My world was sent into a tailspin today: Rafael Nadal lost at the French Open, even before he reached the finals. It's not important who he lost to (okay, it was Soderling). All that matters is that he lost. He probably would have also lost to Hanescu, or Cilic, or Acasuso, if he had been playing any of them. It doesn't matter. He lost.
He must have been having a really bad day at the office, because he not only lost, he played poorly. I kept thinking that he would turn it around sooner or later, as he has done umpteen times in the past. But he couldn't. The mistakes seemed to have control of him, not the other way around. I kept thinking that he had been taken over by my own fate in life, with his own demolished before a shocked tennis public.
I saw an interview of Soderling following the match. He appeared self-assured that he had won the match simply by besting Nadal at his own game. Okay, I cannot take anything away from the fact that Soderling won, but his game was nothing out of the ordinary, and I doubt that he will be able to beat a really on Roger Federer or, perhaps just as likely, Andy Murray, or my as-of-today-favorite for this year, Jo-Wilfried Tsonga.
BTW, last year's ladies' winner, Ana Ivanovic, also lost. I suppose this simply wasn't the year for repeat winners.
Hmmm, I suppose that I myself must be doing something right, however: Otherwise, I wouldn't be able to spend so much time obsessing about such inconsequential things. I'm even considering taking up oil painting. I've already got the first two paintings completed, well, in my head at least. All I've got to do is get started. But that shouldn't be any harder than tackling a blank clay tennis court, should it? Give me a brush.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Friday, May 29, 2009
Collars Galore
Yesterday, I did one of the most unpleasant things imaginable to me: I went shopping for clothes.
The good news is that I now won't have to do it again for another year. That's my rule: Set aside one day a year to buy all the clothes I need for the next 12 months and then forget about it.
Most years, I can go to one department store here in town to get everything I need: underwear, belts, shoes, socks, coats, jackets, caps, and shirts. The department store is comparable to Target in quality and price. The clothes are pragmatic, down-to-earth and easily affordable. Elegance is not an priority.
This year, I was able to get everything I needed there except for shirts. I wanted some simple but durable long-sleeved shirts that were meant to be worn with jeans. But the store didn't have any. It had loads of short-sleeved shirts and a wide selection of dress shirts. So I bought everything else I needed and headed out the door in search of shirts somewhere else.
The second department store I went to was one step up from the first one in price and brandname. But it, too, didn't have what I wanted. So I set out again.
I walked around the mall, but could not find another affordable-looking store. By that time, my nerves were also becoming a bit frayed.
Finally, I ventured into the only place left: an upper-end department store that was known for fancy brandnames and elevated prices. I didn't have very high hopes of finding anything that matched my basic criteria: I will spend $25 for a shirt, but I will not spend $200 for one.
As I was entering the men's-wear department, an older lady of 65- to 70-years-old appeared out of nowhere and greeted me with a spunky "Hello!"
I mumbled a wavery "Hi" in response. I wasn't sure whether the lady worked there or if she was simply some soul out for a day at the mall.
I kept walking until I found the shirt section. At first, I didn't see anything that was right.
But then I spotted several stands of shirts that looked like they just might do. One the one hand, I felt a sudden sense of relief. But on the other hand, I didn't let my hopes get too high before I saw a few price tags.
So I found one in my size and looked at the price. My heart sank: $79.
Suddenly, a chipper female voice behind me asked, "Could I help you find something?"
I turned around and saw that it was the same older lady who had spoken to me a few moments before. This time, I also saw her name tag: Frau Wunderlein.
My first response was to feel like a caught animal. I wanted nothing more than to slink away from those $79 shirts and Frau Wunderlein.
Ultimately, though, I decided just to be honest and said, "I like these shirts but they cost a tad more than I want to pay."
She smiled and answered in a self-assured voice, "Forget about the price tags! Everything here is marked way down. I'm sure we can find something you like."
I grimaced, still plagued with the desire to slither out of the store as inconspicuously as possible.
So I asked, "Well, how much is this shirt?" I showed her the one that I already had my eye on.
She looked at the current price tag and replied, "Now this one is a good deal. It's only $25 today."
My eyes bulged in surprise and elation. I immediately said, "I'll take it!"
Being the wise saleswoman she was, the lady then said, "Here, first let me show you a few more you might like." Without waiting for a reply, she whipped through various stacks of shirts and came back with ten or so possible candidates in my size.
She proceeded to point out the beneficial characteristics of each shirt. I quickly realized that the lady had sized me up accurately: She understood exactly what I was looking for. Each of the shirts was exactly what I would have picked out myself. And the best part was than none of them cost more than $25. In fact, half of them were $20 or less.
She prompted, "See anything you like here?"
All of a sudden, I felt a giant burden being lifted from my shoulders.
Without hesitating, I said, "Give me all of them!" I figured ten shirts in a style and at a price I liked was not a deal I could walk away from.
For a moment, the lady stood there speechless. Then she found her footing and began to praise me on what a good decision I had just made and how I would certainly be very happy with all those shirts.
So she rang the shirts up. The grand total was $195 ... for ten shirts! I felt very proud of myself, and I think the lady must have been feeling very proud of herself as well.
I headed home, happy about the price and even happier that I wouldn't have to think about shirts and things for another 12 months to come.
The good news is that I now won't have to do it again for another year. That's my rule: Set aside one day a year to buy all the clothes I need for the next 12 months and then forget about it.
Most years, I can go to one department store here in town to get everything I need: underwear, belts, shoes, socks, coats, jackets, caps, and shirts. The department store is comparable to Target in quality and price. The clothes are pragmatic, down-to-earth and easily affordable. Elegance is not an priority.
This year, I was able to get everything I needed there except for shirts. I wanted some simple but durable long-sleeved shirts that were meant to be worn with jeans. But the store didn't have any. It had loads of short-sleeved shirts and a wide selection of dress shirts. So I bought everything else I needed and headed out the door in search of shirts somewhere else.
