USA

40 years of the "big game." That's right, it's Superbowl XL - as in extra large. And if you are going to watch an extra large game, you need to watch it in an extra large city. So I return to the same country as this whole "Superbowls around the world" thing started 6 years ago. The only country which competes in this so called WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP, and the country the outcome of this game matters to the most - the United States of America. And befitting of the extra large title, I go to the extra large city of New York. 8 million people inhabit these small islands, making it the 13th largest city in the world and the second largest in North America behind Mexico City.

Here's the funny thing - 35 years on this planet, and this was my first time visiting New York City. And it's only an hour and a half flight from home or an 8 hour drive. I'd been to New York before, but I'd always been flying through, or just landing there and driving out to Long Island or New Jersey. This was my first time spending any time in the actual city of New York. So on Friday and Saturday, I did the touristy things. I hung out in Times Square, wandered around Rockefeller Center, Marveled at the Chrysler Building, went up the Empire State Building, got choked up at the World Trade Center site, worshipped and prayed to the gods of money at the New York Stock Exchange and wandered across the Brooklyn Bridge in the rain. I pointed and clicked everything (I took 242 pictures in a little over 50 hours). I ate hot dogs from dirty water and mile high sandwiches at the Carengie Deli. I stared at subway maps, more than a little overwhelmed at the options. And I started to talk about places as intersections, not addresses, hoping that the locals didn't catch on I didn't belong.

But, of course, I didn't belong. But I'll be across the river in New Jersey for the next 3 or maybe even 6 months, which will give me, hopefully, lots of opportunity to become more New York and less small-town tourist yokel.

Sunday was the big game, and so after an exhaustive internet search, decided on going to a bar called Scruffy Duffy's in Hell's Kitchen. The area from 35th up to 56th west of 8th Avenue in New York is referred to as Hell's Kitchen. Local lore has it that it is so named because a rookie cop commented to his partner that the area was hell. His long serving partner, Dutch Fred, said, "Hell is a mild climate. This is Hell's Kitchen."

Scruffy Duffy's is often high rated in surveys of the best sports bars in New York City, along with the ESPN Zone. But the ESPN Zone is a chain, and I felt like going local, so Scruffy Duffy's was the choice. I didn't realize until arriving, however, that Pittsburgh Steeler's fans in New York City had claimed the bar as their headquarters early in the season, and the black and gold was in force on Superbowl Sunday. There were Steeler's signs and Steeler's music and even a massive crocheted "Terrible Towel," the yellow towels that Steeler's fans wave to urge on their team. I was neutral in regards to who won, but couldn't help but get swept up in the Steeler's fever that had gripped the bar.

In general, the game itself was rather dull. But the bar was joyous as the Steeler's widened the gap between them and the Seahawks, and ended up winning the game 21-10. Upon the final ticks of the clock disappearing, the place erupted. People cheered and wept, grown men hugged each other, women went "Coyote Ugly" and danced on the bar. It was a fun night surrounded by people who actually cared about the game, and reminded me what an event Superbowl is. At least in the USA.

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For other experiences viewing "The Big Game", check out the rest of my Superbowls Around the World blog entries

Gosh, that last entry was depressing, eh?

I would hate to leave you all with the impression that San Francisco was a 'fraidy cat of a city that isn't worth visiting. Rudyard Kiping wrote that "San Francisco has one drawback, T'is hard to leave." T'is very true.

Here's some photos of me at the SBC Park watching the Giants and the Mets. The interesting thing about the photos is that I took them from the free standing-room part of the park. SBC is an "old-time" park recently built - a park trying to recapture the glory days of baseball - the Ruth and Gehrig era. Out in right field you can wander up and watch the ball game for free through a chain link fence. Talk about your depression era throw-backs

A bomb went off yesterday in San Francisco.

Not really. In reality, an electrical transformer underneath the streets of the financial district overloaded and exploded. One woman was critically injured, and the street outside the Crocker Galleria mall is buckled and cracked.

But in the first few minutes after the explosion, when the lights in the building I am working in went out for a moment and spotty news reports of an explosion in downtown San Francisco were reported, gossip fuelled talk in the office centred on the a terrorist bombing. The stories were wild - the entire Crocker Galleria was engulfed in flames after a serious bomb blast.

