Global Veterinary Surgery

Hi everyone, and welcome (back!) to the Global Veterinary Surgery Podcast! I’m Dr. Jolle Kirpensteijn, and I’m thrilled to relaunch this podcast for all the veterinary surgery nerds out there — you know who you are!

Every two weeks, I’ll be diving into the latest and greatest in veterinary surgery. We’ll break down fresh surgical articles, highlight the hottest news in our field, and sit down with some of the most interesting and inspiring veterinary surgeons from around the world. Expect insights, some spirited discussions, and maybe even a few laughs along the way.

You can listen to the podcast on all your favorite podcast platforms — Spotify, Apple Podcasts, you name it. And if you prefer to see my charming face while I talk shop, you’ll find full video episodes on our Global Veterinary Surgery YouTube channel.

Watch on YouTube

Quick travel observation from yours truly: Uber drivers in Phoenix seem to have collectively decided that silence is golden — or maybe they’ve just taken a vow of conversational poverty. My airport Uber guy kicked things off by politely asking if he could have a full-on phone date with his buddy while I was in the backseat. I said yes, because who am I to stand in the way of bromance? The next couple of drivers followed suit with short, curt answers that felt like they were conserving oxygen for reasons I can’t quite figure out. Most of them probably didn’t speak much English, which is totally fine because my Spanish, despite Duolingo’s tireless efforts, is still at the level where I might accidentally order a goat instead of guacamole.

But then came Julio. Julio actually spoke! And his opening line? “This is my last ride.” Which, honestly, felt a bit ominous until he clarified he just meant his last Uber ride of the day, not his entire existence. I’m in Phoenix for a site visit for this year’s Hill’s Global Symposium, and Julio’s been up since 4 a.m., carting humans around the desert. Now he’s off the clock and heading home to… pack for Cuba! Yes, Julio’s catching a flight at the highly questionable hour of 12 a.m., because apparently, vacations are for the sleep-deprived.

At this point, my brain is bubbling with questions. Cuba? Who’s in Cuba? Why Cuba? How Cuba?! Turns out Julio’s entire family — mom, brother, sister, and his two kids — are all there. Wait — your kids are in Cuba? I ask, trying not to sound like a confused owl. Julio just nods, and with that, the conversation door creaks shut, leaving me alone with my swirling curiosity and a growing list of unsolved Julio Mysteries.

It hits me — this is a story I’ve heard before. So many migrants leave their kids behind to work abroad and send money home, hoping to build a better life from afar. I wanted to ask Julio everything: How do you even get to Cuba right now? Aren’t there still a bunch of restrictions? Is he worried about the latest crackdowns? Is he a US citizen now? What’s life like in Cuba these days? But Julio’s already mentally sipping a mojito on a Havana beach, so I let it go.

Naturally, this all sends me down memory lane to the time when Americans could actually go to Cuba without needing a 37-step government approval process. Back then, Daniel, Daniel’s mom Romy, and I spontaneously booked a cruise with a glorious three-day stop in Havana — and we absolutely loved it. Visiting Cuba is basically time-traveling directly into the 1950s, complete with classic cars, retro buildings, and amenities that definitely wouldn’t pass a modern health inspection.

The first thing that smacked me in the face — other than the humidity — was the unmistakable scent of leaded fuel. Ah, childhood memories! That smell took me straight back to my youth, when nobody had heard of unleaded gas, and we were all just huffing toxins at the gas station like it was normal. Good times.

The Cuban people were lively, the food was incredible, and we even did one of those classic car tours where you cruise around in a convertible held together by hope, duct tape, and a prayer to Che Guevara. We hit all the tourist highlights and even popped into a local art museum, where the artwork had a very clear and very unsubtle message for the Cuban government — spoiler alert: it was not five-star reviews.

Sadly, those carefree travel days are over (for now), Romy has passed away, and the world feels like a very different place. But one day — mark my words — Cuba will open up again, and you better believe I’ll be first in line with my fedora and SPF 50, ready to order mojitos with my terrible Spanish.

Hasta la vista, Julio — enjoy that family reunion.

Oh, I was looking for Julia,” the elderly blonde lady announced, clearly scanning the crowd for a woman. And poof—there I was. “Sorry, that’s why I didn’t respond immediately.”

“No worries,” I said, “happens all the time. Nobody here knows how to pronounce my name anyway. That’s why I just go by ‘Joe’ when I order coffee. Or, really, anything that requires a barista to yell a name that vaguely resembles mine.”

Officially, my name is Frysian—an ode to my grandmother, or Beppe, Aafje, who hailed from Friesland, that small yet mighty province in the Netherlands. Friesland is where the cows are majestic, the ice skaters are faster than your internet connection, and the language is closer to Danish than Dutch—because, you know, marauding Danish Vikings did a little “rebranding” back in the day. I’m 25% Frisian by blood but exactly 1% fluent in the language.