The second department store I went to was one step up from the first one in price and brandname. But it, too, didn't have what I wanted. So I set out again.
I walked around the mall, but could not find another affordable-looking store. By that time, my nerves were also becoming a bit frayed.
Finally, I ventured into the only place left: an upper-end department store that was known for fancy brandnames and elevated prices. I didn't have very high hopes of finding anything that matched my basic criteria: I will spend $25 for a shirt, but I will not spend $200 for one.
As I was entering the men's-wear department, an older lady of 65- to 70-years-old appeared out of nowhere and greeted me with a spunky "Hello!"
I mumbled a wavery "Hi" in response. I wasn't sure whether the lady worked there or if she was simply some soul out for a day at the mall.
I kept walking until I found the shirt section. At first, I didn't see anything that was right.
But then I spotted several stands of shirts that looked like they just might do. One the one hand, I felt a sudden sense of relief. But on the other hand, I didn't let my hopes get too high before I saw a few price tags.
So I found one in my size and looked at the price. My heart sank: $79.
Suddenly, a chipper female voice behind me asked, "Could I help you find something?"
I turned around and saw that it was the same older lady who had spoken to me a few moments before. This time, I also saw her name tag: Frau Wunderlein.
My first response was to feel like a caught animal. I wanted nothing more than to slink away from those $79 shirts and Frau Wunderlein.
Ultimately, though, I decided just to be honest and said, "I like these shirts but they cost a tad more than I want to pay."
She smiled and answered in a self-assured voice, "Forget about the price tags! Everything here is marked way down. I'm sure we can find something you like."
I grimaced, still plagued with the desire to slither out of the store as inconspicuously as possible.
So I asked, "Well, how much is this shirt?" I showed her the one that I already had my eye on.
She looked at the current price tag and replied, "Now this one is a good deal. It's only $25 today."
My eyes bulged in surprise and elation. I immediately said, "I'll take it!"
Being the wise saleswoman she was, the lady then said, "Here, first let me show you a few more you might like." Without waiting for a reply, she whipped through various stacks of shirts and came back with ten or so possible candidates in my size.
She proceeded to point out the beneficial characteristics of each shirt. I quickly realized that the lady had sized me up accurately: She understood exactly what I was looking for. Each of the shirts was exactly what I would have picked out myself. And the best part was than none of them cost more than $25. In fact, half of them were $20 or less.
She prompted, "See anything you like here?"
All of a sudden, I felt a giant burden being lifted from my shoulders.
Without hesitating, I said, "Give me all of them!" I figured ten shirts in a style and at a price I liked was not a deal I could walk away from.
For a moment, the lady stood there speechless. Then she found her footing and began to praise me on what a good decision I had just made and how I would certainly be very happy with all those shirts.
So she rang the shirts up. The grand total was $195 ... for ten shirts! I felt very proud of myself, and I think the lady must have been feeling very proud of herself as well.
I headed home, happy about the price and even happier that I wouldn't have to think about shirts and things for another 12 months to come.
Bear and Grins
The following entry comes from an e-mail written by Sister Judy, not me. It is simply too fascinating and wonderful not to share:
Just so that everyone will know the status of my second son, Bear--He was seen by the vet today due to a growth on his right foot-- which has been there for one to two years --and has gradually enlarged in size until he was /is having minimal discomfort with ambulation--unless he is chasing something, then he appears to be without pain.
Unknown to me before these past few weeks, most growths on pups feet and mouths are usually malignant--usually a type of squamous cell carcinoma which is synonymous to one type of skin cancer in humans. It is usually a slow growing type of cancer and even though it has been present for a while, it has not necessarily metastasized to other parts of his body.
The vet did not seem real concerned of any metastasis, but did think that it needed to be removed as soon as possible. So Bear has been scheduled for surgery on Tues. 6/2/09 at 8:00 am. The vet will try to remove only the tumor-which is between his 1st and 2nd toes-but if she cannot remove all edges and get a good skin closure, she will amputate his second toe trying to make sure all malignant tissue is removed.
He will be able to come home Tues. nite or Wed. am depending on the procedure required. He had pre-op blood work done today--he was sitting on the exam table and the vet asked that I let her assistant hold him down for the blood to be drawn. I explained to her that he would understand what was being done and would lie still if she let me just explain it to him--that he sat for me to give all of his shots without any restraint.
She said sure and so he sat with me holding his head while she tried to find a vein in his neck, which she could not locate. She then asked if he would lie down and let her try, so I asked him to lie down and he lay perfectly still on his side while she drew blood.
He and I discussed the options and we both decided that we should go ahead with the surgery and he is willing to forfeit one toe if need be--recoup time will be 2-4 wks depending on what has to be done. So he, Chelsey (who accompanied to the vet), and I stopped by McDonalds for a burger and came on home.
Bear plans to go for several walks this weekend as he knows he may be limited in this area for a few days. He had only one question for me after we got home--He remembered all the post surgical places on Granddaddy Roy's face on our last few visits there-which we were told were skin cancer-- and he was just wondering if maybe he had inherited this from him. I told him could be, but it was too late in life to pick his relatives. He is quite content and asleep at my feet as I am typing this. Hope all is going well with everyone and will keep you posted on his progress next week.
And like the cherry on top of the cake, here's a just as fascinating reply from Cousin Alice:
judy,
Please give my regards to Bear on his upcoming surgery. Remind him of the upside of hospital stays-lots of presents and be sure that he doesn't read any of Mark's recent blogs on hospital food. It could give him nightmares. Duncan says to tell Bear "be sure to cover your nuts while you are there because mine disappeared the last time I had to go to the hospital!" Let me know how it goes. Love you, alice
Just so that everyone will know the status of my second son, Bear--He was seen by the vet today due to a growth on his right foot-- which has been there for one to two years --and has gradually enlarged in size until he was /is having minimal discomfort with ambulation--unless he is chasing something, then he appears to be without pain.
