Doing The Things 2017: My Well-Being

In the back of my mind, I earnestly thought I was going to start 2017 on the right foot, food-wise.

Who was I kidding.

What actually started my year was a ton of holiday leftovers: turkey, ham, shortbread cookies and homemade Jamaican patties from my mom …

And two sandwich bags full of homemade lemon loaf and French toast (which I normally never eat), brought home from a New  Year’s Day brunch I attended.

The post-holiday food festival continued with dinners out – my Kryptonite, because greasy restaurant food is soooooo tasty. Add to that a wicked sweet tooth, which is a challenge all by itself. So of course, my waistline is paying dearly.

I have to get my appetite (and bank account) in check. I also don’t want to encourage my body to start growing more fibroids so soon after my recent surgery, because of my eating habits.

And after two tiring days in supermarkets and my kitchen this is, I hope, the start of my rehabilitation:

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I want to give myself less of an excuse to hit the food court/vending machine/fast food joint when I’m at home or work. I don’t cook sophisticated meals, plus I hate the amount of time it takes to prep food for meals. But perhaps keeping my freezer stocked with something, anything, could slowly reduce (not eliminate, because that’s impossible) my terrible food habits, and help me to enjoy cooking, not see it as a huge chore.

(One future goal: to cook and freeze a meal or two before I go travelling, so that when I return, I don’t spend my post-travel recovery period eating burgers and pizza, as I have in the past.)

In the exercise department … my physical activity has been non-existent during the last five months (save for walks). Two or three of those months were due to post-surgery recovery (hence the walking). The rest was because of a complete lack of motivation (save for exercises during my physio appointments).

So last Tuesday afternoon, I got off my backside, put on my workout clothes, and trudged to a fitness class. Then on Thursday morning, I huffed and puffed my way through another class.

This is where I’ll start, to re-establish a routine. Upcoming travel plans will disrupt my exercise schedule until March, but some activity’s better than none, right?

It’s going to be tough. I’m going to fail. Hell, I’ve already failed this week.

But if, for each time I fall off the wagon, I can cut down on the amount of time it takes me to hop back on, those will be small victories I’ll gladly take.

Heaven, Dinner and A Rooftop Bar

To simply say that I love the Gellért Spa is an understatement. It’s like saying Ron Burgundy loves scotch.

If I ever go to Budapest ever again, I’d go straight to the Gellért and only leave when I had to catch my plane – and then I’d cancel my flight. If I magically scored a job working in Budapest,  l’d be at the Gellért so often, I’d look like a California Raisin.

(Sadly, I didn’t take any pictures, because I didn’t want to lose my camera in the midst of my love affair with the thermal baths. So I snatched the following two photos from official tourist sites online.)

First stop: the outdoor wave pool. I spot tour-mate Will as I cross the pool deck. He’s been there for hours, as his sole goals for the day are to (a) sleep in late and (b) sunbathe by the pool for the entire day.

I ditch my towel on a deck chair and wade in. Refreshing. It’s just like Seville last year, except the pool’s 10 times bigger.

I get out and approach my deck chair to grab my towel and sit, when Will says, “Don’t miss the waves – they’re about to start.”

“How d’you know?” I ask.

” ‘Cause they just announced it,” he replies matter-of-factly. (Of course. Why question someone who’s been on the deck ALL DAY?)

Back in the pool a second time, I see both Randy and Surabh, Chris (one of the other fellow Canadians with our group), as well as Adam and Michelle, one of the Australian couples on our tour.

The waves subside, and we (minus Surabh) leave the pool to try and find the famous thermal baths.

We find the huge indoor pool with the beautiful columns (swiped picture at left). We also spot a small half-moon shaped pool with some people submerging themselves along the sides, which we try out.

The water’s much warmer; the skin on my legs prickles. Epsom salts? Sulphur? I can’t put my finger on it.

We sit on the submerged tile ledge against the wall of the pool. The warmth doesn’t really last, though – within about five minutes, it feels as if the water is getting cooler.

“This can’t be the thermal bath,” Randy says as we we’re sitting there. He has a point; I remember seeing signs for the men’s and women’s baths when we arrive earlier.

We get out and walk alongside the regular pool to investigate. While Michelle jumps into the pool, Randy walks to the end of the deck, and spots Surabh. I wander over to them, and Surabh explains you have to go through the respective changerooms to get to the baths. So I walk to the other changeroom, wend my way past the lockers and showers …

JACKPOT.