This is the new North America, I suppose. Post 9/11 and only a month and a half removed from the London bombings, an explosion immediately means terrorism.

It wasn't always this way, at least for me.

Back in September of 2001 when I first heard about a plane crashing into the World Trade Center, I immediate figured it was an accident. My grandparents were in New York back in 1945. They had planned to go up to the observation deck of the Empire State Building on Saturday, July 28, but decided against it due to the heavy fog. There would be no view. On that day, a B-25 bomber crashed into the Empire State Building. It was an accident.

As I was familiar with that story, I immediately thought that was what happened. Even when the second plane hit the other tower, I figured that it must be computer error. Working with computers, and understanding how much modern planes and the air traffic control system rely on computers, I just assumed that computers were crashing.

But now, every time something happens, my mind jumps to terrorism. When the lights went out across the Eastern seaboard back in August of 2003 or in downtown Toronto in 2004, I automatically envision terrorist, and not (as actually happened) bad wiring in Ohio or a raccoon getting fried in a downtown power station.

I don't know what to make of this new world, where I'm afraid of the world out there. I'm not sure I like it.

The Big Boss Man called me into his office. The room was dark, and smelled slightly musty, like a grandparents’ bedroom. The Big Boss Man sat behind his massive oak desk, overflowing with important papers. He leaned forward, his leather chair… Nay, given its size and grandeur it would be better to call it his throne. His throne creaking as his hunched form moved towards me. He raised a bony finger and pointed it at me.

“Peon,” he said, as he was wont to call me, “we need you to go to San Francisco.”

“I can do that,” I replied.

I would be working at a client’s office close to SBC Park where the San Francisco Giants play. The client’s office is just down the street from the site of Jack London’s birth, and is located in a building that used to be the offices of Rolling Stone Magazine. Not much still exists of Rolling Stone in the offices, but one of the conference rooms is called “The Hunter S. Thompson Room.”

“Get yourself a plane ticket, but keep it under $750 US,” he said. I had to strain to hear his raspy voice, which was barely a breath given his advanced age.

“What if I find a ticket for $350?” I asked.

“Then you have saved the company some money,” the Big Boss Man replied. Not much incentive for me to find a good deal there. So I booked myself Air Canada direct to San Francisco to collect the Aeroplan miles.

“Get yourself a hotel, and keep it under $250 a night!” he said, in a voice that walked a line between the voice a judge would use in scolding a criminal and the voice a teacher would use in talking to an extremely stupid child.

“What if I find a place that’s only $100 a night?” I asked.

“Then you save the company some money,” he said. Again, not much incentive for me to find a cheap hotel, so the Courtyard Marriott on 2nd at Folsom was where I chose to stay. For $159 a night, I got the 17th floor looking east towards the Bay Bridge. At night, I could lie in bed and see both the TV and the bridge illuminated like a Christmas tree.

“Finally, Greg, you get $51 dollars a day for food.”

“What if I spend less than that?” I asked.

“Then you get to keep the rest,” the Big Boss Man replied. Now that is an incentive to find good food deals. I could eat fast food every meal, but I craved some taste! So, how do you eat cheap in San Francisco?

There are three main strategies to eating cheaply. The first is to avoid restaurants and purchase all your food at the grocery store. This is a good plan if one has a fridge, and hopefully a microwave in their hotel room. I, however, had neither. So another strategy would need to be employed.

The second strategy is to eat at the cheap places you know, specifically, the fast food joints. Wendy’s, McDonald’s, Subway – all are close to the hotel and easy to find. But fast food tends to be bland and the environments in the restaurants built to be familiar and safe. But I wanted to experience the flavor of San Francisco – both in my food and in the environment I was in.

So I employed the last strategy, which is to find the cheap local places and eat there. But how does one find the cheap but good local places to eat?

One way is to ask the locals where they eat. Based on the recommendations of the local San Franciscans from the client, I was directed to a couple of places.