Unknown to me before these past few weeks, most growths on pups feet and mouths are usually malignant--usually a type of squamous cell carcinoma which is synonymous to one type of skin cancer in humans. It is usually a slow growing type of cancer and even though it has been present for a while, it has not necessarily metastasized to other parts of his body.
The vet did not seem real concerned of any metastasis, but did think that it needed to be removed as soon as possible. So Bear has been scheduled for surgery on Tues. 6/2/09 at 8:00 am. The vet will try to remove only the tumor-which is between his 1st and 2nd toes-but if she cannot remove all edges and get a good skin closure, she will amputate his second toe trying to make sure all malignant tissue is removed.
He will be able to come home Tues. nite or Wed. am depending on the procedure required. He had pre-op blood work done today--he was sitting on the exam table and the vet asked that I let her assistant hold him down for the blood to be drawn. I explained to her that he would understand what was being done and would lie still if she let me just explain it to him--that he sat for me to give all of his shots without any restraint.
She said sure and so he sat with me holding his head while she tried to find a vein in his neck, which she could not locate. She then asked if he would lie down and let her try, so I asked him to lie down and he lay perfectly still on his side while she drew blood.
He and I discussed the options and we both decided that we should go ahead with the surgery and he is willing to forfeit one toe if need be--recoup time will be 2-4 wks depending on what has to be done. So he, Chelsey (who accompanied to the vet), and I stopped by McDonalds for a burger and came on home.
Bear plans to go for several walks this weekend as he knows he may be limited in this area for a few days. He had only one question for me after we got home--He remembered all the post surgical places on Granddaddy Roy's face on our last few visits there-which we were told were skin cancer-- and he was just wondering if maybe he had inherited this from him. I told him could be, but it was too late in life to pick his relatives. He is quite content and asleep at my feet as I am typing this. Hope all is going well with everyone and will keep you posted on his progress next week.
And like the cherry on top of the cake, here's a just as fascinating reply from Cousin Alice:
judy,
Please give my regards to Bear on his upcoming surgery. Remind him of the upside of hospital stays-lots of presents and be sure that he doesn't read any of Mark's recent blogs on hospital food. It could give him nightmares. Duncan says to tell Bear "be sure to cover your nuts while you are there because mine disappeared the last time I had to go to the hospital!" Let me know how it goes. Love you, alice
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Slow journey to a lost heart
Today, I had several appointments and chores that required me to travel all over the city. For the most part, I got from one place to the next by taking the subway, which was just fine with me because I love riding trains.
The main reason for this, I think, is because trains give me the sensation of always being in movement. I also get the same sensation in automobiles and trams, but not on airplanes. In aircraft, the sensation of movement seems to disappear once the plane reaches cruising altitude. That's when I get bored and antsy. The thought of being in a closed cabin with 300 other people where we all have no place to hide is not good for anyone's state of mind.
But the subway is different. It continuously speeds up, slows down, stops, starts again, and making different sounds the entire time. My favorite part is going around curves. The wheels cling to the tracks with all their might as the train's speed naturally tries to propel it in a straight line. The overall effect is one of great stress and suspense as the roaring sound produced by the friction and traction between track and wheel fills the train's cabin.
Sure, all of this carries the potential of danger, and an awful danger to be honest. Yet, the probability of something happening is very low, much lower than most other things in life. So I just enjoy the roar and the sensation of being whirled around a giant curb, just like on a good roller-coaster.
Sometimes, I even drift off to sleep. The continuous drone and occasional roars of the train affect me like a rushing river or a waterfall, or the sound of the ocean. The overall experience is one of relaxation and comfort. It delivers a sense of well-being and peace, and all of this taken together can induce sleep out of me even in the most stressful of times
The slang German word for this type of sleeping is "pennen." It's a word that you won't find in every dictionary. It is by no means a vulgar word, but it is slightly unsavory. It connotes the sense of sleeping somewhere and at some time when you should not be. The closest English equivalents I can think of are "catnap" or "snooze."
But the Germans have taken this concept one step further: The have come up with a related noun that describes bums who are drowsing away on park benches or, if they can get away with it, on trains. The word is "Penner." If someone calls you a "Penner," you know that you have been royally insulted.
Nine years ago, when I still lived in Hamburg, I caught the subway out to the edge of town so that my 10-year-old terrier, Agnes, could run free in the open fields and surrounding woods. She loved that more than anything else in the world. It allowed her to live out her natural terrier instincts to the fullest: dig wherever and as deep as she wanted, and chase anything that moved – mice, rats, moles, lizards, insects, snakes, birds, rabbits, squirrels and, her lifetime favorite, ground squirrels.
Such trips generally lasted four to five hours. Agnes never wanted to return home until she had used up every drop of energy left in her body. I usually let her stay as long as she could still stand up since the experience seemed to make her more content than any other activity in life.
When she was finally exhausted, I carried her back to the subway and boarded the train. As we rode, she stared out the window, fascinated as always by everything that we passed along the way.
A couple of stops later, a few passengers got off and a few new ones got on.
One of the new ones took the seat directly facing Agnes and me. Only about six inches of knee space separated him from us.
It was only after he had settled into his seat that I realized, to my horror, that he was a "Penner." He was dirty from head to toe, and he stunk to high heaven.
Usually, such characters triggered an instant response of revulsion in Agnes. She would growl at them, show her teeth and raise the hair on the back of her neck. I normally had to rein her in to keep her from lunging at them.
But this time was different. For some reason, she responded to him with nothing more than great curiosity and calmness as their eyes met.
Suddenly, my customarily Miss Minister of Defense Agnes flipped over on her back in my lap so that her hind feet were only a few inches away from the Penner's hands.
To my dismay, the Penner extended his right hand and gently grasped Agnes's left hind foot. I thought that, surely, this would be more friendliness than Agnes would put up with. Instead, her whole, very muscular body relaxed to its full extent in my lap.
