The Four Percenters

I do a fair amount of reading finance and economic junk.  Some of it is interesting, some of it isn’t. Sometimes I get to the end of an article and realize my eyes have been closed for half of it.  And every so often I’ll read a piece about finance or the economy that applies to life.  This article in particular was “50 Reasons We’re Living Through the Greatest Period in World History.”  While a lot of it was medical advances (we live longer, we don’t have mass deaths from the flu) or the fact that the US now produces 57% more oil than we did in 2007, there were two data points that stuck out in particular.

1.       You need an annual income of $34,000 a year to be in the richest 1% of the world. (Source: Branko Milanovic’s 2010 book The Haves and the Have-Nots).

While I know that in the US, $34K doesn’t seem like a lot of money, most of us meet that benchmark.  I’ve been lucky enough to travel to what are considered third world or developing nations.  Did you see the movie “District 9?”  They didn’t make up how people are living.  Those townships are real.  People in 2013 are living without clean water, without toilets that flush or electricity, without access to education, without access to medical care.

Which leads me to the other data point – the one that I can’t get out of my mind:

2.       Only 4% of humans get to live in America.

Four percent. We get caught up in our government issues, personal issues, and the fact that our rent is increasing 25%.  The reality is that we live in a country where 89% of the households have air conditioning.  Yes, our government is a train wreck, college is prohibitively expensive, our economy hasn’t recovered from 2008 and life isn’t perfect.  But I can drink water from the tap, I don’t live in a war zone, as a female I can show my arms, legs and face in public.  Every time I travel, I am thankful when I touch back down on American soil.

We get caught up in not being part of the 1% of Americans when we should be incredibly thankful for demographic luck and that we are 4% of the world.

Oh The Places You Will Go

Life is all about choices.  Where to go to college, where to live, what color to dye your hair, what to do for a living, how to spend your money, etc.  One thing I’ve noticed as an adult is that it’s rare to have people in your life to who approve of how you do all those things.  Especially when it comes to how you spend your money.
 

Being fortunate to have disposable income, I typically spend it on three things: purses, shoes and airplane tickets.  Travel being the vice that takes up the largest chunk of my disposable income.  And is by far the one people least approve of.
 

I was fortunate enough to have my interest in travel sparked at young age.  We took a family vacation every year.  They weren’t fancy, but we always went some place and saw something new.  Then, when I was 16 I won an all-expense paid trip to visit the United Nations in NYC, which included a two weeks touring along the east coast.  Looking back I wish I’d been more interested in the experience and the historical places I got to see and a little less interested in the cute boys with southern drawls.  People talk about turning points in life, when they made a decision that helped define the rest of their life.  That trip is a huge defining moment in my life.  It helped shape who I became and the fact that I wanted to see things up close and personal.  It is one thing to know the ancient city of Troy existed.  It’s entirely different to see the 4,500 year old bricks with your own eyes.
 

I’ve also been lucky enough to have a few good friends who continue to pique my interest in traveling and to push me to continue exploring.  Sadly, these are the few friends I feel totally comfortable discussing travel with.  More often than not the response I get to telling someone I’m going out of the country is, “Well.  That must be nice,” in a lovely condescending, snotty tone.  Rather than continue defending myself, I chose to stop talking about travel unless I was asked.  I make travel a priority.  I make a good living, save for retirement, have no kids and am getting a freaking steal on my rent.  I don’t apologize for spending my money on something that is important to me and not you. 
 

When I was in Turkey last year, a couple around my age asked if I ever got hassled for traveling.  That people didn’t agree with that was how I should spend my time and money?  I was relieved to hear that it wasn’t just me who felt this way.  Luckily I’ve met some amazing travelers over the past few years who can be a sort of support group.  Quite honestly I feel under traveled around most of them!
 

While I think about all this infrequently, I was reminded of it today when someone I met on a trip posted on FB that she was thinking about a trip to Thailand and who wanted to go?  Immediately there were responses flying, especially from those of us who met while in Turkey.  It’s pretty great to have friends who are all in at the mention of a cool trip out of the country.  That is a difficult sub-culture of friends to find.

 

So while I may not own a house or have a million dollars saved in the bank, I’ve seen some pretty incredible things.  I’ve swam in three of the four oceans (although it might take an act of God to get me swimming in the Arctic).  This spring I will have been on six of the seven continents.  I’ve walked around the Coliseum and seen the land that inspired The Iliad.  I’ve followed in the paddle strokes of Lewis and Clark. I’ve seen the aftermath of an Atomic Bomb. Life is about choices.  I just choose to see as much as possible with my own eyes.

