Thursday, June 19--We check out of the Gardenia Hotel. Our plan is to spend a couple days in Sorsogon, a town down the coast from Tabaco, and spend a day at Rizal Beach, near Gubat, a smaller town near Sorsogon. We've had a nice stay in Tabaco, but it will be good to get Fran away for awhile. She's been trying to please not only us, but also her host family and her principal. Away from Tabaco, we'll have her all to ourselves.
Fran gets us a van and driver, and we head for Sorsogon. It's some ride! In the Philippines, lines on the road and signs by the highway are just suggestions. Our driver passes vehicles even on blind uphill curves and uses his horn at every opportunity. Slower vehicles--jeepneys and trikes--scoot over and allow us to pass. The two-lane road becomes a three-laner at times. People--men, women and little children--walk on the shoulder, right next to the highway, as we zip by just inches from them.
In Sorsogon, we check into the Villa Isabel, a beautiful hotel on a back street. We have lunch and finally sample some San Migs--San Miguel beer, made in the Philippines. It's pretty good, especially on a hot day, and every day is hot here.
We walk downtown. A pili nut festival is going on. We've had pili nut candy before, sugar-glazed pili nuts. They're yummy. As we walk along the street, I look down into the gutter--a small water-filled ditch, actually. I see a thick electrical cable snaking through the water, and I wonder about the average life expectancy of Filipino electricians.
Friday, June 20--Fran has been texting busily. The Peace Corps has told her a typhoon is in the area. It's named Fengshen by the international body that keeps track of these storms, but it's Frank in the Philippines. Originally, it was supposed to scoot along off the coast, east of the Philippines. Now, we're told it's heading straight for us. But no one seems concerned. Many typhoons hit the Philippines each year, and unless the storm is especially potent, they're not a big deal--to Filipinos, anyway. Fran doesn't seem too concerned, either. So, instead of a day at the beach, we just plan for a day of hanging around the hotel, maybe taking a walk into Sorsogon, too.
The breakfast menu at Villa Isabel includes scrambled eggs and bacon, ham or sausage--and pancakes. Fran cautions us not to get our hopes up about the pancakes. She says we'll almost certainly be served corn syrup, not maple syrup. But, surprise! The waiter sets a small cup of maple syrup on the table. Fran is impressed!
In the evening, Fran and Ed go to a pizza place with Aaron and Whitney, two Peace Corps volunteers that live near here. Di and I go to bed and hope that the approaching typhoon is not too nasty.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
A Walk in the Sun
Wednesday, June 18--I get up and throw on some clothes and head out of the Gardenia Hotel on my own, on a mission to get some donuts and some fresh-brewed coffee. Di has been drinking instant so far this trip, but I'd spotted a Mr. Donut on Fran's map of Tabaco City. Determined to brave the streets on my own, I plunge out the door of the hotel and into the pounding heat and humidity.I walk past the food market and make my way to the main street--Ziga Avenue, by Fran's map. A parade is inching its way down the street. I stop and watch one of the many marching bands. The bands are like any U.S. high school marching band, and for a second, it's easy to forget I'm in the Philippines.
I've been disoriented in Tabaco. There's something about the streets that makes me lose my sense of direction here, and even with Fran's map, I have to backtrack several times before I find my way to the Mr. Donut. Inside, it's like any convenience-store donut shop in the U.S., but staffed with Filipinas. I buy a dozen donuts and some coffee, and I head back.
Today, we take a jeepney to Malilipot and then walk up a country road to Busay Falls. As we walk past several homes, Fran points to the rebar sticking up from the concrete walls. Many Filipinos build this way so that they can add a second floor later when they have the money. Fran also points out that few of the houses are painted. Exterior paint is a mark of wealth.
We walk under the beating sun past rice paddies and into a cool, shaded valley. Busay Falls pours down into a shallow pool, cooling the air. We spend an hour or so enjoying the break from the heat.
