engaged in typical teen drama, and can't hold your liquor. 

I definitely felt better after this than after that. Refreshed and, yes, not as achy and painy as I'd been going in, though how much of that was a placebo effect remains unclear. I also felt relief that I was still among the living and didn't shatter like Ted Williams' head. I was so impressed with my ability to withstand the liquid-nitrogen machine that I drove with the window down along the entire route to my next stop, exposing my body to free 44-degree self-medication.

Would I do it again?

Yes, but only for the Groupon price of $23 (the regular price is $75, which is kind of steep for a two-minute chillaxing regimen).

Phase II: Sensory Deprivation

What it is:

Entering a soundproof tank and immersing your body in 10 inches of body-temperature water saturated with 850 pounds of Epsom salts (rendering it more buoyant than the Dead Sea), then floating in complete darkness and silence for 90 minutes.

What it's supposed to do:

Get you to relax so completely that you enter a Theta or Delta resting state, alleviating stress and anxiety, increasing circulation, and spurring creativity. The guy who opened the floating facility told me his wife suffers from Lyme disease and that he'd started the business after she frequented a similar floating facility and felt much better afterward. 

Some aficionados, per the facility's website, are said to have "developed complex scientific theories and drafted whole portions of books while floating." I need to hit it big soon; I was hopeful.

My experience:

I took a very enjoyable hot shower in a well-appointed prep area, as instructed, before my immersion:

Then I entered the floating chamber, as seen here before the lights dimmed:

Once inside the tub, I was able to turn the lights out with the press of a button, and my 90 minutes of ultimate relaxation commenced. My hopes were almost immediately dashed when, after being instructed not to touch my face under any circumstances after immersing my hands in the extra-salty water, I instinctively touched my face three minutes in to scratch an itch. I experienced an ocular burning unlike any I've ever felt previously (and you're talking to someone who has, on more than one occasion, accidentally flicked Colgate into her sockets and/or rubbed her eyes after dicing jalapenos).

It took about five minutes for that particular agony to dissipate, after which I approached my float with renewed determination to loosen up and organically evolve, like a brackish Pokémon, into the next Stephen Hawking or Jane Austen. And yet. And yet....

First, full disclosure that I'm a side sleeper. It's almost impossible for me to doze off flat on my back, and dreamily bobbing in magnesium sulfate didn't magically allow for a triumphant Sandman entrance. My head and neck kept tensing up as I anticipated the inevitable drowning that actually wasn't inevitable (it was literally impossible to sink, even if you fell asleep), and my body kept distractingly bumping into the sides of the tank.

Plus, because my insomnia-prone mind is schooled at finding kinks in the system during interminable moments of darkness, I soon tracked down the tiny crack in the ceiling that allowed a nearly imperceptible amount of light to creep in, which, because I didn't have my glasses on, resembled a blurry constellation—a not-unlovely visual, had it not been for the stated principle of immersion in complete darkness. Someone also started vacuuming in some distant room about midway through my session, nullifying the promise of a completely soundproof experience.

I didn't want to waste my time here, though, so I tried to at least get those creative juices flowing. I pretended I was an astronaut, training for the rigors of the cosmos. I made believe I was the amphibious creature from The Shape of Water, waiting for Michael Shannon to emerge from the far end of the tub and shoot me. I channeled Joaquin Phoenix from You Were Never Really Here, a movie I'd seen just a day earlier, my pockets filled with rocks yet unable to sink. I imagined Pennywise luring me into the murky depths, whispering, "You'll float, too." I made an extremely briny lemonade out of the lemons I'd been dealt.

How I felt afterward:

Glad when the 90 minutes was up, because I was incredibly bored and disappointed I hadn't drawn out the transcendent feeling I was supposed to. I had written nothing in my head except bitter haikus against all who have wronged me. I was a floating failure.

Would I do it again?

Probably not, though maybe next time I'd know what to expect and could better mentally prepare. I'd likely skip the three cups of coffee beforehand, too.

Phase III: Halotherapy

What it is:

Zoning out in a zero-gravity chair in a re-creation of a Himalyan cave as tiny particles of pink salt are blasted into your lungs.

What it's supposed to do:

Purge your respiratory system and better the "turgor" of your skin.

My experience:

I follow a flamboyant chef on Instagram nicknamed "Salt Bae," a personality who's made an art form of sorts out of elegantly flicking table-ready NaCl onto slabs of meat, fish, and an assortment of other edibles. I envisioned this exact thing happening, but to my lungs, while I snoozed to New Age music and tried to politely ignore my other cavemates (there are three other chairs besides your own in the salt cave):

As I settled into my reclined seat (comfortably on my side this time), I imagined my name was Mildred and I was convalescing in Saratoga Springs after a distressing bout of gout, a fantasy that helped me drift off to sleep while being serenaded by Native American flute tunes and David Arkenstone melodies. I blacked out despite my sole cavemate—a salty (haha), weathered Long Island woman who could've been 30 or 70, and who instructed me to hit her if she snored—grinding gravel throughout the entire 45 minutes. I haven't had that nice of a nap since before my kids were born.

How I felt afterward:

Fully rested, though I'm not sure I can say I experienced any enhanced respiratory functioning or a less-distressed epidermis afterward. 

Would I do it again?

Maybe/probably, though not for full price ($50).

I don't regret my celebratory mind-body experiment, but I've got better plans in store. Summer is coming, which means I'll be heading to the beach to derive all of the same palliative benefits offered by therapies halo, cryo, and senso. Blast me with that complimentary salt air. Dunk me under the body-numbing waves until I can't feel my toes or torso. Bombard my brain with that mind-soothing surf that knocks me out better than an Ambien. Besiege and batter my senses until I remember nothing.

Tweets and treats at @jenngidman.