Global Veterinary Surgery

On my noble quest to see every major Egyptian collection in the world, the Rosicrucian Museum in San Jose was a must-visit. Now, the museum itself is tied to a somewhat quirky sect that’s into alchemy, but thankfully, the founder was also obsessed with ancient Egypt. Result? A surprisingly impressive collection of artifacts housed in what can only be described as a Vegas-style Egyptian building complete with a peace garden. Turns out, they funded multiple expeditions to Egypt, so their collection is legit.

My journey to this mysterious museum began with an Uber ride driven by Sayed, a lively older gentleman from Kabul. Normally, I pepper my drivers with questions about local hotspots, but Sayed wasn’t much for small talk—until I asked about his story. He shared that Afghanistan, before the war, was one of the most beautiful places on Earth. He worked for the U.S. embassy, which allowed him to escape before things went downhill, but his father and sisters are still stuck there. It’s heartbreaking—his sisters can’t work or get an education, and his father is paralyzed. Sayed’s doing what he can by sending money, but the situation sounded straight out of The Kite Runner. If you haven’t read it, add it to your list—just keep tissues handy.

As if Sayed’s story wasn’t enough to shake me, I also remembered a 7.0 earthquake that had recently hit Ferndale, California. Earthquakes and I don’t get along, ever since I lived through the Christchurch quake. When I asked Sayed about it, he shrugged it off, saying, “Happens every day here.” Reassuring, right? Nothing like a casual reminder that the ground beneath you is basically playing Jenga.

When I arrived in San Jose, the city was in full Christmas mode. Picture thousands of lighted fake Christmas trees, an ice rink surrounded by palm trees (the irony wasn’t lost on me), and crowds of families—a situation I typically avoid at all costs. But what caught my eye was a performance of The Nutcracker by the local ballet company. Naturally, I had to go.

The stage was… let’s call it “minimalist,” and the costumes, let’s say, lacked tailoring. Midway through, one poor kid’s pants dropped, and he was whisked offstage like he’d committed a crime. Still, the music was delightful, and everyone poured their hearts into it. The principal dancer—a sturdily built ballerino—was surprisingly graceful, proving you don’t need a stereotypical physique to nail a pirouette. Halfway through, they showered us with fake snow (read: soap bubbles), which added a magical touch—until I realized I was covered in foam.

Curiously, this version of The Nutcracker was set in 1905 San Jose, a nod to the city’s historic light tower. Back then, the 237-foot tower, lit by 5,000 bulbs, stood like a giant Christmas tree over the city. Unfortunately, a 1915 storm sent it crashing down, and rusted bolts were the culprit. No one was hurt, but attempts to rebuild the so-called “Eighth Wonder of the World” were quickly nixed. Probably for the best.

Now, let’s talk about big hair. While I was waiting in the museum lobby, a woman with a towering Farrah Fawcett-style coif walked in and sat beside me. Her hair was so voluminous it could’ve had its own zip code. It brought back childhood memories of my mom, aunt, and grandmother, who used enough hairspray to single-handedly expand the ozone hole. Their hairstyles could withstand anything—except, perhaps, a monsoon.

The woman was soon joined by her daughter and aunt, both rocking equally enormous hairdos. I leaned over to my companions and whispered, “Is big hair back?” They nodded gravely. Apparently, this trend originated with Texas cheerleaders, who twirl through the air with hair so immovable it might as well be armor.

This got me thinking about ancient Egyptians, who were also big on big hair. The wealthier folks donned massive wigs—often atop their shaved heads—to assert dominance. Add a desert climate, no air conditioning, and zero deodorant, and you can imagine the aromatic consequences. Their solution? Wax cones perched on top of their wigs that melted slowly to release a pleasant scent. Ingenious for 1500 BC, but not exactly practical for modern cheerleading.

Ah, Christmas in the Netherlands—where the festivities begin so early you wonder if Santa accidentally set his calendar to Dutch time. But wait, hold your eggnog, because Christmas here starts with another old white-bearded dude, not from the North Pole but… from Spain? Sí, mi amigo, you heard that right. Sinterklaas, a.k.a. Saint Nicholas, a.k.a. the OG Santa, was supposedly a bishop from Spain (but shhh, he was actually from Turkey—plot twist no one talks about).

Decked out in his finest bishop bling—a flowing white gown that as a kid I was convinced doubled as pajamas, a red robe, gloves, a ridiculously tall pope-like hat, and a massive shepherd’s staff—Sinterklaas arrived every year in style. And by style, I mean by boat. (Because Holland = water. Lots of it.) He’d then hop on his majestic white horse and parade around town with his entourage of helpers.

And oh, those helpers… here’s where things get tricky. Traditionally, these “Zwarte Pieten” (Black Petes) were covered in soot from climbing chimneys, but let’s be honest, they looked like they spent way too much time in the coal mine. Fast forward to today, and the soot-smudged rainbow Pieten are all about inclusivity and festive flair. Dressed like they’re ready for an Arabian carnival, they still carry bags of presents and hurl sweets at kids like candy grenadiers. But beware—those bags also had birch twigs for naughty children. A medieval parenting hack if ever there was one.