After heading back to town and cleaning up, we go to Helga and Leo's again for a good-bye meal. Helga serves up a feast--baked fish; curried chicken; Bicol Express, a pepper, coconut and pork dish; a fruit salad; and several other tasty dishes. Afterward, we say our good-byes. Fran flags down a trike. Di, Fran and Ed climb aboard, but I have to step onto a tiny platform on the back of the sidecar, lean over the top, and hang onto a couple of rails on the roof. It's a fun ride back into Tabaco.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Halo-halo Time
Tuesday morning, we groggily crawl out of bed and use our shower. The shower has an electrical flash water heater and a handset-type shower head. There's no enclosure--the entire bathroom is the shower stall. I just have to be careful where I aim. I take a stingy shower, soaping with the water turned off. As I adjust the water heater while rinsing, I wonder whether this is a wise thing to do, and for the first of many times this trip, I speculate about Filipino building codes.
After a light breakfast, Fran shows up. We all head out on foot and trek past the open market. We're greeted with "Hey, Joe!" from all sides. Filipinos still call Americans Joe, after GI Joe, from World War II. We walk to the Tabaco City LCC department store. The store has everything, and great service. We're continually surrounded by eager salespeople. We buy laundry detergent--a small brick of solid Tide; drinking water; and a few snack items. Then we go to the ChinaBank and use the ATM.
Back at the Gardenia, we unload our loot and hand-wash some laundry. We traveled light, with no checked-in baggage, so laundry becomes part of our daily routine, along with finding drinking water and a usable ATM--everyone wants pesos; no one takes credit cards. We also become used to taking multiple showers each day. Between the showers and the laundry, much of our hotel time is centered around the bathroom.
We go to Fran's favorite restaurant in Tabaco City for lunch, Solamente. It's an open-sided roof, basically, with a kitchen. They serve us a fish dish--fish "cooked" in citric juice--and a regional chicken dish. It's all very tasty.
Then we head to the San Lorenzo National High School, Fran's place of employment. We meet her principal, Rose, a very pleasant person who leaves no doubt as to who is in charge at her school. She treats us to colas and batter-fried bananas. Then Fran's co-teacher guides us on a tour of the school.
Fran leads us into a couple classrooms, where we say hello to the students and answer questions. For the girls, Ed is the center of attention. Apparently, it's the dream of many young Filipinas to marry an American. Ed is greeted with much giggling. One of the girls brazenly asks how old he is, and when Fran asks her how old she is, she replies, "Sweet sixteen!"
After the tour, Rose and Jai, her assistant, take us to a place in Tabaco City for merienda. We have pancit again, and then Rose orders halo-halo for each of us. We're each served a dessert bowl filled with shaved ice and topped with a glob of purple goo and grated cheese. There's a layer of syrupy-looking liquid in the bottom of the bowl, with some unidentifiable stuff floating in it. We each mix our halo-halo together with a long spoon--that's what halo-halo means in Tagalog, mix-mix. Then we eat. It's surprisingly good, very refreshing in the heat. I taste the cheese, a sweet coconutty syrup, and occasionally, peas and corn, maybe, and gummy candies.
After our good-byes, we head back to the Gardenia and off to bed.
After a light breakfast, Fran shows up. We all head out on foot and trek past the open market. We're greeted with "Hey, Joe!" from all sides. Filipinos still call Americans Joe, after GI Joe, from World War II. We walk to the Tabaco City LCC department store. The store has everything, and great service. We're continually surrounded by eager salespeople. We buy laundry detergent--a small brick of solid Tide; drinking water; and a few snack items. Then we go to the ChinaBank and use the ATM.
Back at the Gardenia, we unload our loot and hand-wash some laundry. We traveled light, with no checked-in baggage, so laundry becomes part of our daily routine, along with finding drinking water and a usable ATM--everyone wants pesos; no one takes credit cards. We also become used to taking multiple showers each day. Between the showers and the laundry, much of our hotel time is centered around the bathroom.
We go to Fran's favorite restaurant in Tabaco City for lunch, Solamente. It's an open-sided roof, basically, with a kitchen. They serve us a fish dish--fish "cooked" in citric juice--and a regional chicken dish. It's all very tasty.
Then we head to the San Lorenzo National High School, Fran's place of employment. We meet her principal, Rose, a very pleasant person who leaves no doubt as to who is in charge at her school. She treats us to colas and batter-fried bananas. Then Fran's co-teacher guides us on a tour of the school.
Fran leads us into a couple classrooms, where we say hello to the students and answer questions. For the girls, Ed is the center of attention. Apparently, it's the dream of many young Filipinas to marry an American. Ed is greeted with much giggling. One of the girls brazenly asks how old he is, and when Fran asks her how old she is, she replies, "Sweet sixteen!"
