Pi

Recent reading the novel Life of Pi brings back my overseas training memories that are engraved in a way I know will never fade.

Yann Martel's Life of Pi chronicles the tale of a 16-year-old Indian boy moving to Canada. One time, during my training in Montreal eight years ago, I started reading this novel, and never got the chance to finish it before coming back. I know I won't remember the story and will have to go back to page one again.

Wait. I talked earlier the memory that has stayed with me for years. There is another story I like to tell.

Those books I read in Montreal, over twenty of them, made clear ripples and then less and less so. Obviously, I can never remember every detail. One thing I know for sure is that lovely memory of the Chapters bookstores in Montreal, where I buried my nose at all kinds of books every evening and weekend.

Over the course of one-year laboratory training in Montreal, I didn't have to look after patients. When the day's work was done, it would be hard for me not to hang out at the Chapters. I found plenty of chairs and couches inside the store. They were not the most comfy couches on earth, but they were mostly very kind with hospitality. I loved them and stretched out on the couches to read. By the time I closed a book with a sense of triumph and satisfaction, I would have almost sunk to the bottom of the couch. There was just one problem: most of the blood would have settled in my legs after sitting in a locked position during my avid reading. Next I tried to stand up, and every so often would pass out. But the point is that, like shooting heroin, the experience of near-fainting feels so good.