Then, both she and the Penner closed their eyes, and both were soon snoozing away.
The proper part of me whispered in my head that I should gently extract Agnes's hind foot from the Penner's hand and go find another seat.
But I was somehow so transfixed and confused by the situation that I couldn't muster the clarity to take such a step. Besides, Agnes was more content and relaxed than I had ever seen her. I simply did not want to be the one to rob her of such an experience.
So the train continued. It stopped and started at one station at the other, and took us around all the magical curves along the way.
Agnes and the Penner did not budge or wake up the entire time. They remained attached foot-in-hand, unbothered by any of the train's stops, bumps, or swaying.
I did not quite know what to make of it all.
When we finally reached my home station, I gently detached Agnes's foot from the Penner's hand and tried to slip out of my seat without waking either of them.
But both of them did wake up. They both stared at each other longingly, and as I headed for the door with Agnes in my arms, she kept stretching her neck back around to catch a final glimpse of him. The Penner smiled knowingly at her and she strained to go back to him, though I was not about to allow that.
As I stepped out of the train, a great sense of sadness and shock swept through me. On the one hand, I was bothered by a sense of guilt, as if I had just separated two souls that were meant by heaven to spend the rest of their lives together. On the other hand, I felt that the dog I had loyally dedicated my life to had just turned her back on me for another, more desirable suitor.
I had always suspected that Agnes was not 100% loyal and content with me. Yet, I had just assumed that I would never be supplanted by anyone else in her heart.
But she had just demonstrated that I, indeed, had been deceiving myself for the past ten years. Yes, I was a bit angry, but that was more than offset by a greater sense of disappointment, not in Agnes, but in myself!
I now knew that, in its purest form, dog truth can be a very brutal thing.
The main reason for this, I think, is because trains give me the sensation of always being in movement. I also get the same sensation in automobiles and trams, but not on airplanes. In aircraft, the sensation of movement seems to disappear once the plane reaches cruising altitude. That's when I get bored and antsy. The thought of being in a closed cabin with 300 other people where we all have no place to hide is not good for anyone's state of mind.
But the subway is different. It continuously speeds up, slows down, stops, starts again, and making different sounds the entire time. My favorite part is going around curves. The wheels cling to the tracks with all their might as the train's speed naturally tries to propel it in a straight line. The overall effect is one of great stress and suspense as the roaring sound produced by the friction and traction between track and wheel fills the train's cabin.
Sure, all of this carries the potential of danger, and an awful danger to be honest. Yet, the probability of something happening is very low, much lower than most other things in life. So I just enjoy the roar and the sensation of being whirled around a giant curb, just like on a good roller-coaster.
Sometimes, I even drift off to sleep. The continuous drone and occasional roars of the train affect me like a rushing river or a waterfall, or the sound of the ocean. The overall experience is one of relaxation and comfort. It delivers a sense of well-being and peace, and all of this taken together can induce sleep out of me even in the most stressful of times
The slang German word for this type of sleeping is "pennen." It's a word that you won't find in every dictionary. It is by no means a vulgar word, but it is slightly unsavory. It connotes the sense of sleeping somewhere and at some time when you should not be. The closest English equivalents I can think of are "catnap" or "snooze."
But the Germans have taken this concept one step further: The have come up with a related noun that describes bums who are drowsing away on park benches or, if they can get away with it, on trains. The word is "Penner." If someone calls you a "Penner," you know that you have been royally insulted.
Nine years ago, when I still lived in Hamburg, I caught the subway out to the edge of town so that my 10-year-old terrier, Agnes, could run free in the open fields and surrounding woods. She loved that more than anything else in the world. It allowed her to live out her natural terrier instincts to the fullest: dig wherever and as deep as she wanted, and chase anything that moved – mice, rats, moles, lizards, insects, snakes, birds, rabbits, squirrels and, her lifetime favorite, ground squirrels.
Such trips generally lasted four to five hours. Agnes never wanted to return home until she had used up every drop of energy left in her body. I usually let her stay as long as she could still stand up since the experience seemed to make her more content than any other activity in life.
When she was finally exhausted, I carried her back to the subway and boarded the train. As we rode, she stared out the window, fascinated as always by everything that we passed along the way.
A couple of stops later, a few passengers got off and a few new ones got on.
One of the new ones took the seat directly facing Agnes and me. Only about six inches of knee space separated him from us.
It was only after he had settled into his seat that I realized, to my horror, that he was a "Penner." He was dirty from head to toe, and he stunk to high heaven.
Usually, such characters triggered an instant response of revulsion in Agnes. She would growl at them, show her teeth and raise the hair on the back of her neck. I normally had to rein her in to keep her from lunging at them.
But this time was different. For some reason, she responded to him with nothing more than great curiosity and calmness as their eyes met.
Suddenly, my customarily Miss Minister of Defense Agnes flipped over on her back in my lap so that her hind feet were only a few inches away from the Penner's hands.
To my dismay, the Penner extended his right hand and gently grasped Agnes's left hind foot. I thought that, surely, this would be more friendliness than Agnes would put up with. Instead, her whole, very muscular body relaxed to its full extent in my lap.
Then, both she and the Penner closed their eyes, and both were soon snoozing away.
The proper part of me whispered in my head that I should gently extract Agnes's hind foot from the Penner's hand and go find another seat.
But I was somehow so transfixed and confused by the situation that I couldn't muster the clarity to take such a step. Besides, Agnes was more content and relaxed than I had ever seen her. I simply did not want to be the one to rob her of such an experience.
So the train continued. It stopped and started at one station at the other, and took us around all the magical curves along the way.
Agnes and the Penner did not budge or wake up the entire time. They remained attached foot-in-hand, unbothered by any of the train's stops, bumps, or swaying.
I did not quite know what to make of it all.