After the tour, Rose and Jai, her assistant, take us to a place in Tabaco City for merienda. We have pancit again, and then Rose orders halo-halo for each of us. We're each served a dessert bowl filled with shaved ice and topped with a glob of purple goo and grated cheese. There's a layer of syrupy-looking liquid in the bottom of the bowl, with some unidentifiable stuff floating in it. We each mix our halo-halo together with a long spoon--that's what halo-halo means in Tagalog, mix-mix. Then we eat. It's surprisingly good, very refreshing in the heat. I taste the cheese, a sweet coconutty syrup, and occasionally, peas and corn, maybe, and gummy candies.
After our good-byes, we head back to the Gardenia and off to bed.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Into the Soup
Flying into Legaspi, we get some good views of Mount Mayon, a perfectly cone-shaped volcano that is a major attraction for the Bicol region. When the plane lands and we step off, the heat and humidity immediately hammer us. It's intense! We see Fran and run to hug her. It's early in the morning, Monday, June 16. Weird.
We all pile into a van Fran has rented to take us to Tabaco City. The ride to Tabaco is our initiation into Filipino traffic. As we pass vehicles on blind curves, it becomes apparent that signs and lines are suggestions, that the horn is the most vital part of the van, and that what seems like two lanes really are three or even four, in practice.
In Tabaco, the van creeps through a crowded market and delivers us to our hotel, the Gardenia Hotel. The Gardenia seems small and cramped from the outside, and the elevator is tiny, but the rooms are spacious and clean, and the bathrooms have Western-style flush toilets.
We rest awhile, and then Fran tells us it's time to visit her host family for merienda, the afternoon snack. We trike or jeepney out to her host family's compound and are greeted by Helga and Leo (pronounced Lay-oh) and their extended family. Helga and Leo both look much younger than their ages. Leo has just come back to the Philippines after working several years at Diego Garcia.
Helga serves us pancit, a noodle dish; batter-fried bananas; rice cooked in sweet coconut milk, almost like rice pudding; and coconut milk. Then Leo and Nair, one of the adult men who live here, give us a tour of the compound. Nair shows me the place he built for him and his wife after typhoon Reming (typhoon Durian) destroyed the house he used to live in. Their new home is open-sided and has a beautifully thatched roof and a loft. Nair tells me he loves the simple life. He asks me whether there's any place in the U.S. where people live as simply. I can't think of any.
We walk down the road to the San Lorenzo beach. Then it's back to the Gardenia and off to bed. I didn't realize that in the tropics, it always gets dark around 6:30 pm.
Don't Have to Live Like a Refugee
Di and Ed and I are home from the Philippines. The short version: Our trip was a success, we had a great time, we saw Fran and met her host family and co-workers, and the whole experience was amazing. So now, I'm going to blog the long version, beginning where I left off with my previous post.
We'd booked a room at the Country Inn and Suites near the Eastern Iowa Airport for June13--Friday the 13th--in case we'd have to drive up early to avoid bridge closings. By Friday, rumors were flying about the bridge to the airport. We left work early, and as we hurriedly packed, Channel 9 News was reporting that the I-380 bridge over the Coralville Reservoir was closed. If the bridge were closed, we'd have to drive 5 hours out of our way to get to the airport. I began trying to plot a more direct route along the back roads.
Thankfully, we never had to try my alternate route. As we pulled out of the garage at 3:30 pm, I turned on KXIC, which reported that the bridge was still open but would close at 6:00 pm.Getting out of Iowa City was an adventure in itself. Traffic was bumper-to-bumper on some streets, everyone trying to find a way across the Iowa River. We finally made it to I-80 and then onto I-380.
Water was lapping at the shoulders of the approach to the bridge over the Coralville Reservoir, but the bridge was still open, and we made it across. The bridge closed just an hour or two later. On the other side of the bridge, we were stuck in traffic for two hours, among people trying to cross the only bridge open across the Cedar River, the I-380 bridge in downtown Cedar Rapids. But we eventually made it to the hotel, checked in, and settled in for the night.
The next day, everything went smoothly. At the airport, I overheard someone talking about a wild taxi ride that morning along gravel roads from Iowa City to the airport--my alternate route. But we were glad we'd come up the night before.