The Post-College "Tri"

About once a month, my friend and co-worker Jake pops into my office to ask when I’m going to do a Tri.  My response it always the same, “it’s on the list, but I hate biking.”  I get a lot of pressure to do a triathlon from people who know I can actually swim, since that is typically the hardest part for people.  Apparently not everyone spent their youthful summers logging laps through the blue, and sometimes green or brownish, pool in a hot pink swim cap.  Back when hot pink was in style the first time. 

I really would like to do a sprint Tri (the shortest of the Tri distances) but the bike is truly what is holding me up.  I’ve never been a big bike rider, mostly because I despise riding a bike uphill.  I always ended up pushing the damn thing uphill which led to my pondering of why I’m not just walking – at least I wouldn’t have to push the bike.

Plus, for anyone who has been to Portland, you know that biking here is serious and intense.  It’s not an all-inclusive sport like running where you cheer on and encourage the person you see running for the first time in their lives.  No, biking is far more mean spirited.  You’re expected to know what to do right out of the gate and get the hell out of anyone else’s way.  Just riding your bike to work is considered a competitive sport.  Even Jake admitted that biking here is intimidating.  Plus there are the cars to contend with.  At least once a month on the news there is a report of a bike-car collision.  The bike always loses.  And Portland is built on a hill.  See previous paragraph where I mention not liking hills.  If I was going to be a biker, I’d need to live in the Midwest in one of those super flat states.

Completing a sprint Tri is definitely on the bucket list.  But it’s entirely possible that it will be when I’m retired and competing in the masters category.  And probably I should own a bike first.  Now if I lived in a warm weather climate, they offer run-swim-run duathlons.  That would be right up my swim lane.

Living Solo

I read an article the other day, written by a lady defending the idea of living alone.  She’d been married and was in her fifties, but it was nice to see someone defending the choice to live alone for a change.  Clearly people who can’t appreciate why some chose to live alone do not understand the utopia that your own space can be.

I did my fair share of living with people.  I went from living with my family to sharing a dorm room the size of my parent’s laundry room with another person.  Now, having never shared a bedroom, much less a coat closet, this sucked.  And that was just the first of four completely crazy roommates.  My freshman roommate started dating a guy towards the end of the year.  I’d go off to study and come back to being locked out of my dorm room so they could have sex.   This does not a good roomie make.

My sophomore roomie was utterly depressed.  She had good reasons for being so, however I was looking for someone to live with who was a) interested in getting out of bed and b) opening the blinds to see the rare Oregon sunshine on occasion.  I told the housing director if he didn’t find me my own room I’d pitch a tent in the middle of the quad.  And that I was a champion camper so don’t test me.  He moved me to the top of the list and I got my own room.

One of my junior roomies locked her door after swallowing pills and a boatload of booze.  After breaking up with someone names Harold Haroldson.  I wish I were kidding about the name.  Security had to break down the door but she turned out to be fine.  Just emotionally crazy, no long term damage.

One of my senior roomies loved purple.  I mean LOVED purple.  Her car was painted purple.  Her parents painted their house purple.  Her bedroom liked like Barney threw up in there.   She also repeatedly stole my brown sugar.  This is mostly annoying, but no twenty-something should be that addicted to a color.

So after the sheer volume of crazy roommates, it’s not a stretch to see why I prefer living alone.  I did have one good room mate living experience with a co-worker and we’re actually still friends.  The only person I’ve lived with and we still like each other all these years later.  It probably helped that we had a third, male, roommate.

So I’ve spent the last 7-ish years living alone.  And I love it.  To the point that if I ever decide to get married, I don’t just want side-by-side individual beds, I want side-by-side houses.  Maybe a duplex would be more economical.  There are certainly some good tax implications there. 

Anyway, since I find myself quite entertaining most of the time, living alone doesn’t faze me in the least.  Occasionally I wish the food fairy or laundry fairy would make an appearance, but the good outweighs the bad.   For example, no one (besides Hulu - yes I know how long I've been watching, quit judging me!) could comment on the Revenge marathon I just went through.  I don’t have to explain why I’m addicted to the damn show and just watched 30 episodes in a week.

Whose dirty dishes in the sink?  Mine.  Whose shoes littering my living room?  Mine.  Whose underwear littering the bedroom floor?  I have no idea; I have a laundry basket for that.   Here’s the thing, I can do what I want, when I want and no one is there to pass judgment.  If I want company, I go visit friends.