When we finally reached my home station, I gently detached Agnes's foot from the Penner's hand and tried to slip out of my seat without waking either of them.
But both of them did wake up. They both stared at each other longingly, and as I headed for the door with Agnes in my arms, she kept stretching her neck back around to catch a final glimpse of him. The Penner smiled knowingly at her and she strained to go back to him, though I was not about to allow that.
As I stepped out of the train, a great sense of sadness and shock swept through me. On the one hand, I was bothered by a sense of guilt, as if I had just separated two souls that were meant by heaven to spend the rest of their lives together. On the other hand, I felt that the dog I had loyally dedicated my life to had just turned her back on me for another, more desirable suitor.
I had always suspected that Agnes was not 100% loyal and content with me. Yet, I had just assumed that I would never be supplanted by anyone else in her heart.
But she had just demonstrated that I, indeed, had been deceiving myself for the past ten years. Yes, I was a bit angry, but that was more than offset by a greater sense of disappointment, not in Agnes, but in myself!
I now knew that, in its purest form, dog truth can be a very brutal thing.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
I'll take the blank menu, thank you
No hospital stay is complete without commenting on the food, and my recent stay proved to be no exception: German hospital food is not merely bad; it is awful, awful, AWFUL!
I'll start with the least offensive of the offenders – breakfast. To be fair, there was nothing repulsive about the breakfasts I received. They were simply boring. The food on the first morning was OK: a wheat bun, a whole wheat bun, coffee, a tiny package of tea sausage (which is basically minced bologna with a strong liver flavor, "perfect" for spreading on a wheat bun), butter and jam.
At home, my breakfasts normally consist of a piece of fruit and a cup of coffee. Bread doesn't rank very high on my list of favorites, but I will eat it if there's no other choice. So I ate the whole wheat bun and had a few sips of coffee – no butter or jam for a man of my age with a spreading waistline. Also, I left the tea sausage untouched. I rarely eat pork, no matter how it is prepared. And I certainly do not enjoy paste-like, liver-flavored pork sausage that keeps reminding me of its taste throughout the day.
So that's a description of breakfast on my first day there. The breakfast served on the second day consisted of the following: a wheat bun, a whole wheat bun, coffee, a tiny package of tea sausage, butter and jam. Sounds familiar, huh? Well, the exact same story repeated itself for the next 11 days as well. I was left with the impression that the hospital dietician was either very lazy or highly risk-aversive.
Since lunch is the big and most varied meal in the German day, I will save that for last and first skip to a description of dinner. Once again, the most descriptive word that applies here is "boring." Evening after evening, the dinner platter consisted of a slice of whole wheat bread, a slice of 7-grain bread, a few slices of cheese, butter, and a mug of herbal tea. Oops. That's not 100% true. One evening, three slices of (pork) coldcuts appeared on the platter, and on two evenings, a small tomato was included. The tomato was identical in both cases: the size of a large plum, deep red, and as hard as an apple. But the greatest disappointment was the tomato's taste and texture: bland, tough skin, cardboard-like inside. So, every evening for 12 days, I found myself "looking forward" to a slice of whole wheat bread, a slice of 7-grain bread, a few slices of cheese, butter, and a mug of herbal tea. That dietician sure knew how to stick to a formula once he or she found it.
That leaves lunch. As I quickly discovered, the lunch dietician (probably the twin brother/sister of the breakfast/dinner dietician) had a fondness for pork, smelly fish, and fresh cut vegetables or cabbage soaked in highly acetic white vinegar that burns your nose. I usually have an adventurous palate, but some of what showed up on the plate was too much for even me.
First, the pork: A traditional part of Bavarian life is something called "Leberkäse," which translates as "liver cheese" even though it customarily contains neither liver nor cheese. It theoretically consists of corned beef, pork neck, pork fat, salt, pepper, various herbs and spices. The best description I have found of it so far is "a baked meat emulsion." The ingredients are all finely ground together so that you end up with a large dough-like bowl of meat-something. You then place the concoction in a loaf pan and bake it. The outcome is a (once-again) bologna-textured, breadloaf-shaped entree, which is sliced and served in portions about the size of a slice of bread. It can be eaten as the main course, as a side dish, or as fast-food sandwich in a bun of white bread.
It is loved here in Bayern, just not by me. Although it does not always contain any liver, it virtually always has a liver-like taste. My impression is that it tastes liked baked liver bologna. I generally like fresh fried liver, but not this stuff. I think it's the day-old liver taste that turns me off. If you suffer from indigestion, you will be burping it up the taste all day...and night.
Another highlight was obazda (creamed cheese mashed with paprika powder and onions, usually served with pretzels or eaten on brown bread), served as an extra to (what else) ... pork coldcuts. Actually, I like some versions of fresh obazda, but then there is obazda that tastes like it contains a large dollop of solidified, well-seasoned cold pork drippings, known as "Schmaltz." BTW, Schmaltz is often eaten spread on sliced whole-grain bread as a snack when you are enjoying a night in the pub with friends.
"Schweinebraten" (slow-roasted pork customarily topped with a brown gravy) was served one night. Admittedly, a good "Schweinebraten" that has been cooked until tender and succulent can be quite a treat. But this particular "Schweinebraten" tasted dry and stringy. I got the feeling that is was pre-cooked, pre-packaged and tossed in the microwave right before served.
Now to the fish. The first surprise here was smoked mackerel, served bare (no topping) and at room temperature. As soon as I removed the lid covering the plate, the odor ("aroma" is too nice a word) hit me in the face and filled the hospital room. This was only a couple of days after my surgery and my stomach had still not settled down completely. The strong smell of smoked fish in a cramped room was not the most pleasant of experiences. I skipped lunch completely that day.