Two glorious half-moon shaped pools beckon. I drop my watch and towel, and submerge myself into what I discover is the hotter pool – it’s a cozy 38 degrees Celsius (100 degrees Fahrenheit). I sidle up to the underwater bench and just relaaaaax

I chat with an older lady already happily sitting in the water. Turns out she’s from Baltimore and just about to begin a boat tour which starts in Budapest. Her friend, who joins us about five minutes later, is also from Baltimore but was originally from Alabama, but married a Canadian and, until recently, had lived in Claremont, Ontario. Go figure.

Michelle eventually joins me, and we just hang out for a while. I briefly test out the other pool, which is supposedly 36 degrees Celsius (96.8 degrees Fahrenheit). It feels much cooler.

Michelle and I then leave the baths and try out the cold plunge pool (huhh! Sweet baby Moses! Freee-zing!), the steam room (the eculyptus stings my eyes), and then back into the plunge pool (still cold, but I’m not screaming).

Time’s ticking for me, so I head back to the wave pool. I see Randy, and we wait for the next round of waves. Just after it starts, I turn around to see this middle-aged woman clutching Randy’s arm. I figure she’s trying to maintain her balance and will eventually keep wading around. But she’s not letting go. So Randy has to help her get to the other side (if only to at least get his left wrist back.) 

(Unofficial running joke: Middle-aged women love Randy. He’s an assistant principal back in the States, so he explained early in the trip about how the PTA moms just love him at parent meetings. But it almost isn’t a joke during the trip – his last “admirer” was an older lady in Krakow who smiled at him all the way home on the bus.)

To fast-forward: I leave the pool, hurriedly change, and leave the Gellért (*sniff*) just in time to meet Martin – and then walk right past him as he’s coming in. Because we never asked each other what each of us looked like, nor whether we’d meet at the spa or the hotel, I assume he’s ’round the corner at the hotel. The lightbulb in my head goes off four minutes later, and I walk back to the spa, where he’s waiting outside the front doors. 

We walk back over the Liberty bridge and towards the area I’m supposed to meet the group for dinner. He then takes me over to Szent Istvan Bazilika  (St. Stephen’s Basilica, pictured at left), which is very beautiful from what little I can see. Unfortunately there’s a Sunday service, so we don’t stay long.

After about 90 minutes of walking and talking, we walk back to the street where the restaurant’s located. We run into three tour-mates – fellow Canadians from Vancouver – and chat while we wait time. At 7:30 p.m. – when the others are supposed to show up – we decide to go inside. Martin asks if he can join us for dinner; we have no problems with that.

Our tour guide Carla told – and warned us – of the huge schnitzel this place is known for. The schnitzel isn’t the ONLY thing that’s friggin’ ginormous. EVERYTHING is huge. I’m no slacker in the eating department, but I had such trouble finishing my meal, I’d be sure to be a Hungarian mother-in-law’s worst nightmare. (Well, that and the whole “not being European” thing.)

I order the chicken gulyás (goulash). I’m expecting a meal of similar size to the one in Prague.

I get a behemoth skillet with a mountain of something that remotely resembles gnocchi and a sea of sauce which is concealing not one, but three pieces of chicken.

I officially meet my Waterloo during dinner. And the two pints of Dreher beer I dumbly order before and after the meal do not help. I’m BLOATED.

The Vancouverites leave after dinner, but most of the group wants to go out, since nine tour-mates are ending their trips in Budapest.

Martin suggests this bar on the rooftop of a department store, which is supposed to be very cool. He warns us that it looks a bit sketchy (which it does). But after climbing four graffiti-ridden flights of stairs, it turns out he’s absolutely right. It’s humongous, with enough space for everyone. And the nice breeze and clear, starry night (the first I’ve seen – or paid attention to – since landing in Europe) make it a perfect night for drinking.

Before I know it, it’s the wee hours of the morning, and our group of 16 has shrunken to Martin, my fellow Canadian tour-mate Chrish, and myself. So we call it a night. Martin kindly walks us girls to the underpass at Blaha Lujza tér station, and we part ways.

What a calm, serene ending to what I thought would be such a frustrating leg of the trip.

Just when I start to change my mind about you, Budapest, I have to pack up and leave. Figures.

Sigh.