Personally, I think everyone should live alone at some point in your life.  It’s important to learn how to be just you, how to entertain yourself and how to get through a bottle of wine by yourself before it goes bad.  I still haven’t mastered that one.  Alone doesn’t mean lonely.  Alone means freedom.

The usual definition of alone is separate, apart, isolated from others.  I like the alternate definition . . . unique or unequaled.  

Rain, rain

After about 90 days without rain, a PDX record, we’ve officially entered the rainy season.  Of course after experiencing perhaps the nicest summer PTown has experienced since I’ve lived here, I’m doing my best to take the rain in stride.  My goal is to make it to Thanksgiving before I start complaining about the rain.   

Truth be told, I was ready for fall.  I love summer, but I had a whole closet of fall accessories waiting for their turn in the spotlight.  Or “rainlight,” if you will.  I own at least six different rain coats.  All different weights, fabrics and rain repellant-ness.  No, seven jackets I think.  I have two rain jackets specifically for running in the rain.  And hot pink rain boots.   

The leaves have started to change color, fall off the trees and make a huge mess on my car.  The mornings are brisk and I have to wear a jacket (I told you, I’m a sucker for accessories).  My umbrella is once again a staple in my purse.  Although not so much an accessory as I finally broke down and bought the one with the lifetime warranty (that might be the final step of officially becoming a Portlander).  College football rules Saturday TV and my Beavs are 6-0.   

Best of all, the rain makes it really easy to sleep in.  I wake up, listen to the rain, decide I’m not missing anything outside and roll over and go back to sleep.  After a crazy summer schedule, it’s nice to settle in to the slower pace of fall.

Camping Solo

I love to camp.  I’m not sure why a normal person looks forward to sleeping on the ground, and maybe that isn’t my favorite part, but I’ve always enjoyed camping.  Maybe it’s because I’ve been doing it since infancy.  Maybe it’s because I can out camp most guys I know these days.  Maybe it’s the happy childhood memories of family camping trips with Oreo’s, tiny boxes of sugar cereal and orange soda.  Whatever it is, I am in my element when camping.

Lately I’ve been wondering if I could handle camping by myself.  It’s hard to coordinate with other friends and their kids now or to find people interested in camping.  In my day-to-day life it’s usually just me, so I don’t have an issue being alone, but at home I have a TV and computer to distract me.  I was worried that camping would be an awful lot of, well, ME time.

I was planning an overnight camping trip with friends, but since it’s just as much work to go camping for one night as it is seven, I decided to make it two nights.  Even if that meant camping alone one night.  I was far more worried about getting bored with myself than I was being attacked in my sleep.  After making promises to my worry wart friends, who WERE worried about me getting attacked, that a) I would text often and b) I had weapons to defend myself, I decided to go for it.

I ended up at Beacon Rock around one and picked out the ideal camp site.  I slowly set up camp, in no rush since it was just me.  I picked up some firewood and used the hatched to cut some kindling.  In addition to needing to be able to start a fire, I figured it would help to know exactly where it was just in case I ended up needing to use it on an axe murderer that my friends were convinced was lurking in the campground.  After a short walk I took a nap.  There is something special about napping in a tent.  The ground doesn’t feel nearly as hard at 4pm as it does at 4am.  Eventually I got up, read a book, cooked dinner and enjoyed a campfire with a glass of wine.  It was a ridiculously peaceful day.

My friends ended up coming right before bedtime that night, so I didn’t get the full experience of attempting to sleep while camping alone. It’s far more relaxing than staying at home because at home there is always something you could be doing.  In the woods, your could be doings are pretty limited to all things relaxing.   Clearly I don’t need to worry too much about being bored. 

Missoula and a Dose of Humility

I woke up at 3:58 am.  Exactly 3 minutes before my alarm went off.  Automatically I shut off the alarm so it wouldn’t wake my mom, even though I knew she’d be up as soon as I took that first step out of bed.  Despite the fact that I was sleeping in a hotel and had only gotten about 4-5 hours of sleep, I felt rested.  Since my brain doesn’t work this early in the morning, I was thankful I’d had the foresight to lay out my clothes the night before and headed to the bathroom to get dressed. 