Our flights to Las Vegas through O'Hare departed and arrived on time. At McCarran, we got our first taste of the Philippines at the Philippine Airlines (PAL) ticket counter. The counter didn't open until two hours before the flight was scheduled to take off. There was a long line, with many balikbayans (returning Filipinos) pushing carts loaded with big boxes full of goods. We waited patiently, the counter opened, the line moved smoothly, and soon, we had our PAL boarding passes.
I'd read horror stories about PAL, such as "PAL stands for Plane Always Late." But the flight to Manila via Vancouver was better than any flight I've had via a domestic carrier in a long time. We flew Fiesta (economy) class, but the legroom was good and the service was excellent. The seats may have been designed for someone shorter than me, but with a pillow behind my back, they were comfy.
The stopover in Vancouver was odd. We all had to deplane and bring our carry-on baggage with us. We were kept in a comfortable holding area, a little bit of nonCanadian territory, while the flight crew changed and the plane was serviced, and then we reboarded.
Back on board, we were given a pillow, a blanket, and an overnight kit--a blindfold, some socks, a toothbrush and toothpaste. We were served several tasty meals throughout the night, the best airline food I'd had in a long time, at no extra charge. With the excellent service and some sleep courtesy of a little lorazepam my doctor had prescribed for the flight, the 12-hour trip from Vancouver to Manila was not the ordeal I had feared.
We landed in Manila on the morning of June 16, two days after we'd left, due to having crossed the International Date Line. Ninoy Aquino International Airport has three separate terminals, and shuttling among them can be a nuisance. Booking our flight to Legaspi straight through via PAL, we stayed in Terminal 2, which simplified our trip. We still had to go through immigration and customs, and we had to exchange some dollars for Philippine pesos to pay the airport fee. The immigration official laughed at my virginal passport--"It's about time!" he said as he stamped it.
Soon enough, we were at the gate for the flight to Legaspi, the last leg of our trip by air. Aboard the plane, we knew we weren't in Iowa anymore when the cold air from the air conditioning condensed the humid Filipino air into rolls of mist.
We'd booked a room at the Country Inn and Suites near the Eastern Iowa Airport for June13--Friday the 13th--in case we'd have to drive up early to avoid bridge closings. By Friday, rumors were flying about the bridge to the airport. We left work early, and as we hurriedly packed, Channel 9 News was reporting that the I-380 bridge over the Coralville Reservoir was closed. If the bridge were closed, we'd have to drive 5 hours out of our way to get to the airport. I began trying to plot a more direct route along the back roads.
Thankfully, we never had to try my alternate route. As we pulled out of the garage at 3:30 pm, I turned on KXIC, which reported that the bridge was still open but would close at 6:00 pm.Getting out of Iowa City was an adventure in itself. Traffic was bumper-to-bumper on some streets, everyone trying to find a way across the Iowa River. We finally made it to I-80 and then onto I-380.
Water was lapping at the shoulders of the approach to the bridge over the Coralville Reservoir, but the bridge was still open, and we made it across. The bridge closed just an hour or two later. On the other side of the bridge, we were stuck in traffic for two hours, among people trying to cross the only bridge open across the Cedar River, the I-380 bridge in downtown Cedar Rapids. But we eventually made it to the hotel, checked in, and settled in for the night.
The next day, everything went smoothly. At the airport, I overheard someone talking about a wild taxi ride that morning along gravel roads from Iowa City to the airport--my alternate route. But we were glad we'd come up the night before.
Our flights to Las Vegas through O'Hare departed and arrived on time. At McCarran, we got our first taste of the Philippines at the Philippine Airlines (PAL) ticket counter. The counter didn't open until two hours before the flight was scheduled to take off. There was a long line, with many balikbayans (returning Filipinos) pushing carts loaded with big boxes full of goods. We waited patiently, the counter opened, the line moved smoothly, and soon, we had our PAL boarding passes.
I'd read horror stories about PAL, such as "PAL stands for Plane Always Late." But the flight to Manila via Vancouver was better than any flight I've had via a domestic carrier in a long time. We flew Fiesta (economy) class, but the legroom was good and the service was excellent. The seats may have been designed for someone shorter than me, but with a pillow behind my back, they were comfy.
