Global Veterinary Surgery

While waiting for my flight, I began my usual gate-area treasure hunt: finding a good seat that wasn’t already claimed by… luggage. Apparently, blocking open seats with bags — once a COVID-era social distancing hack — has now become the unofficial sport of post-pandemic travel.

I maneuvered through this obstacle course of Samsonites and suspicious carry-ons with the stealth of a cat… until I accidentally bumped into a lady’s outstretched leg. I was ready to glare — until I saw the brace. Cue my immediate “Oh, sorry!” Canadian-style. She rewarded me with a look so icy it could have doubled as an Air Canada in-flight beverage. Still, “sorry” is the magic word in Canada, so I felt my trip was off to a culturally appropriate start.

I finally spotted an empty seat… guarded by a wall of luggage that was clearly pushing Delta’s two-bag policy into the realm of “Do you own a shipping company?” I squeezed past. The girl next to me looked irritated and asked, “Is my luggage in your way?” I nodded. She moved it and immediately continued her public insta live-stream rant about her love for everything IKEA to what I presume was her boyfriend — or possibly her hostage — who could only nod while she peppered every other sentence with a Gen Z “like.” Like, I love IKEA.

I decided to test-drive my new coping method: “Let Them.” Let them overshare. Let them overpack. Let them IKEA. I zenned out.

Landing in Toronto, I met my Uber driver, a young Filipino guy named Ramon. He and his mom moved to Canada about ten years ago from Manila. He arrived in July, thought the weather was fine… until winter hit. His first snowflakes were followed by months where the temperature didn’t dare cross zero. “It took some adjustment,” he said, “but I love it here.”

Manila, he told me, is great — except for traffic that makes Toronto’s rush hour look like a Sunday bike ride. “Toronto people complain about traffic, but they’ve never been to Manila,” he grinned.

Dangling from his keys was a Labubu doll, apparently the craze right now. His aunt in Manila gave him two — one he kept, one for his mom. People will pay good money for these, unbox them on social media, and pray for a rare one. They even make tiny outfits for them. Sadly, none in Canadian Mountie red, though I did spot a particularly macho lumberjack set with shorts.

When I asked for the best restaurant in Toronto, he laughed. “If you want Filipino food, prepare for an early heart attack — it’s rich, but delicious.” He recommended his favorite, Tapuan.

Toronto really is a city of a thousand faces — and if you ignore the traffic, it’s a pretty wonderful place to stay.

This morning I woke up early in Washington, D.C., where I’m attending the 2025 AVMA Convention. After a stretch of back-to-back meetings and what feels like months away from home, I needed a little time to breathe. So I took a sunrise stroll down the National Mall—from the Capitol to the Franklin D. Roosevelt Memorial—soaking in the calm before the city turned into a humid oven (90s and sticky is the forecasted fashion this week).

This AVMA has been extra special for me—I was scheduled for my very first DJ set! Yes, really. Ever since my student days in the Netherlands, I’ve dreamed of spinning tracks in front of a crowd. I even auditioned for a local club back then, only to realize that knowing how to play music was just as important as what you played. My musical taste scored points—but my inability to keep the gear from crashing didn’t help my case.

Just before moving to the U.S., a good friend and I made a pact to go to DJ school together. That plan never saw daylight, but he gave me a mix panel as a farewell gift—one that stayed boxed up in my garage for 12 years… until now.

When I got the invite to play a set at AVMA, I dusted it off, plugged it in—and to everyone’s surprise, it actually worked! I practiced for weeks, ready to light up the party and maybe even pave the way to Coachella or Ibiza (a vet can dream, right?).

But fate had other plans. My flight from Salt Lake City was diverted to Philadelphia, the crew timed out, and by the time I made it to D.C., my DJ slot had passed. No beats, just baggage.

Still, as I walked past the iconic monuments and world-class museums this morning, I was reminded how lucky we are. Lucky to gather with amazing people in our field. Lucky to celebrate the work we do in veterinary medicine. And lucky that—even when the gig doesn’t happen—the joy of the journey is still very real.

Coachella can wait another year.