I still can’t decide which is worse: having to eat at 4:15 am or run 13.1 miles.  It’s seriously a toss-up.   But having just done a race under fueled, the brain kicked in and I shoveled in the oatmeal until I thought I’d be sick.  Then it was back to basics.  Body glide everywhere that chafes.  Tape up my right foot and shin.  Tie up my shoes.  Ipod and Gu?  Check.  Even at 4:30 am, there is something reassuring about the routine.  Doing the things you’ve done hundreds of times before, this time you’re just adding a race bib.

The best mom in the world drove me across town at 4:45 am to drop me off at the busses to be shuttled to the start.  “See you around 8 to 8:10ish” I said as I hopped out of the car.  My brain was finally starting to clear and wake up and get excited as thousands of runners are out and about waiting to catch the shuttle.  I of course picked the open seat on the bus next to the cute guy.  It was his first ever half marathon.  I found myself amazed at how upbeat, cheerful and chatty everyone was this early in the morning.  The sun wasn’t even up yet.  It’s hard not to be excited when surrounded by other runners before a race.  The sane part of my brain was asking what in the hell I was doing on a bus at 5am to go run 13 miles.

The time between getting to the start and the gun, or cannon in this instance, going off is the worst for me.  I killed time by standing in porta potty lines (they have Sweet Peas, not Honey Buckets) and chatting with other runners.  Finally it was time to start lining up.  The cannon and fireworks went off at 6am sharp.  The sun wouldn’t come up for another 15 minutes.  The first three miles were some of the most scenic I’d ever run.  We followed a river and were told to keep our eyes open for moose.  Then the sun started to rise above the mountains.  Despite the pain yet to come, it was worth it simply to be running at dawn in Montana.

The first six miles of my race were great.  I hadn’t felt that good running in a while and was holding 9:15’s.  Unfortunately, the race was not a 10K.  Mile 7 was okay and then all hell broke loose by mile 9.  Here is where I started to feel the under training due to injuries, the injuries themselves and the cold I’d contracted while in Montana.  Here is where the race is more mental than physical, your brain is more important than your legs.  Here is where it hurts.  Here is where its gut check time.  Here is where you realize this isn’t going to be the race you wanted to run.  That instead you’re just going to finish.  Here is where the running gods teach you a lesson in humility.  I expected it to hurt.  But expecting and experiencing are two different things.

Miles 12 and 13 were two of the longest in my life.  To be so close yet not have the ability to go faster to be done.  To just be holding on for dear life.  The last 0.1 mile felt pretty good though.  Nothing feels quite as good after a challenging run to turn that last corner and see the finish line.

Despite the race not being what I imagined it to be when I signed up, I learned a few things.  I fueled much better for this race than the last one.  Since fueling is something I struggle with for long runs, this was some good information to acquire.  I learned that I can run 13 miles undertrained, I can gut out five grueling miles.  There is something to knowing what your body is capable of doing on sheer guts if you ask it to.

It wasn’t my perfect race but I got to run in Montana.  In the sunshine.  My first half that wasn’t in the rain!  And I want a rematch with that course.  Someday when I’m healthy, that course is prime for giving me a PR.

The Bro Hug

It’s not unusual for something out of the ordinary to happen at work.  The subprime mortgage industry blows up.  JPM loses $2 billion on a bad bet.  The Eurozone is in a crisis.  PIMCO makes the wrong bet on Treasurys and I spend months explaining their poor performance.   Having to roll with the punches of the market is nothing new.  But what happened at a recent client meeting was definitely new.  And I’m not just talking about the committee member who referred to a choir as singing “Acapulco.”  Yesterday at a client meeting, I got bro hugged. 

People who know me know that I am not a very outwardly affectionate person.  It takes a long time for me to be comfortable hugging friends.  The rare exception being the friends who would hug a tree upon meeting it and thus don’t give me a choice.  Given the option, I’m more of a high-five person.  I have a very large personal space bubble.  It’s shrinking, but it’s definitely still bigger than the average persons.  And everyone who has met me is aware of this.

Luckily, finance is centered on the firm handshake.  That I can do.  No need to enter anyone’s bubble and only your right hand has to touch.  Brilliant.  What I failed to take into account is that many Trustees do not have finance experience.  This usually just rears its ugly head when you’re trying to explain what the hell a hedge fund is, or some other industry jargon.  Yesterday it resulted in a bro hug.  I went in for the handshake with a new Trustee and found myself bro hugged. 