The stopover in Vancouver was odd. We all had to deplane and bring our carry-on baggage with us. We were kept in a comfortable holding area, a little bit of nonCanadian territory, while the flight crew changed and the plane was serviced, and then we reboarded.
Back on board, we were given a pillow, a blanket, and an overnight kit--a blindfold, some socks, a toothbrush and toothpaste. We were served several tasty meals throughout the night, the best airline food I'd had in a long time, at no extra charge. With the excellent service and some sleep courtesy of a little lorazepam my doctor had prescribed for the flight, the 12-hour trip from Vancouver to Manila was not the ordeal I had feared.
We landed in Manila on the morning of June 16, two days after we'd left, due to having crossed the International Date Line. Ninoy Aquino International Airport has three separate terminals, and shuttling among them can be a nuisance. Booking our flight to Legaspi straight through via PAL, we stayed in Terminal 2, which simplified our trip. We still had to go through immigration and customs, and we had to exchange some dollars for Philippine pesos to pay the airport fee. The immigration official laughed at my virginal passport--"It's about time!" he said as he stamped it.
Soon enough, we were at the gate for the flight to Legaspi, the last leg of our trip by air. Aboard the plane, we knew we weren't in Iowa anymore when the cold air from the air conditioning condensed the humid Filipino air into rolls of mist.
Friday, June 13, 2008
A Little Water Over the Bridge
Everything around me right now seems normal. It's just another day here at work, in my cubicle. But I know that down the hill, water is steadily creeping up the street by the Memorial Union. Rumors are flying. We're expecting that we're going to have to shut down all equipment here in MacLean Hall. We may be able to bring core services up at another site, but we might not.
Oh, and my wife and son and I are flying to the Philippines tomorrow.
Di and Ed and I tried traveling to the Philippines in March, but we had to abandon our trip when a delayed flight destroyed our tight schedule. We've been planning this second attempt since we came home. We padded our schedule, gave ourselves more time, more flexibility in case we had to rebook. Everything looked good. Now, though, we're wondering whether we'll get to the airport. Bridges are being closed, power is going out, drinking water is a concern.
I am caught between wanting to help, wanting to do something to keep services running, on the one hand, and wanting to get ready for the trip, on the other. We haven't seen Fran, our daughter, in more than a year. Our friends and neighbors and co-workers are laboring to hold back the flood, to keep power and water available.
Our own home is safe, far from the river. Even so, if and when we do make it to the airport and fly away tomorrow, my heart will be in three places at once--here, in the middle of the flood; on the plane, with my wife and son; and on an island on the other side of the world, where my daughter lives.
Oh, and my wife and son and I are flying to the Philippines tomorrow.
Di and Ed and I tried traveling to the Philippines in March, but we had to abandon our trip when a delayed flight destroyed our tight schedule. We've been planning this second attempt since we came home. We padded our schedule, gave ourselves more time, more flexibility in case we had to rebook. Everything looked good. Now, though, we're wondering whether we'll get to the airport. Bridges are being closed, power is going out, drinking water is a concern.
I am caught between wanting to help, wanting to do something to keep services running, on the one hand, and wanting to get ready for the trip, on the other. We haven't seen Fran, our daughter, in more than a year. Our friends and neighbors and co-workers are laboring to hold back the flood, to keep power and water available.
Our own home is safe, far from the river. Even so, if and when we do make it to the airport and fly away tomorrow, my heart will be in three places at once--here, in the middle of the flood; on the plane, with my wife and son; and on an island on the other side of the world, where my daughter lives.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
I Need a Fix
I attended a Brugh Joy workshop over the weekend, a wonderful experience. It was my first Brugh Do. Working with Brugh and the group incubated a series of huge dreams for me Saturday night, which we worked with in group Sunday morning. I left the workshop with many new insights and a load of material to work with.
The first evening, Thursday, Brugh asked us to introduce ourselves and maybe mention something about the process that had drawn us to his workshop. I happened to be the person he picked to begin the introductions. I was new to Brugh's work and didn't know more than two of the other participants, and much of what I've been experiencing over the past couple of years has been physical and difficult to put into words, so I was not very forthcoming.
As the introductions wound around the room, some people would bring up some pretty big issues in their lives at the moment, and Brugh would work with them a bit, along with the group. They all seemed to be old Brugh hands, people he knew. For one person in particular, Brugh jokingly said he was going to have to hit her over the head.