I had a decent lunch at Koh Samui & the Monkey, 415 Brannan Street (Brannan and 4th Street) – The “quick Thai lunch” was $10.50, providing you with an appetizer (I had the spring rolls) and a curry dish (I had the yellow chicken curry). (website: www.kohsamuiandthemonkey.com)

For Dinner, the recommendation was Mistral in the Ferry Building at Market and Embarcadero. Mistral is a French rotisserie place. For $8.50 one is provided with ½ chicken with 2 sides. I took my meal outside to the walkway behind the Ferry Building and watch the ferries dock while eating. (www.ferrybuildingmarketplace.com).

The final recommendation was for Victor’s at 210 Townsend Street by SBC Park. I had the Chicken Mole Super Burrito for $5.75. A massive burrito stuffed with chicken, rice, lettuce, guacamole, sour cream and cheese. The burrito includes a handful of nacho chips. I grabbed my meal to go, but Victor’s has a nice patio and is a popular pre-game hangout.

The second way to find places to eat is to just wander around and find places. My first morning, I stumbled across the Eden Plaza Café (2nd and Harrison Streets). $2.50 gets you a breakfast sandwich with 1 scrambled egg, sausage or bacon and cheese on an English muffin. The friendly woman working the counter is likely to call you “sweetie” and “darling,” even if she doesn’t know you. She did know many of the customers, though, which is a great sign for a restaurant. Repeat customers mean that the place must be good, and is always an indication to a traveler that the meal you are about to get is good.

Walking to work, still licking my fingers after my breakfast sandwich, I came across a surprising sight: a New York City police car, a couple NYC Taxi cabs and a NYC transit bus. Apparently, Director Chris Columbus was in town filming the movie Rent, based on the Broadway musical of the same name. The crew had transformed a block of 3rd Street into a dirty New York block, including casting a local diner as a NYC greasy spoon.

The next morning the film crew had cleared, but the diner still remained and still looked greasy. The HRD Coffee Shop (521 3rd Street at Bryant) provided me an omelet, hashbrowns, toast and diet coke for under $5.00. I sat at the counter facing out to the street, and watched policemen and constructions workers come in for a blue-collar breakfast.

Just a block from the office I found The Brickhouse Café (426 Brannan Street). Looking at the menu, I saw an 8 oz. three cheeseburger for $9.75 including fries or a Salad. I choose the fries, added a Diet Coke and with taxes, the bill came to $12.21. That’s not bad compared to a similar meal at McDonald’s. The Burger was excellent but the fries were middling. I should have gotten a salad. Service was not quick; it took about 15-20 minutes to fulfill the order. However, the burger was worth the wait.

Another great way to find places to eat is to check out the free paper. Most cities have at least one free newspaper that gives restaurant listings by area. In San Francisco, I checked out the San Francisco Bay Guardian. The SFBG (www.sfbg.com) had a listing for The Thirsty Bear Brewing Co., full of “Young work-hard, play-hard types from the Financial District and Multimedia Gulch” who have “made this brick-walled brew pub their own, knocking back pints of ale and nibbling their way through a great selection of Spanish tapas.” Sounded like my kind of place, but then I saw the listing for Big Nate's Barbecue, which is said to be “pretty stark inside – mostly linoleum arranged around a pair of massive brick ovens.” Not exactly the decor that inspires, but apparently “the hot sauce will make you sneeze.” How could I resist that?

The walk to Big Nate’s passed me through most of the area of San Francisco called SOMA (South of Market Street). SOMA is a neighborhood in transition (some would probably call it gentrification), a place full of industrial shops situated beside trendy restaurants and bars. Porn shops sit a few doors from high-end kitchenware stores. The closed doors of local nightclubs and Mercedes Benz dealerships provide shelter for homeless people. “Old industries” like metal workers and car repair shops sit beside “New Industries” like film production and software development.

Eventually I came to the mainly unadorned entrance for Big Nate’s and went in.
Big Nate’s is named after Nate Thurmond, former NBA Hall of Famer for the Golden State Warriors. And fitting for an NBA player’s joint, the portions are amazingly large. My Pork Ribs Dinner came with 6 pork ribs, but not off any normal sized pig. These were jumbo ribs – like Fred Flintstone would be served. Big Nate’s doesn’t bother with fluff either – dinner is mainly meat. You get two small portions of potato salad and cole slaw, all that for only $13.95. Even with a beer, tax and tip, the bill is under $20.