Besides the obvious fact that I am not a hugger of friends, much less people I don’t know and my abnormally large personal space bubble, I discovered I don’t know what to do with a bro hug.  Girls do not bro (or possibly bra for the female tense) hug.  We shake, high five or hug.  We are all in or all out.  None of this modified hugging that implies manliness because you only have one arm wrapped around the other guy.  The purpose of the bro hug was a bit befuddling to me to being with.  Finding myself in one was completely flummoxing (I was going to with confounding here but then I used the thesaurus and flummoxing just sounds way more intense.).

It’s not all together unheard of for me to be fuddled.  The bro hug though?  I did not see that one coming.

Turkey Instead of Turkey

“Heidi, you’ve been talking about going to Turkey for like five years.  Just go already.”  And with that slightly exasperated comment from my cube mate, I hit the purchase button.  Its official, after about five years of talking about Turkey, I am finally going.  Ironically, for the American Turkey Day holiday.

I’ve always liked history.  Partly because I have a great memory and could regurgitate dates and events easily for history exams, but mostly because I like knowledge.  I like knowing how as a world and civilization we got from point A to point B.  I like knowing how people used to live.  And after visiting Italy last year I realized I really like seeing it up close in person.  It’s one thing to know that the Coliseum was built so that it could be emptied in 10-15 minutes (and amazingly, a better stadium design has yet to be created), but it’s a whole other experience to be standing in it.  So for a history buff, what better place to go than the epicenter of three of the largest/greatest empires in history?

So two days before Thanksgiving I will find myself on a plane headed for Istanbul, where I will then spend 11 days touring Turkey.  In addition to getting to cross a country off my to-do list, this will also be my first solo travel experience.  Oh, I fly all over to meet up with people in the US and Canada, but this time it’s just me.  I did however join up with a tour group to make my life easier. I’m using the same group my mom and I went to Italy with since that was such an amazing experience.  I figure if I’m going to all the trouble and expense of flying half way around the world, I may as well make it an actual vacation.  There is a lot to be said for not having to worry about how the transportation from city to city will work or trying to figure out where you’re going to sleep.

One of the few classic novels I had to read in high school was the Iliad.  I do not recall enjoying the experience.  Despite that, I am really looking forward to seeing the classical city of Troy.  Because while I might not have enjoyed the novel that made the city immortal, how brilliant was the Trojan Horse idea?

Currently my biggest worry is I can’t speak the language.  And because the language isn’t based on Latin, I don’t even have a clue as to how to pronounce the cities I will be vising (Troy aside, obviously).  I didn’t speak Japanese either when I went there, but was in a group with some people who did.  Clearly I need to start studying up on my Turkish.  And happily the Turkish Lira is worth almost half of the US dollar.  So much cheaper than the Euro, which my travel budget and frugal nature appreciates.  

Turkey for Turkey Day.  This is sure to be an unforgettable Thanksgiving.

Camping

I used to drag all of my Portland city friends camping once a year.  We’re talking camping at a state campground with flush toilets and showers, not exactly roughing it.  The first year we went, I went to go cut some kindling and one friend was appalled that I had brought an axe camping.  It was a hatchet and was perfect for both kindling and pounding my tent steaks into the ground.  The next year someone brought a stack of Dura-flame logs for the campfire.  And then couldn’t figure out how to light them after removing the wrappers off of all of the logs.  Amateurs. 

So my camping trip over Memorial Day weekend was a pleasant reprieve.  This is what happens when you go camping with the guys you grew up with and your brother – all Montanans and experienced outdoorsmen.  Or at least experienced campers.  Experienced to the point that when I realized I had forgotten a lighter, 2 lighters and a torch were tossed my direction.  And I never once got to, I mean had to, man the fire (or start it or cut kindling).

Once camp was set up, we rented a small boat and went crabbing in a bay.  And while I don’t eat things from the sea, or have any desire to toss or pull crab traps, I had a delightful time attempting to balance the boat so the guys didn’t fall overboard.  And even though I wasn’t eating them, it was really fun to catch crabs.  We even caught three big enough to keep.

It wasn’t until the next morning that we realized we weren’t quite the perfect campers.  We sat around the fire staring at the coffee pot.  Who knew how to make cowboy coffee on the fire?  My dad always did that part and had coffee ready when I climbed out of the tent.  And since our dads are the epitome of outdoorsmen, and would have laughed at us, we opted to experiment rather than call home.  Seriously, if you looked up outdoorsman in the dictionary, you would see a picture of Roland and Matt.

Sometimes it’s fun to be the experienced camper.  To have all the gear and know what you’re doing.  And sometimes it’s really nice to go camping with other experienced people, sit back and let the guys do all the hard work.