Now, fast-forward to my arrival in New Jersey, where I find myself in an Uber, chatting with my driver, Ana. She has a thick Slavic accent, so naturally, I ask, “Where are you from?”

“Brazil,” she replies.

Darn. Once again, I have successfully mistaken Portuguese for a Slavic language. My linguistic detective skills remain questionable at best. I confess my mistake, and Ana laughs. Turns out, she comes from a family of doctors—father’s a doctor, uncle’s a doctor, brothers are doctors—but she? Nope. She wanted to see the world, so she moved to the U.S. and never looked back (except once a year when she visits home).

Ana’s accent remains delightfully thick despite years in the States. It reminds me of my late mother-in-law, who moved from Germany and spoke English for 70+ years… but still sounded like she had arrived fresh off the boat yesterday. I miss her dearly.

Then Ana gets excited. “You’re from Holland? My grandmother was Dutch too!”

“Aha!” I exclaim. “That explains the blonde hair and blue eyes!”

She nods. Apparently, there was a significant Dutch colony where she grew up in Rio. Her grandmother moved to Brazil at the age of five, but Ana barely remembers any Dutch words.

Speaking of Rio, I was there not too long ago. Beautiful city, but our first hotel? Let’s just say it was a hard pass. The door had clearly been broken into one too many times, there was no safe (which is literally the first thing I look for), and, in the grand finale, the toilet exploded, unleashing a Category 5 sewage tsunami. That was the moment I decided to abandon my budget-conscious ways and book the most expensive hotel near Ipanema Beach. Best. Decision. Ever.

Back in New Jersey, Ana drops me off in New Brunswick—a town with a solidly “previous-century” aesthetic but a promising facelift in progress. The silver lining? A proper Irish pub across from my hotel and a local ramen place that’s nothing short of life-changing.

And that’s where I ring in the Year of the Snake. So shed the old, folks—it’s time for something new!

New beginnings come in all shapes and sizes—sometimes it’s as small as changing your name at the coffee counter, and sometimes it’s as big as moving across the world, like Ana and I did. There’s something exhilarating about starting fresh in a new place, where nobody knows your name (or, more importantly, how to mispronounce it). A blank slate, a new adventure, and the chance to reinvent yourself—whether that means embracing a new culture, chasing a new dream, or just making sure your next hotel has a functioning toilet.

The moment I step into Demetria’s Uber, I know I’m in for a ride—not just physically, but spiritually, emotionally, and maybe even philosophically. She is a well-developed Southern black lady, draped in confidence and wrapped in a large wig that extended to big curls that waved up and down while she laughed. Her lashes extend so far they probably could touch the front window, and her nails? Lord have mercy—longer than a CVS receipt and brighter than the Las Vegas Strip.

“I take no shit,” she immediately declares with a grin, “but I am glad you’re ridin’ with me, baby.” And within two minutes flat, we are cackling like old friends at a family reunion.

Demetria is from Atlanta, and she wants to know why I’m here. But before I can explain, she drops this on me:

“You got a beautiful house, I just know it. You need to move back to Kansas and rent it out to me! I pay my rent on time, and I keep everything nice and tidy—even the yard! But if you got them crazy-ass colors in there? Child, I can’t live like that, I’m paintin’ over it. I’m just lettin’ you know upfront!”

And then she laughs. And I laugh. And it’s a moment.

She asks how long I’ve been married. I tell her, “Since 2006, but officially in the U.S. since 2016.”

“Damn! That’s a long-ass time.”

“Yep,” I say. “Long-distance relationships do wonders. Every time you start out fresh.”

Her face lights up. “My brother lives in LA! And he gay too! I love my brother. Best thing in the world. He got a partner, but guess what? One lives on one floor, the other on the other. Can you believe that?”

“Right,” I say.

“You say ‘right’ a lot,” she teases before launching into a monologue about how much she adores her big brother, how his partner gets on her nerves sometimes, and how she don’t tolerate nobody disrespecting them.

“I tell folks straight up: if you don’t like gays, don’t get in my damn car! The Lord don’t care if you Black, gay, or fat. He care what you did! It’s all love, baby. And love should reign.”

She pauses, looks at me in the mirror, and drops some Demetria wisdom:

“Look at me—I’m fat. And being fat ain’t good. But does that mean I can’t marry who I love? Hell naw! So why them people think they can tell gay folks or trans folks they can’t? God didn’t say that! And if anybody touches my big brother, I swear—I’ll kick they ass out my Uber!”