So ended my culinary adventure in the Soma district of San Francisco. I mainly kept my daily food purchases under $30 a day, meaning a good $21 a day (US) making it’s way into my pocket. $21 a day for 4 days means that I made $84 for doing nothing more than eating good food in local restaurants. Sometimes I think I have the best job in the world.

Bon Appetite!

P.S. I know that the United States of America has its problems, but in some ways it is still the greatest country in the world. After all, I know of no other place in the world where one can purchase Diet Vanilla Cherry Dr. Pepper. Only in America can one find and truly appreciate the excess of having the tastes of Cherry, Vanilla and whatever it is that Dr. Pepper tastes like all melding into your mouth at one moment. And, do it all on a diet! God Bless you, America, from Diet Soda to Shining Diet Soda!

My cousin David, the pediatric surgeon was recently in Toronto to give a talk on the differences between the American and Canadian Medical Systems. I was unable to attend as I was working in Atlanta, Georgia at the time. However, I was able to get a first hand look at the differences just a few weeks later thanks to a bottle of Diet Coke.

Friday, June 18, 2004

I sat at my desk on a Friday morning trying to figure out how to link two databases that didn’t share a common key. Linking the databases was perplexing me. I looked away from my computer screen and grabbed my bottle of Diet Coke. The bottle was almost empty, so I decided to take a big gulp to finish it off. The Diet Coke, which had been sitting on my desk for about an hour, went down my throat in as a warm flood. Then it hit my esophagus, and suddenly I felt as if someone was trying to pull apart my rib cage. I had a pain in my chest like heartburn, only the worst heartburn I had ever had.

I leaned forward, trying to catch my breath. My chest continued to burn. Suddenly the world started to close in around me, my peripheral vision disappearing into white cloudiness. The tunnel closed

I was sitting at my desk, still working on linking those two databases. The sun was shining. Odd, I thought, because I was in a windowless basement room. No, I wasn’t in my office, I was in bed. I opened my eyes. I wasn’t in bed, I was on the floor, lying in the fetal position.

I stood up, uncertain of what had happened. It took me a minute of pacing to put it back together. I remembered the pain, I remembered feeling faint. I must have fainted, and fallen from my chair to the floor. I was sweating. I walked out of the office and to the bathroom to douse my face with cold water and try and wake up.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The right side of my face was covered with red ink. Had I fallen on my red pen? I approached the mirror and realized that it wasn’t ink it was blood. When I fell I obviously hit my head on my desk (causing a growing welt on my temple) and then skidded across the carpet on the floor (causing the run burns running from my forehead to just above my cheek).

“You need to go to the hospital,” Michael, one of my co-workers told me. I protested that it was nothing, a little scrape on my face. It wasn’t the first time I fainted. I have a low tolerance for pain, whenever I have pain I faint. No big deal.

I was scared though, of having to get in a car and drive an hour to the airport in Southern Atlanta to catch my plane later. Finally I assented; I would go to see a doctor.

I wasn’t sure how I went about this though. In Ontario, Canada (my home), I would just walk into a clinic or hospital and get treatment. At the end I would walk out and it would all be over. I knew that I would need to pay here in the Atlanta. I had insurance to cover it, but I’d never used it before and had no idea how to go about it.

I called the human resources number for my company. They informed me that I should get treatment and submit receipts afterwards.

I decided to try a clinic first as I knew my injuries weren’t that bad. Hitching a ride with Fernando, a co-worker, we went to the clinic around the corner. I walked in and the admitting clerk looked up at me. “Were you injured at work?” she asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Where do you work?”

I wasn’t sure what to say, or why she was asking. Should I say Cox, the physical location I was at when I was injured, or BearingPoint, the company which is signing my cheques? I decided on Cox.

The admitting clerk then explained that the clinic needed a workmen’s compensation release form pre-filed by Cox to treat me. She grabbed a binder and started looking through. No form, no treatment. We left the clinic and made our way to the hospital.

