Global Veterinary Surgery

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.

It’s 5:30 am, and let me just say, mornings and I? Not friends. I’m like a solar-powered machine—functional during the day, productive at night—but I need my solid 8 hours of beauty sleep to run at full capacity. Fun fact: I can sleep anywhere. Yes, it’s my superpower. Planes, airports, hotel lobbies—you name it, I’ve napped there. With all the time zones I zip through, it’s a pretty handy trick. This time, I’m off to Cancun, bright-eyed and sleep-deprived, to host Hill’s Global Symposium 2024.

Sitting on the plane, I glance at my screen and see an ad for a United cruise. It promises a lineup of activities I can confidently say I never want to do. But the pièce de résistance? A shot of the majestic Norwegian fjords… paired with a mini racetrack on board. Yes, go-karts zipping around in endless loops. I can practically hear the roar of the engines echoing off the pristine cliffs.

So let me get this straight: you’re cruising through one of the most serene and untouched landscapes on Earth, and you decide it’s the perfect time to go go-karting? The logic escapes me entirely.

At the airport I am greeted by Marcos whose parents started a tourist business in the peninsula 60 years ago. Before that his father was F&B director hotel Sheraton. Marcos is now active in the company for 11 years and he loves it.

I asked him if he had any animals, and his face clouded with sadness.

“My best friend passed away,” he began, his voice soft. “A golden retriever named Rocco. He was 14 years old—an incredible age for a golden. He was perfect in every way: shaking hands, chasing tennis balls, even ‘praying’ when I asked him to. Oh, how he loved those tennis balls.

“But one day, I threw the ball, and he just looked at it. For the first time, he said, ‘No, I’m too tired.’ That’s when I knew. It was time. But knowing doesn’t make it any easier, does it? Losing a friend like that… it’s devastating.”

He paused, lost in thought. “Before Rocco, we had another dog, Blondie, who also lived to 14. But Rocco… Rocco was my spirit animal. You only get one of those in your lifetime, I think.

“He loved the beach—playing in the sand, running like a madman, and swimming. Oh, if there was water, Rocco was in it. Once, I left the shower door open, and in he came, tail wagging like it was the best day ever. I tried to stop him, but it was impossible. He was always faster than me!”

He chuckled softly at the memory, then his tone grew somber again. “That last day… I called him, and he didn’t come. I tried to tempt him with a ball, his favorite thing in the world, but he said, ‘No.’ I called the vet, and they told me it was time. Letting him go was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. How do you say goodbye to your best friend, your partner, your support?

“When my mother passed away, Rocco stayed by my side, his head in my lap, refusing to leave me. He pulled me through the darkest time of my life. I’ll never forget how, when I was at my lowest, he’d gently take my hand in his mouth, almost as if to say, ‘I’m here for you.’

He pulled out his phone and showed me a picture of a tiny Labrador puppy. “This was Rocco, the day I brought him home. I come from a place with lots of dogs—17 in total—but I’ve never known one like him.

“It’s been ten months now, and I’m still not ready for another dog. Maybe one day I’ll get another Labrador, but they won’t be Rocco. Still, I’m so grateful for those 14 years. He was the best.”

He sighed, his voice catching slightly, and I could see how deeply he still missed his friend.

Ah, the magic of an early Saturday morning in New York City! The sun’s barely bothered to show up, and the streets are still catching their breath after last night’s marathon of noise and neon. And here I am, sneaking into the city’s embrace for the second (or was it third?) time this year. As I descend into one of the tunnels leading to downtown, anticipation builds. Then, emerging on the other side, it’s like New York wraps its arms around me, saying, “Welcome back, you brave soul,” and I let out that sigh of relief—mission accomplished.

For the seasoned New Yorkers, this might just be another day at the office. I do wonder, though—do they still feel that rush when they cross over into Manhattan, or has the daily grind dulled it all? Either way, I’m here for it, savoring every crowded, chaotic second. Coming from Kansas, where “busy” means a few extra cars at the crossroads, New York’s relentless buzz is like a shot of espresso to the soul.

Now, there are three absolute must-do’s on my NYC checklist. First up: Zen Walking. Yes, you read that right—Zen Walking, the fine art of wandering without a destination. You just meander, and New York, with its endless quirks and corners, shows you what it wants. I’ve stumbled across hidden murals, eccentric shops, and even found myself in parks and museums that I didn’t plan to visit but somehow needed. You could say Zen Walking is like NYC’s way of showing you, “Here’s a little something you didn’t know you were looking for.”

Then, of course, there’s Central Park. A trip to NYC without a Central Park pit stop? Blasphemy. I love strolling there, no matter the season. It’s like a nature pause button from all the honking, sirens, and skyscraper-staring. Central Park is where you find everyone, from tourists snapping a billion photos to posh apartment owners pretending they’re just like everyone else. Even the poor little carriage horses are doing their thing. This week’s unseasonably warm weather? Perfect. Nature’s own way of saying, “Take a break, everything will be alright.”