For Dutch kids, the arrival of Sinterklaas was serious business. As soon as he docked his boat, we got the green light to put a single shoe (one per kid, no greedy doubles!) by the fireplace, stuffed with a carrot or apple for the horse. The next morning? Voilà! A present if you were good, twigs if you were bad. Perfect timing for parents to weaponize holiday cheer as a behavioral correction tool.

Of course, I was perpetually confused about how Sinterklaas’ helpers climbed through our chimney once we switched to central heating. My mom, ever resourceful, assured me she’d crack a window open for them. I accepted this, because logic isn’t a kid’s strong suit when sugar and gifts are on the line.

Now, here’s where it got real: On December 4th, the eve of Sinterklaas Day, he’d show up to deliver presents in person—or worse, shove you in an empty sack and haul you back to Spain if you’d been particularly horrid. Honestly, as a kid, I thought, “Spain sounds better than this damp Dutch weather,” but terror and logic rarely go hand-in-hand.

And Christmas itself? A totally chill, two-day affair with zero presents—just family time, a real tree, and actual candles. Yes, candles. On a tree. Indoors. If that doesn’t scream “fire hazard,” I don’t know what does. My dad, ever the pragmatist, kept a bucket of water on standby. But when he lit the candles and the tree glowed, it was pure magic. A warm reminder that we’d made it through another year—without being shipped to Spain or burning down the house.

I love Las Vegas. Yes, it’s fake, overpriced, and marinated in a thick cloud of cigarette smoke, but there’s something about the vibe that keeps me coming back. Maybe it’s the unpredictability—a place where Elvis impersonators might share a slot machine with a billionaire or your Uber driver doubles as a philosopher-santa. Case in point: my latest trip.

My Uber driver was Ralph, a proud veteran (as his Tesla’s license plates informed me). His signature move? Opening the door for passengers and actually helping with suitcases—a rarity in the wild world of ride shares. “Front or back?” he asked as I slid into the front seat, curious about the man behind the gentlemanly gestures.

Ralph looked like a Santa Claus on sabbatical: mid-sixties, long white beard tied into two Rasta-style ends, and rocking a Hawaiian shirt that screamed “Maui 1985.” If Santa ever gave up the North Pole for surfboards and aloha shirts, this would be his prototype. Ralph was chatty in the best way—equal parts storyteller and listener.

“Where are you from?” he asked, like every service worker in Vegas does to figure out how much small talk they need to endure. “Kansas,” I replied, bracing for the usual awkward pause. But not Ralph. “Been there plenty,” he said with genuine enthusiasm. Turns out, Ralph was a former trucker who’d crisscrossed the U.S. more times than I’ve flown to conferences. “Kansas City? I’d hit it either on I-35 or I-70. You never know where you’ll end up, though. Breakdowns can keep you stuck in some places longer than planned.”

Naturally, I asked if he ever slept in the truck. “Mostly, yes,” he said. But if his rig was in the shop, it was motel life for him. “I’ve lived in 49 states,” he added casually, like this was a normal life achievement. Hawaii, of course, was the exception—although judging by his outfit, I suspect he’s spent quality time at its airport gift shops.

Ralph had the rare ability to make small talk feel substantial. I mentioned my Denver Uber driver, who also owned a cement truck on the side. Ralph was delighted. “That’s a great hustle!” he said. “Hard work, though. And you probably bring a little cement home with you, whether you want to or not.”

As we rolled along, Ralph pointed out remnants of the recent Formula 1 race in Vegas. “You missed Max Verstappen becoming world champion again,” he said, clearly unimpressed. “They say they tear up and replace the track every year, but I doubt it. Probably just bury the new asphalt under the old stuff until it all becomes one bumpy mess.”

Everything was going smoothly until Ralph veered into dreaded territory: politics. “So, what do you think of the election?” he asked, with all the subtlety of a blackjack dealer asking if you’d like another card on 20. I froze. Politics, sports, and other bro-heavy topics are my conversational Kryptonite. “I’m in denial,” I said, hoping to dodge the topic.

No such luck. Ralph launched into a monologue about the Beast vs. the Communists, with a brief detour into divine intervention. At this point, I activated my trusty Jolle Phase-Out™—a mental superpower that lowers all external stimuli to a dull buzz while I occasionally toss in a “hmm” or “ah, interesting” for good measure.

Finally, we reached my hotel. Ralph jumped out, opened my door, and ceremoniously retrieved my suitcase. “Wait!” he said, lifting the mat in his trunk to reveal a box filled with pamphlets. “Kiss our freedoms goodbye!” the cover declared, alongside “Welcome to Las Vegas.”

Ah, Vegas. You never know what you’re going to get.