He has to drag himself out of bed at 3:30 am every morning to get to the Navy base on Coronado Island—right around the same time I’m power-walking along the beach at 6 am, pretending it’s for exercise and not just an excuse to procrastinate before my company’s week-long meeting. The sun is just waking up too, lazily stretching over the horizon, while the sea looks all misty and poetic, like it’s posing for an early morning photoshoot. It pulls back from the beach, glistening and inviting… until you spot the helpful little signs that say: “Don’t swim unless you want to marinate in Tijuana’s finest bacteria.” Apparently, the nearby city generously donates its wastewater to the Pacific, and if the current decides to head our way—no swimming for you.

Now, about my Uber driver. After his 4-to-4 Navy shift, he hops into his Tesla and drives until 7 pm. “I love driving,” he says, “so it’s no problem.” The man is from Vietnam and came to the U.S. with his parents in the early 2000s. After a short stay somewhere up north (too cold) and a few years in Texas (too hot), he landed on San Diego—just right. He joined the Navy and now gets to enjoy endless 80-degree days with clouds that politely burn off once the sun decides to show up.

I tell him I’ve been to Vietnam—Hanoi and Ha Long Bay, where we did a dreamy 3-day cruise. Towering limestone cliffs rising from emerald waters, fishing boats bobbing in the mist—it was magical. He hasn’t been back in 30 years. Most of his family is still there, but it’s complicated, he says. Easier to stay here.

He’s currently on shore duty, which rotates every few years with ship duty. Sounds exciting until you realize “exotic ports” mostly mean long stretches in tiny metal rooms floating at sea. I tell him I’m a vet. “I’m a cook!” he replies. We talk about feeding large crowds and he says what you get to eat kind of depends on who you are. “Did you see the seals working out on the beach?” he asks. “Nope,” I say, “only a lady telling me to avoid the bird-protected zone.” He chuckles and tells me seals have very specific diets and eat as much as they want. “Just like working dogs,” I say. “Special jobs, special meals.” He laughs, hits a button, and the Tesla door glides open like a spaceship.

And just like that, I float back to reality.

Addendum: I am saddened by the boat accident today at Ha Long Bay and think of the lives lost there

Meet Mehmet. Turkish by birth, Uber driver by day, math wizard by night, and apparently, a part-time traffic rule rebel. He picked me up from my Antwerp hotel at the ungodly hour of 7:30 AM on a Sunday. According to him, he’s technically not allowed to pick anyone up there because of road construction, but hey—it’s early, the cops are still in bed, and honestly, who follows all the rules before coffee?

Apparently, the police sometimes understand the human need for airport runs and croissants, but other times they hand you a lovely souvenir ticket. There are zero warnings in the app about this no-go zone, by the way. As a frequent Uber-er, I’ve switched to the “order in advance” feature—less stress, often cheaper, and it seems the app sends you drivers who are philosophers, scholars, and occasionally, undercover superheroes.

Mehmet is one of them. Five years ago, he left Turkey, where he was a mathematics teacher. “I love my job,” he says with a smile, “but I’m not allowed to teach here yet—my Flemish isn’t good enough.” Math, it turns out, is hard enough without having to explain it in Dutch. So now he Ubers during the day and studies at night.

Cue my admiration for immigrants: people who leave everything behind, start over in a strange land, and work ridiculously hard to contribute to society. Mehmet dreams of teaching again, because, as he says, “Math is mandatory, and helping kids—especially the ones who struggle—is my dream.” I tell him he’ll make a brilliant teacher. He smiles and politely avoids rolling his eyes at my lack of algebraic talent.

We’re cruising from Antwerp (where I attended the ECVS Congress) to Brussels Airport. “You’re lucky,” Mehmet says. “Normally it takes 90 to 120 minutes, but today it’s quiet.” That peace ends abruptly at Brussels Zaventem, where the highway suddenly goes from four lanes to two, then one, and then throws you into a hairpin curve designed by someone who clearly hates travelers.

No wonder the airport advises arriving four hours early—three of those hours are spent navigating this logistical nightmare. And once you finally reach the drop-off zone? Chaos. Mehmet warns me, “I’ve got 15 minutes to get out or they’ll charge me €27.” Talk about surge pricing… from zero to 27 in 15 minutes. Even exponential growth curves are jealous.

Inside, the usual modern airport hurdles: electronic passport gates that promise smooth sailing but deliver more of a stutter-step experience.