On Fish Friday, we were served a German delicacy called "Matjes" (pronounced "mott-yezz"). Sometimes, Matjes is translated as "pickled herring," but this is more than a few millimeters off from the truth. Matjes is actually raw herring that has been cured (not cooked!) for months in very briny water to which a bit of vinegar and may sugar has been added. Every now and then, I do enjoy some properly prepared pickled herring, but matjes is way too big a challenge for me. Instead of tasting pickled, it often delivers a punch of soggy, salty, rotten fish. Even the strong raddish sauce that usually tops it cannot conceal what is hidden underneath. If this is not enough to discourage you, the yearly consumer reports of worms being discovered in barrels of curing matjes is enough to drive the nail in the coffin.
And this brings me to the last delicacy: fresh cut vegetables soaked in burn-your-eyes-strong white vinegar. On the surface, this does not sound so bad. But first imagine a small hospital room with three patients in it. There is virtually no opportunity to keep patient information or patient odors under wraps. The odor of vinegar immediately feels the air and seeps into anything that will absorb it: pajamas, bed sheets and blankets, pillows, bedroom shoes, bathrobes. This is also true for the patients themselves. After eating anything with strong vinegar, they usually begin to exude the odor of vinegar themselves. Plus, Germans like cabbage a lot, but cabbage often also causes a much pooh-poohed side effect: flatulence. So just imagine three patients in a room who have eaten cabbage in strong vinegar: Not only do they perspire it for the rest of the day, but, even worse, they fart it all night. It will now be a very long time before I enjoy vinegar again.
There's more to tell, but that's enough for now. Don't want to make you lose your lunch!
I'll start with the least offensive of the offenders – breakfast. To be fair, there was nothing repulsive about the breakfasts I received. They were simply boring. The food on the first morning was OK: a wheat bun, a whole wheat bun, coffee, a tiny package of tea sausage (which is basically minced bologna with a strong liver flavor, "perfect" for spreading on a wheat bun), butter and jam.
At home, my breakfasts normally consist of a piece of fruit and a cup of coffee. Bread doesn't rank very high on my list of favorites, but I will eat it if there's no other choice. So I ate the whole wheat bun and had a few sips of coffee – no butter or jam for a man of my age with a spreading waistline. Also, I left the tea sausage untouched. I rarely eat pork, no matter how it is prepared. And I certainly do not enjoy paste-like, liver-flavored pork sausage that keeps reminding me of its taste throughout the day.
So that's a description of breakfast on my first day there. The breakfast served on the second day consisted of the following: a wheat bun, a whole wheat bun, coffee, a tiny package of tea sausage, butter and jam. Sounds familiar, huh? Well, the exact same story repeated itself for the next 11 days as well. I was left with the impression that the hospital dietician was either very lazy or highly risk-aversive.
Since lunch is the big and most varied meal in the German day, I will save that for last and first skip to a description of dinner. Once again, the most descriptive word that applies here is "boring." Evening after evening, the dinner platter consisted of a slice of whole wheat bread, a slice of 7-grain bread, a few slices of cheese, butter, and a mug of herbal tea. Oops. That's not 100% true. One evening, three slices of (pork) coldcuts appeared on the platter, and on two evenings, a small tomato was included. The tomato was identical in both cases: the size of a large plum, deep red, and as hard as an apple. But the greatest disappointment was the tomato's taste and texture: bland, tough skin, cardboard-like inside. So, every evening for 12 days, I found myself "looking forward" to a slice of whole wheat bread, a slice of 7-grain bread, a few slices of cheese, butter, and a mug of herbal tea. That dietician sure knew how to stick to a formula once he or she found it.
That leaves lunch. As I quickly discovered, the lunch dietician (probably the twin brother/sister of the breakfast/dinner dietician) had a fondness for pork, smelly fish, and fresh cut vegetables or cabbage soaked in highly acetic white vinegar that burns your nose. I usually have an adventurous palate, but some of what showed up on the plate was too much for even me.
First, the pork: A traditional part of Bavarian life is something called "Leberkäse," which translates as "liver cheese" even though it customarily contains neither liver nor cheese. It theoretically consists of corned beef, pork neck, pork fat, salt, pepper, various herbs and spices. The best description I have found of it so far is "a baked meat emulsion." The ingredients are all finely ground together so that you end up with a large dough-like bowl of meat-something. You then place the concoction in a loaf pan and bake it. The outcome is a (once-again) bologna-textured, breadloaf-shaped entree, which is sliced and served in portions about the size of a slice of bread. It can be eaten as the main course, as a side dish, or as fast-food sandwich in a bun of white bread.
It is loved here in Bayern, just not by me. Although it does not always contain any liver, it virtually always has a liver-like taste. My impression is that it tastes liked baked liver bologna. I generally like fresh fried liver, but not this stuff. I think it's the day-old liver taste that turns me off. If you suffer from indigestion, you will be burping it up the taste all day...and night.
Another highlight was obazda (creamed cheese mashed with paprika powder and onions, usually served with pretzels or eaten on brown bread), served as an extra to (what else) ... pork coldcuts. Actually, I like some versions of fresh obazda, but then there is obazda that tastes like it contains a large dollop of solidified, well-seasoned cold pork drippings, known as "Schmaltz." BTW, Schmaltz is often eaten spread on sliced whole-grain bread as a snack when you are enjoying a night in the pub with friends.
"Schweinebraten" (slow-roasted pork customarily topped with a brown gravy) was served one night. Admittedly, a good "Schweinebraten" that has been cooked until tender and succulent can be quite a treat. But this particular "Schweinebraten" tasted dry and stringy. I got the feeling that is was pre-cooked, pre-packaged and tossed in the microwave right before served.
Now to the fish. The first surprise here was smoked mackerel, served bare (no topping) and at room temperature. As soon as I removed the lid covering the plate, the odor ("aroma" is too nice a word) hit me in the face and filled the hospital room. This was only a couple of days after my surgery and my stomach had still not settled down completely. The strong smell of smoked fish in a cramped room was not the most pleasant of experiences. I skipped lunch completely that day.