Writing and publishing a book is no small feat—it’s a journey that begins with an idea. Mine was to create a step-by-step atlas for veterinary reconstructive surgery. The project began during my university years, when I worked with four students who meticulously documented surgical procedures. Together, we compiled these into a book titled Reconstructive Surgery and Wound Management of the Dog and Cat.

Fast forward many moons, and it became clear the book needed a refresh to include updated techniques, references, and plenty of new photos of actual surgical flaps. To accomplish this, we reached out to colleagues, who enthusiastically supported the project. We also expanded our editorial team to include one of the field’s leading experts, Dr. Bryden Stanley.

After years of research, collaboration, and image collection, I’m thrilled to announce that the entire kit and caboodle has been sent to the editor! Now begins the proofing process and the countless editorial revisions to follow, but the most significant milestone has been achieved. Stay tuned!

My friend has a story for you, and it’s a masterpiece in airport absurdity. It all begins in Santiago, where passport control is apparently a dystopian experiment in patience. The electronic kiosks? Strictly for Chileans, because heaven forbid foreigners speed things up. Instead, they’re herded into a line so long it might have its own zip code. She counted 33 manned kiosks—because what else do you do in an endless line?—but only four were actually manned. Naturally.

When she finally reaches the front, the guy directing traffic is busy scrolling Instagram or whatever until she interrupts his zen. He barks a number at her in lightning-fast Spanish, which she doesn’t catch. She asks him to repeat, and he actually looks up this time (progress!) to shout it again. Still no clue. She asks again, and this time he raises two fingers and glares at her. Simple enough, right? Except… there is no #2 kiosk.

At this point, it’s a game of airport roulette. She picks a kiosk and hopes Señor Glares-a-Lot is too engrossed in his phone to notice. Victory!

There was already an issue with the airline check-in. The agent there? She could write the textbook on “not my problem” customer service. Minimal words, zero eye contact, maximum indifference. When asked about lounge access, she mumbles “Pacifico Lounge” and waves her off like she’s directing traffic, not humans.

Now begins the epic Hunger Games: Lounge Edition. There are FOUR lounges, each tied to a gate, but here’s the catch: the airport doesn’t tell you your gate until the very last second. Unless you’re clairvoyant, good luck picking the right one. So she takes a 10-minute hike to one lounge, only to be told she needs the lounge near the E gates—basically on the other side of the Andes.

By now, she’s cranky, sweaty, and reconsidering all her life choices. But hey, she finally finds the lounge! Victory? Not so fast. They want her boarding pass and her passport. Why? Blank stares. She asks again. Still blank. Finally, one brave soul explains they send her name and passport number to the airline. She asks why—because who wouldn’t?—and the response is more blank stares and rising irritation. Fine. Whatever. Her companion is hungry, so they hand over their passports, dignity, and will to live.

Here’s the kicker: The harder it is to get into a lounge, the crappier it usually is. This one? Cold cuts, sad cheese slices, and vibes colder than the meat tray. Starbucks saved the day with a latte, and now, she’s calm. Well, calmer. Until she writes this all down and relives the horror.

Next up, she decided it was time to grab a T-shirt for a friend at one of those airport souvenir shops. You know the type—everything overpriced, but somehow still irresistible. As she is browsing, a sales associate swoops in like a caffeinated mosquito, asking if we like the shirts. My friend mutters a non-committal “yes” and casually sidestep, attempting the classic fade-into-the-background maneuver.

But no, she’s got other plans. With the enthusiasm of someone auditioning for a telemarketing role, she gestures to a gigantic sign (seriously, it’s practically a billboard) that says, “Buy 2, Get 1 Free!” Clearly, my friend already had seen it, unless she was blind or just landed from Mars. So, she politely declines and tries to resume the delicate art of shirt selection.

Yet, like a boomerang of persistence, the sales person is back. Hovering. Smiling. Asking, “What can I do for you?” At this point, my friend’s patience has gone through security and boarded the flight without her. She glances at her, and before she can stop myself, blurt out, “You can leave me alone!”

The shock on her face could’ve earned my friend an Oscar. She backs away like my friend just revealed she was carrying an emotional support velociraptor. Admittedly, my friend might have said it a tad loud…

This whole situation brought me back to that time in Branson, Missouri—America’s favorite blend of theme park vibes and midlife crises. I was still living in Holland then, completely unprepared for the Disney-on-cornfields chaos of that bustling little town. While shopping in some local outlet, the cheery cashier asked me how I was enjoying Branson. Without skipping a beat, I declared, “I hate it!”

Cue my partner, who swooped in like a Dutch diplomat at a crisis summit, explaining, “Oh, he’s Dutch. He can’t help it!” And then—because apparently honesty wasn’t the best policy that day—I got a mini lecture about cultural sensitivity and how I shouldn’t scare the locals. Lesson learned: sometimes, it’s better to just smile, nod, and pray for an escape route.