As I’m leaving the car, I ask, “Do you ever go home?” He pauses, then says quietly, “When you’re an intellectual and a teacher who disagrees with the government, you lose everything. I had to bring my wife and kids here to give them a better life.”

And there it is. Life, summed up by a man who teaches equations by day and lives one by night. I bet his kids will know their multiplication tables and understand the true meaning of resilience.

Well done, Mehmet. The world needs more people like you—whether behind the wheel or in front of a chalkboard.

I’m not entirely sure how the topic came up during my half-day whirlwind tour of Jakarta (thank you, TripAdvisor!), but there I was—sweating through my eltaMD sunscreen—when my delightful guide Stella was trying to explain a lively celebration happening in a port neighborhood. After much thoughtful vocabulary searching, she landed on a rather unexpected word: circumcision. Yup, you read that right. I wonder how I got that description wrong? Turns out, it’s common here to throw a full-blown party for the occasion. Welcome to Jakarta!

With a population of over 12 million, and a large Muslim majority, I suppose I shouldn’t have been all that surprised. Still, not exactly on the top of my sightseeing bingo card.

Our tour also coincided with Jakarta’s birthday—June 14, a date that traces back to 1527. That means a 500-year anniversary in 2027, and I’m already mentally RSVPing. There are personal ties too: both my grandparents once lived here, and my mom was born in Batavia, as Jakarta was known in its Dutch colonial days. The name Jakarta itself means “City of Victory,” which sounds just dramatic enough for a place like this.

First stop: the Istiqlal Mosque—“Istiqlal” means independence, and the building is as symbolic as it is impressive. Fun fact: it was designed by a Christian architect. The dome spans 45 meters, representing 1945, the year of Indonesia’s independence. Right across the street? A Catholic cathedral, proudly parked there as a shining example that yes, different faiths can live peacefully side-by-side—sometimes just across the road.

The cathedral itself is like a hybrid: Protestant restraint meets Catholic bling. A little wooden cross, a little gold, something for everyone.

Outside, there’s a small hill with three crosses and a stone dramatically rolled to the side—which, let’s be honest, probably moonlighted as part of a Pesach-themed stage set at some point.

As we zipped through the city (and I mean zipped—Jakarta’s traffic is basically an extreme sport), I couldn’t help but marvel at the moped madness. Especially the green-jacketed drivers, who are basically Indonesia’s version of Uber: bookable via apps like Gojek or Grab, or just flag one down and hang on tight.

Next up: the National Monument, or Monas, a giant spire with a golden flame on top. You access the base via an underground tunnel, which is wonderful, because walking above ground at noon here feels like being sautéed in your own shoes. Inside, the story of Indonesia’s fight for independence is told in little dioramas. Let’s just say… the Dutch aren’t exactly the heroes of this tale. But don’t worry, Stella assures me: the Japanese occupation was apparently even worse. Yay?

And although the Dutch didn’t leave the best political legacy, they certainly left a lot of vocabulary. Stella rattled off a list:

• Gordijn = curtain

• Waskom = wash basin

• Benzine = gasoline

• Kantoor = office

• Koffiehuis = coffee house

You’re welcome, Bahasa Indonesia.

Jakarta’s streets are a universe of their own. Unofficial traffic guides wander between the cars, helping you squeeze through the chaos—for a small fee. Skip the tip and, according to Stella, your car may get a “mystery scratch.” Noted.

Of course, not everything sparkles. Poverty is very present, and a lot of people live below the poverty line. And while the Dutch did attempt to recreate their beloved canals here, in Jakarta’s sweltering humidity those charming waterways turned into stagnant, mosquito-infested puddles of doom.

To make matters more dramatic, Jakarta is sinking—fast. Thanks to relentless groundwater pumping and unchecked construction, the city is literally dropping by as much as 10 cm a year, making it one of the fastest-sinking cities on the planet. When we visited the harbor, part of it was already underwater. Gigantic sea walls now line the coast in an attempt to keep the ocean from claiming more real estate.

On our way back, Stella gave me a final warning: “Don’t go out on the main street after 9 p.m.—too dangerous,” she said. I nodded gravely, all while knowing full well that jet lag has me drooling on my pillow by 8:45 anyway.