On Fish Friday, we were served a German delicacy called "Matjes" (pronounced "mott-yezz"). Sometimes, Matjes is translated as "pickled herring," but this is more than a few millimeters off from the truth. Matjes is actually raw herring that has been cured (not cooked!) for months in very briny water to which a bit of vinegar and may sugar has been added. Every now and then, I do enjoy some properly prepared pickled herring, but matjes is way too big a challenge for me. Instead of tasting pickled, it often delivers a punch of soggy, salty, rotten fish. Even the strong raddish sauce that usually tops it cannot conceal what is hidden underneath. If this is not enough to discourage you, the yearly consumer reports of worms being discovered in barrels of curing matjes is enough to drive the nail in the coffin.
And this brings me to the last delicacy: fresh cut vegetables soaked in burn-your-eyes-strong white vinegar. On the surface, this does not sound so bad. But first imagine a small hospital room with three patients in it. There is virtually no opportunity to keep patient information or patient odors under wraps. The odor of vinegar immediately feels the air and seeps into anything that will absorb it: pajamas, bed sheets and blankets, pillows, bedroom shoes, bathrobes. This is also true for the patients themselves. After eating anything with strong vinegar, they usually begin to exude the odor of vinegar themselves. Plus, Germans like cabbage a lot, but cabbage often also causes a much pooh-poohed side effect: flatulence. So just imagine three patients in a room who have eaten cabbage in strong vinegar: Not only do they perspire it for the rest of the day, but, even worse, they fart it all night. It will now be a very long time before I enjoy vinegar again.
There's more to tell, but that's enough for now. Don't want to make you lose your lunch!
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
OPs and No-OPs
I'm finally home from the hospital. Things went very well, luckily far better than the docs had prepared me for. My insides are now conveniently rearranged and, I hope, will function well in the future.
First off, I wish to make it clear that the doctors and the medical care here in Germany are extremely good, and I feel lucky to be here to benefit from the medical system.
But how the Germans run a hospital can be quite an adventure at times. The hospital I was in kept me both entertained and on tenderhooks from admission to discharge. The right hand often had no idea what the left was doing. I could never be sure of what was (not) going to be done next. Decisions were made and unmade at the very last second, and then I often had to wait and wait for a new decision.
For example, on the day my surgery was scheduled, the nurses told me I would be taken down to the operating room at about 9:30. That was fine: I like to know these things.
But then 9:30 came and went. Finally, at about 11:00, a nurse came into my room. I was expecting her to tell me to get ready for surgery. Instead, she told me that I first had to go down for some last-minute X-rays in a far, far corner of the hospital (this was a 1200-patient facility).
So I go there (it took me 30 minutes to find the place). As soon as I got up on the X-ray table, the operating room called, saying they were ready for me.
The X-ray techs rushed around to finish me up as fast as possible. Once through, they sent me back up to my room so that I could be wheeled down to OP on my bed. At 12:00, I got back in bed...and waited. Nothing happened.
Suddenly, at about 12:45, a nurse came flying in to give me the standard pre-op meds. Promptly and finally, I got wheeled off to OP.
After I was rushed into the OP room, the nurses there wheeled me alongside the operating table and started to move me onto the OP table. Suddenly, someone came rushing in and screamed "STOP! STOP! STOP! We have to do Patient X first!"
The ever-patient, ever-rushed nurses moved me back into my bed and huddled in the corner for a few seconds on what to do next. They ultimately decided to wheel me over to a post-op room until the OP room was REALLY ready for me. The next thing I knew, my bed was flying down corridors and more corridors, eventually ending up in some distant room in another corner of the hospital.
The nurses wheeled me in, and then some fellow appeared to connect me to an EKG machine. He applied the pads to my upper torso and switched on the EKG machine. It (but fortunately not me) was dead.
The fellow uttered a series of expletives and started unplugging and plugging back in various cables. He checked the system again. Still dead.
The guy rushed off and reappeared a few minutes later with a set of different cables. He detached the old cables, attached the new set, and turned the machine back on. Success! The device was finally up and running.
At that point, a nurse appeared, and the EKG guy rushed off to some other patient. The nurse told me she needed to insert a needle into a vein to set up an IV.
I told her "Good luck!" I have very bad veins, and it usually takes even an experienced medical person at least two stabs to successfully find a vein.
The nurse stuck me in my left arm. No luck.
She stuck me again in my left arm. No luck again.
She started to get flustered and moved to my right arm. She stuck me again. No luck.
She apologized profusely, then disappeared in search of a phlebotomist who was especially good at bad veins.
Fortunately, the (very strong) pre-op meds I had taken earlier finally kicked in. They knocked me out completely. I have no idea how I eventually reached the OP room, but that was just fine with me.
First off, I wish to make it clear that the doctors and the medical care here in Germany are extremely good, and I feel lucky to be here to benefit from the medical system.
But how the Germans run a hospital can be quite an adventure at times. The hospital I was in kept me both entertained and on tenderhooks from admission to discharge. The right hand often had no idea what the left was doing. I could never be sure of what was (not) going to be done next. Decisions were made and unmade at the very last second, and then I often had to wait and wait for a new decision.
For example, on the day my surgery was scheduled, the nurses told me I would be taken down to the operating room at about 9:30. That was fine: I like to know these things.
But then 9:30 came and went. Finally, at about 11:00, a nurse came into my room. I was expecting her to tell me to get ready for surgery. Instead, she told me that I first had to go down for some last-minute X-rays in a far, far corner of the hospital (this was a 1200-patient facility).
So I go there (it took me 30 minutes to find the place). As soon as I got up on the X-ray table, the operating room called, saying they were ready for me.
The X-ray techs rushed around to finish me up as fast as possible. Once through, they sent me back up to my room so that I could be wheeled down to OP on my bed. At 12:00, I got back in bed...and waited. Nothing happened.
Suddenly, at about 12:45, a nurse came flying in to give me the standard pre-op meds. Promptly and finally, I got wheeled off to OP.