We entered an empty emergency room at North Fulton County Hospital. This was something I was unprepared for. One of the reasons I had wanted to go to the clinic was to avoid having to wait for hours to get treatment at the ER. That’s what would have occurred in Canada. Not, apparently, in Alpharetta, Georgia, though. After filling out some forms (which identified myself as a self-pay patient) and providing them with my credit card for the $US 250 deposit required for treatment, I was shown into an examination room.

I was hooked up to a heart monitor and blood pressure machine. A nurse came in and hooked me up to an EKG. “Ever had an EKG before?” she asked. I said I hadn’t. “No, you look pretty young.”

They needed to shave parts of my chest to put on the heart monitor and EKG pads. They dry shaved spots on my chest, leaving enough hairs that the pads hurt when they were being pulled off anyway. So, I get the pain of a dry razor being pulled across my chest AND the pain of someone ripping the hair out by the root. Excellent.

The Physicians Assistant came in to see me. She looked at the EKG while I told her my story. “Has this ever happened before?” she asked.

“I’ve fainted before when I got hurt, but the heartburn was new.”

“The heartburn pain, how was it, on a scale from 1 to 10, with 10 being the worst?”

I’d never had to rate my pain before. I wasn’t sure how to rate it. I figured that if 10 was the worst, that would be like pain that led to death, so it wasn’t that. Was the heartburn more painful than any other pain I had experienced before? I tried to think back to things that had hurt, but was drawing a blank on what the pain felt like. The P.A. was looking at me, and I felt I needed to say something. “Six,” I said, almost as a question. The P.A. nodded, apparently not picking up on the hesitation in my voice, or deciding my lack of pain rating skills weren’t really important in the grand scheme of things.

The P.A. left to confer with the doctor. After 10 minutes of waiting, the doctor came in. He asked the same questions as the nurse and P.A. had asked me about heart disease in my family, previous episodes of fainting and how I was feeling now.

“You had an esophageal contraction. Your esophagus, which is your food pipe, spasmed when you took the gulp of Coke. You have a sensitive Vagus nerve. For people with a sensitive Vagus nerve, when they feel pain, fear or even excitement, it can drop the blood pressure and heart rate, which causes you to faint. You sure you feel fine now?” he asked.

“Well, my face hurts, but other than that.”

“Okay, then, we are going to release you.”

I got a tetanus shot and was sent on my way. On the way out I asked about paying. “Oh, they will send you a bill.”

“Is there anyway you can tell me how much it will be?” I knew that eventually, on submitting the forms, my insurance would pay for it. But in the meantime my Visa card was going to get hit. I wanted to know what the price would be.

They couldn’t tell me, I would have to wait until my receipt got mailed to me.

Monday, June 22, 2004

I called the hospital to see about my bill. I gave the administrator my name. “Yes, a bill has been created,” she said. “You have no insurance?”

“I am a Canadian,” I explained, “I have insurance back in Canada.”

“Your bill is $678,” she said. Before I had a chance to say anything, she continued, “let’s see what kind of discount I can get you.”

“Discount? For what?” I thought. Maybe she felt sorry for me because I didn’t have insurance. Maybe it was policy to give discounts to people who don’t have insurance. Maybe it was because I was paying up-front and prior to 30 days. Maybe they figured I could have just walked out of the hospital and never paid a dime, so they might as well get something out of me. She never said.

“I can give you a 50% discount. That will take your bill to $339.”

9 July 2004

I sent off my files and reciepts to the health insurance company. The replied back with a refusal to pay, apparently because I need to send the information to OHIP first.

I checked the OHIP website. They have a very handy PDF form that you fill out on-line with all your information. Great use of technology. Then you print it off and mail it in. Not so great use of technology. Expect an answer in 6-8 weeks they promise.

Stay tuned for more great medical adventures...

21 December 2004

It is now more than 6 months since I had my fainting incident in Atlanta. The good news is that I have not had any repeats of the chest pain or fainting since that time. My face has mostly healed, however there is still a slight discoloration on the right side of my face beside my eye. I am hoping that it clears up in the winter - all summer I would be outside and the blotch would tan a different colour than the rest of my face. Without the sun, I am hoping that it returns to its normal colour.