Friday night, I had the following dream: I'm in a mall, vacant except for myself and a young man in black clothes. He seemed to be a high-school athlete. We stood beside a large pile of shipping cartons. I knew that each contained a large, black, soft, overstuffed toy, bats and boxing gloves, mainly. The man told me I had to donate a few thousand dollars to him, to buy the whole pile. He then would distribute all the toys among the townspeople, and they would hit me with them.
When I woke up, the dream didn't seem to make much sense. Saturday morning in group, Brugh asked who'd had dreams. As he began working with people's dreams, I leafed through my dream journal, looking for what I thought would be something deeper. But Brugh made it clear that he wanted only dreams from the night before. As he worked his way around the room, it began to dawn on me what my dream was about, so that by the time he got to me, the meaning was unmistakeable. As I related my dream to the group, everyone laughed, and I said, "And I know it's all about the fact that I need to share my process with the group"--which, in fact, was the whole point of the dream.
I did share with the group my struggle with chronic pain over the past couple of years, how it had drawn me into my body, and how that seemed very alien to me. And the sharing seemed to trigger a night filled with dreams, many of them very vivid and insightful and nearly self-interpretive, so that the next morning in group, when I related one of the dreams and Brugh and the group worked with it, I knew exactly what was going on.
One of the biggest insights I received was that in order to resolve the chronic pain, I'd had to move my mind out of the way. My body had had to heal on its own terms. It did not want to be diagnosed and fixed; it had to come into wholeness via its own internal wisdom. The pain condition was in one sense a teaching for me, that there are some things that are not resolvable mentally, and that throughout my life, in such situations, my mind had been more of an obstacle than a help. Thought can be seductive and addictive, but like all addictions, it creates more problems than it solves. This is maybe the largest and most difficult nugget I extracted from the workshop.
So, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Karl, and I am a thoughtaholic...
The first evening, Thursday, Brugh asked us to introduce ourselves and maybe mention something about the process that had drawn us to his workshop. I happened to be the person he picked to begin the introductions. I was new to Brugh's work and didn't know more than two of the other participants, and much of what I've been experiencing over the past couple of years has been physical and difficult to put into words, so I was not very forthcoming.
As the introductions wound around the room, some people would bring up some pretty big issues in their lives at the moment, and Brugh would work with them a bit, along with the group. They all seemed to be old Brugh hands, people he knew. For one person in particular, Brugh jokingly said he was going to have to hit her over the head.
Friday night, I had the following dream: I'm in a mall, vacant except for myself and a young man in black clothes. He seemed to be a high-school athlete. We stood beside a large pile of shipping cartons. I knew that each contained a large, black, soft, overstuffed toy, bats and boxing gloves, mainly. The man told me I had to donate a few thousand dollars to him, to buy the whole pile. He then would distribute all the toys among the townspeople, and they would hit me with them.
When I woke up, the dream didn't seem to make much sense. Saturday morning in group, Brugh asked who'd had dreams. As he began working with people's dreams, I leafed through my dream journal, looking for what I thought would be something deeper. But Brugh made it clear that he wanted only dreams from the night before. As he worked his way around the room, it began to dawn on me what my dream was about, so that by the time he got to me, the meaning was unmistakeable. As I related my dream to the group, everyone laughed, and I said, "And I know it's all about the fact that I need to share my process with the group"--which, in fact, was the whole point of the dream.
I did share with the group my struggle with chronic pain over the past couple of years, how it had drawn me into my body, and how that seemed very alien to me. And the sharing seemed to trigger a night filled with dreams, many of them very vivid and insightful and nearly self-interpretive, so that the next morning in group, when I related one of the dreams and Brugh and the group worked with it, I knew exactly what was going on.
One of the biggest insights I received was that in order to resolve the chronic pain, I'd had to move my mind out of the way. My body had had to heal on its own terms. It did not want to be diagnosed and fixed; it had to come into wholeness via its own internal wisdom. The pain condition was in one sense a teaching for me, that there are some things that are not resolvable mentally, and that throughout my life, in such situations, my mind had been more of an obstacle than a help. Thought can be seductive and addictive, but like all addictions, it creates more problems than it solves. This is maybe the largest and most difficult nugget I extracted from the workshop.
So, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Karl, and I am a thoughtaholic...
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