After I was rushed into the OP room, the nurses there wheeled me alongside the operating table and started to move me onto the OP table. Suddenly, someone came rushing in and screamed "STOP! STOP! STOP! We have to do Patient X first!"
The ever-patient, ever-rushed nurses moved me back into my bed and huddled in the corner for a few seconds on what to do next. They ultimately decided to wheel me over to a post-op room until the OP room was REALLY ready for me. The next thing I knew, my bed was flying down corridors and more corridors, eventually ending up in some distant room in another corner of the hospital.
The nurses wheeled me in, and then some fellow appeared to connect me to an EKG machine. He applied the pads to my upper torso and switched on the EKG machine. It (but fortunately not me) was dead.
The fellow uttered a series of expletives and started unplugging and plugging back in various cables. He checked the system again. Still dead.
The guy rushed off and reappeared a few minutes later with a set of different cables. He detached the old cables, attached the new set, and turned the machine back on. Success! The device was finally up and running.
At that point, a nurse appeared, and the EKG guy rushed off to some other patient. The nurse told me she needed to insert a needle into a vein to set up an IV.
I told her "Good luck!" I have very bad veins, and it usually takes even an experienced medical person at least two stabs to successfully find a vein.
The nurse stuck me in my left arm. No luck.
She stuck me again in my left arm. No luck again.
She started to get flustered and moved to my right arm. She stuck me again. No luck.
She apologized profusely, then disappeared in search of a phlebotomist who was especially good at bad veins.
Fortunately, the (very strong) pre-op meds I had taken earlier finally kicked in. They knocked me out completely. I have no idea how I eventually reached the OP room, but that was just fine with me.
Saturday, May 09, 2009
Take the Step
May is a month I have always been ambivalent about. I think that's because it is so often a month of change, often very big changes. The most obvious one is that May is the month when spring hands the baton off to summer. Light, pleasant temperatures quickly, sometimes suddenly, rise into the 90s, and the humidity starts to kick in. Insects and bugs of all types start to fill the air and ground. A well-screened porch or an air conditioner become a must.
Another familiar change is the end of the school year. Students who are graduating find themselves leaving the academic world and moving into the world of work. They have to change their priorities and adjust to different objectives. No more tests and mid-terms. Instead, the main goal is to satisfy requirements set by a boss or customers.
And then there are all the minor or totally unexpected changes. Somehow, change seems to have a snowballing effect. Once it starts, it touches more and more areas and pulls them into its tow. If you are like me, the gut response is to try to stop the snowball. But you soon find that to be futile. You finally drop your resistance and just let it take you where it may.
That's when you realize there's a positive side to it all. For every change you face, there's a parallel opportunity, just waiting for you to grab it. And here's the song that best expresses all of that for me:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iyfu_mU-dmo
Another familiar change is the end of the school year. Students who are graduating find themselves leaving the academic world and moving into the world of work. They have to change their priorities and adjust to different objectives. No more tests and mid-terms. Instead, the main goal is to satisfy requirements set by a boss or customers.
And then there are all the minor or totally unexpected changes. Somehow, change seems to have a snowballing effect. Once it starts, it touches more and more areas and pulls them into its tow. If you are like me, the gut response is to try to stop the snowball. But you soon find that to be futile. You finally drop your resistance and just let it take you where it may.
That's when you realize there's a positive side to it all. For every change you face, there's a parallel opportunity, just waiting for you to grab it. And here's the song that best expresses all of that for me:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iyfu_mU-dmo
Friday, May 01, 2009
Golf Gone Mad
Golf season is once again in full swing (no pun intended, of course). And one of the most beautiful things about golf is the names of the courses it is played on. Here are the names of a few of the top-100 golf courses together with an alternative name that just might be a bit more accurate.
Plainfield Golf Course
Field-of-Pain Golf Course
The Creek Club Golf Course
The Geek Club Golf Course
Bel-Air Golf Course
Belly-Air Golf Course
East Lake Golf Course
Least Ache Golf Course
Old Sandwich Golf Course
Not-Gonna-Eat-It Golf Course
Shadow Creek Golf Course
Shadow Shriek Golf Course
Cypress Point Golf Course
Cypress Knee Point Golf Course
Sand Hills Golf Course
Sand Flea Hills Golf Course
Pacific Dunes Golf Course
Pacific Goons Golf Course
Prairie Dunes Golf Course
Prairie Hog Dunes Golf Course
Fishers Island Golf Course
Phishers Island Golf Course
Shoreacres Golf Course
Shore Achin' Golf Course
Myopia Hunt Club Golf Course
Dick Cheney Hunting Club Golf Course
Double Eagle Golf Course
Double Beagle Golf Course
Sea Island Golf Course
Tee Island Golf Course
Pine Valley Golf Course
Cryin' Valley Golf Course
Plainfield Golf Course
Field-of-Pain Golf Course
The Creek Club Golf Course
The Geek Club Golf Course
Bel-Air Golf Course
Belly-Air Golf Course
East Lake Golf Course
Least Ache Golf Course
Old Sandwich Golf Course
Not-Gonna-Eat-It Golf Course
Shadow Creek Golf Course
Shadow Shriek Golf Course
Cypress Point Golf Course
Cypress Knee Point Golf Course
Sand Hills Golf Course
Sand Flea Hills Golf Course
Pacific Dunes Golf Course
Pacific Goons Golf Course
Prairie Dunes Golf Course
Prairie Hog Dunes Golf Course
Fishers Island Golf Course
Phishers Island Golf Course
Shoreacres Golf Course
Shore Achin' Golf Course
Myopia Hunt Club Golf Course
Dick Cheney Hunting Club Golf Course
Double Eagle Golf Course
Double Beagle Golf Course
Sea Island Golf Course
Tee Island Golf Course
Pine Valley Golf Course
Cryin' Valley Golf Course
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