It looks, though, in my recently obtained passport photo, as a big black blotch on the side of my face. I suppose that's what I get for getting an "arty" black and white photo instead of a colour photo. It makes my face look, though, like it is the surface of Jupiter with the Great Red Spot on it. Oooh, perhaps people will start creating crack-pot theories on what the blotch is! Alien moonbases and the like!

Unfortunately, the fainting was just the start of my troubles. The real pain has become the attempt to collect the $474.60 that I paid for the treatment in Atlanta.

I sent off my form to OHIP (Ontario Health Insurance Plan, the government insurance in Ontario) on the 24th of July. The form said I should expect payment in 6 to 8 weeks.

On October 12th, I still hadn't recieved any payment, and given that it was 12 weeks from when I had sent in the form, I felt I was justified in calling in. I called OHIP, and they informed me that my claim had been processed on the 8th of October, and I should expect payment in 2 to 3 weeks.

On the 8th of November (4 weeks from my last call), I called OHIP again. "Oh yes, you should definately get something this week," I was told.

2 weeks pass, and so on the 22nd I call OHIP again. "You haven't received anything yet?" the woman asked. I confirmed that I had not. "Oh, you should have gotten something by now. Darlene processed your claim, and you really need to speak with her, though. Unfortunately she is out of the office today. I will leave her a message to call you, though." That was Monday. The week passes without a call, so Friday, I decide to call back. Guess who's not around? Darlene! I leave her another message asking her to call me.

Finally she calls me on Monday. Apparently she had been out of the office for a week and bit because she was sick. Isn't that ironic? The health insurance lady was sick. Anyway, Darlene tells me, "What happened is that they put your apartment number as 160 instead of 1606. I will just have to check with the payment processing people to ensure that they have gotten the old cheque returned, and we'll send out a new cheque." That call was the 1st of December.

On the 17th of December, the cheque arrives from OHIP for $50. That means that I spent just under 6 months and 5 phone calls to get back somewhere around 10% of my original payout. At least I am ready to submit the remaining claim to my insurance company, right?

Wrong! Problem was that the cheque I got had no detail with it. All it said was "Replacement Cheque," which of course is not enough detail for Martime Life to pay the other $424.60 of the claim. So I have to call OHIP and ask for them to fax me more detail. Finally on the 20th of December, 6 months and 2 days after the original injury, I have the detail I need to claim to my insurance company.

So, 6 months into this process, and I am about to start the "big" claim, trying to get back the remaining $424.60 of my outstanding payment. On the 21st of December (fitting the darkest day of the year), I mail off the claim.

More to come...

18 January 2005

got the cheque from my insurance company yesterday (January 17th). The interesting thing was when I opened the cheque it was for $474.60. Which, if you read back a few entries, was the total amount that I paid for the treatment in Atlanta. However, the insurance company was only supposed to pay me for the amount that OHIP didn't pay. Which means, between OHIP and the insurance company, I have gotten $50 more than I paid for the thing.

I was confused. Johnny, my roommate, was home, so I told him I got my cheque, but they had overpaid me by $50.

"Maybe they wanted to pay you some interest because it took so long," he suggested.

Perhaps.

So now I have an ethical dilemma. Should I take the extra $50?

Out there, I suppose there are two schools of thought. One says, "Greg, that's insurance fraud. Don't take the money. Stealing is WRONG!"

The other school of thought is thinking, "what, are you kidding? Take the $50 and run. It's just a big, heartless insurance company."

I'm going to split the difference between the two schools of thought. Seeing as I leave for Africa in 3 days, my plan is this. I am going to deposit the cheque into my account, and worry about the ethics when I get back. In the event that this entry gets subpoenaed in some sort of future court hearing, let me state, for the record, that I am willing to pay the $50 back to the insurance company.

What I am not prepared to do, however, is call up the insurance company and void the current cheque and wait for them to issue a new one. I'd rather have the ball in my court than waiting another 7 months for movement by the insurance company.

So, today I cash the cheque.

And this may be the end of the saga. But, it may not.

Ahhh, the fun of insurance companies, eh?