Then, outta nowhere, she shifts gears:

“Listen to this mess! Remember that big snowstorm? I got a four-wheel drive, so I was fine. But this one couple wanted me to come pick them up, and I was like, ‘Baby, your road is a damn ice luge. I ain’t riskin’ my life for no Uber fare.’ And this woman had the audacity to say, ‘Well, my husband does it all the time.’”

Demetria claps her hands mid-sentence, emphasizing every word.

“I. AM. NOT. YOUR. HUSBAND!”

So the woman cancels the ride.

“Can you believe that mess?! But I don’t give a damn. I took pictures of that death trap just in case Uber wanna ask questions. And guess what? I still got a 4.94 rating!”

At this point, I am in love with this woman.

Then a Cybertruck rolls past.

She scoffs. “You see that shit? People who drive those think they better than us. But you know what? They look like damn garbage trucks. Just flip open the back and toss your trash in.”

I nod. “Garbage in, garbage out.”

“And in the snow?” she adds. “Pure disaster!”

As we pull up to the airport, she leaves me with this gem:

“My two favorite words? ‘Bitch’ and ‘shit.’”

She cackles. “You don’t give a shit, bitch!”

“Wait, I do?” I say, caught off guard.

“Naw, baby! I’m just showin’ you how to use it in a proper sentence!”

And with that, she waves me off, still laughing.

PS Demeter, the Greek goddess of agriculture, fertility, and the harvest, is a powerhouse of maternal strength and seasonal drama. Best known for her role in the myth of Persephone, her daughter’s abduction by Hades sent her into such grief that she put the entire world on a starvation diet, inventing winter in the process. As the bringer of grain and growth, she’s basically the original farm-to-table goddess, ensuring crops flourish—but only when she’s in a good mood. Mess with her family, and you might just get an eternal famine as payback. You go Demetria!

Meet Venkat, an Uber driver with a knack for smooth rides and even smoother conversation. He’s been in the business for a couple of years now, chauffeuring people around Kansas City while probably questioning their navigation skills. Originally from the Indian countryside near Hyderabad, he moved to the U.S. with his wife eight years ago, and his brother followed suit a couple of years later. Now, only his parents remain in India, possibly wondering why their kids abandoned the land of spicy food for the land of BBQ and unpredictable weather.

Talking about Hyderabad, I asked him how big the city is, expecting a number like 5 or 6 million. “Over 10 million,” he says, then adds with a grin, “or one crore.” Wait, one what? “Crore. We count by the tens of millions.” Ah, of course, why settle for plain old millions when you can spice up your math just like your food?

Speaking of India, I’ve been there once, and let me tell you, it’s a feast for the senses—flavors, colors, and culture everywhere. But let’s talk about the traffic. Chaos. Absolute, unfiltered, glorious chaos. Lanes? Suggestions. Traffic signals? Optional. Personal space? Doesn’t exist. Venkat, laughing, advises me never to attempt driving in India unless I have a deep-rooted desire to experience near-death moments every five minutes. “There are rules,” he says, “but nobody follows them.” Sounds like a thrilling survival squid game to me.

Food, Family, and Freezing Temperatures

Venkat misses his family, the food, and the culture the most. But he redeems my evening with a golden nugget of information—his top Indian food recommendation in Kansas City: Rajadhani Indian Cuisine in Overland Park. “You must try it,” he insists. And the best part? They actually ask you how spicy you want your food, unlike in South India, where the only spice level is “kiss-your-tastebuds-goodbye” hot.

He moved here to KC because there weren’t many job opportunities back home. He visits India every two years and misses his parents dearly. Fortunately, his many cousins keep them company. His parents like visiting him but have no interest in staying. “Too cold,” his mom declares. Can’t blame her. India doesn’t do snow.

Ah yes, snow. Venkat had never even seen it before moving here. “They never taught us about snow in school,” he tells me, as if it’s some mythical creature. The first time he saw snow, it was magical—until he had to drive in it. “Messy,” he sighs. I can only imagine the horror of navigating icy roads when you grew up dodging auto-rickshaws and cows instead.

Cricket: The Ultimate Time-Consuming Drama

Finally, we hit the most important topic—cricket. Venkat loves it, which means he’s got stamina because cricket is not just a game; it’s an investment. A match can last days. “But,” he says, “now they play 20 overs, so it’s only three to four hours.” Only three to four hours—casual. For reference, an over consists of six balls (or pitches, for my American friends). The Indian national team is his pride and joy, though they haven’t won a world title in a while. Still, when they did win about four years ago, the entire country lost its collective mind.

Before I hop out of the car, Venkat shares one last thought: “Cricket is long, stressful, and unpredictable, just like Indian traffic.” And with that, my ride ends—full of stories, laughter, and a new restaurant to try.