SKIIIIII

Something fairly magical happened: after two years of meaning to cross country ski the ice shelf in Antarctica, I finally DID.  A six-mile chunk of it, at least.  Everything was just right, from the perfect weather to the energetic pal that skis up to 20 miles a day.  When we stopped, just a few minutes short of catching a ride home on a shuttle van, we barely waited until a delta (big ol’ industrial truck) came trundling up at 8mph and gave us a lift.   Being out in the sun was refreshing, and I felt better about the slab of melted brie I had eaten at brunch.

So, work – that’s right, I work here.  The data entry is rote but not so bad; it’s the tiny bullshit like accidentally sending the Northbound Priority List instead of the Northbound Packing List that gets me flustered.  (Such incredibly different things, maybe we should differentiate their names a bit?)  I get an odd satisfaction from printing labels and stickers (always been a sticker fan), and while filing itself is a blah activity, I like the facility of referencing a physical record.  And then there’s afternoon hot dog break.  One of my coworkers gets pretty snacky near the end of the day, and has developed a rotating menu of hot pockets, empanadas, chicken nuggets (microwaved), and hot dogs on the Foreman grill.  It’s pretty entertaining to see it sizzling away in front of our window framing remote snowy mountains across the sea.

The near-eternal South Pole winter finally came to an end, and a few pale friends stopped over in town for a day or two before being released back into the greater world.  I thought a year of two-minute showers, spotty 3am internet access, and nowhere near enough marshmallows would have them looking hollow-eyed and shell-shocked, but relief at leaving put huge smiles on their faces.  I hope they continue to come back to life in New Zealand, back home, and beyond.