And finally, no New York trip of mine is complete without a night at the Met. Oh, opera lovers, rejoice! The grandeur of the entrance, the lit-up steps, the fountain—it’s like walking into a painting, with Chagall’s two enormous murals welcoming you. This time, I went to see Rigoletto, Verdi’s intense opera about curses, sacrifice, and heartbreak. No one comes out a winner in this one, except the music, which soars and dips, carrying you along. Verdi had to make some compromises back in the day to get it approved, but in the end, he created a masterpiece that reminds us all of resilience and adaptation.

So, my dear friends, here’s my closing advice: if you ever feel overwhelmed, just take a step back. Go for a Zen walk. Pause. Renew. And, above all, let New York—or wherever you are—show you something unexpected. You never know what treasures you’ll find.

So, there I was, zipping down the A2 highway with Hamza, my young taxi driver, who, out of nowhere, says, “I’m from France!” Now, I don’t know what he was reading off my face, but I was like, “Oh? France? Let me hear more about that later!” I had just wrapped up a wonderful weekend in Utrecht, my old stomping grounds—my alma mater, in fact—where I was a surgery professor for over 20 years. I also studied to become a veterinarian there. Fun fact: Utrecht University’s Faculty of Veterinary Medicine is the ONLY vet school in the Netherlands and the first outside the US to be accredited by the AVMA. Pretty fancy, right? That’s how I ended up doing an externship in Athens, Georgia, years ago. But I digress.

Utrecht is a gorgeous student town, with beautiful canals, stunning old houses, churches, and loads of historical sites. Founded ages ago, it’s a history lover’s dream. Utrecht, one of the Netherlands’ oldest cities, traces its origins back to Roman times when it was established as a military fortification called Trajectum around 47 AD. The city grew in importance during the Middle Ages, becoming a center for Christianity in the region, with its bishop wielding significant power. By the 8th century, it was the religious heart of the northern Netherlands. In 1122, Utrecht officially gained city rights, marking its rise as a bustling hub of trade, culture, and education.

One of its biggest claims to fame? The Dom Tower! The tallest church tower in the Netherlands, built between 1321 and 1382 It was originally part of a massive church complex. But, plot twist—tornado! Yes, tornadoes in Holland. Who knew, right? The tornado tore the church apart, leaving the Dom Tower all alone, standing solo like a dramatic character in a Dutch soap opera. But hey, it recently got a full makeover and now shines like the star of a medieval renovation show. Absolutely worth the look.

The day of my departure, however, Utrecht decided it was a brilliant idea to host a children’s marathon. Now, I’m not against kids running around in circles, but they shut down the ENTIRE city center! I stayed near the Dom Tower, and no taxis could get to me. Cue emergency evac! I grabbed my bags and hoofed it out of the city center just in time to catch a taxi and make my flight.

Enter Hamza. He’s a solid guy. Told me all about why he drives for a taxi company instead of Uber. He’s been at it for 1.5 years and likes it because he can drive his own car and, for the most part, enjoys the perks of working for a bigger company. Plus, it allows him to take care of his wife and their 3-year-old daughter, who, according to him, is an adorable troublemaker. “She’s super naughty, but it makes me laugh all day!” he says. Hamza works hard, 12-hour shifts most days, though he spends about 8 of those actually on the road. He starts at 4 AM (yikes!) but sometimes wraps up around 3 PM to spend time with his daughter. Needless to say, she won’t be running in any marathons anytime soon—Hamza was just as baffled by the city center closure as I was.

Now, about that whole “I’m from France” thing—turns out Hamza wasn’t actually born in Marseille but moved there before relocating to Holland when he was 11. His dad worked for a big international Dutch company, and before all that, they lived in Morocco. Quite the global shuffle!

Hamza’s dad still shuttles between the south of France and the Netherlands, and last year, he took a grand tour of Morocco instead of just visiting the family town. “You should go!” Hamza tells me. “It’s beautiful, but the traffic is insane. I prefer driving here where there are at least some rules.” Right as he says that, a Dutch driver cuts us off in the classic last-minute merge. Oh, the irony.

“I thought I caught a bit of a French accent when you said ‘Noorden’ (the North),” I tell him. His Dutch is flawless now, but he admits, “When I moved here at 11, I didn’t speak a word. It was tough, but now I love it. The Netherlands is beautiful and safe.” He visits his mom every 3-4 months, nodding with that look people get when they talk about how important family is.

Ah, that brings me to the Netherlands vs. Holland debate—the geographical version of “Is it a tomato or a fruit?” Technically, the Netherlands is the whole country, and Holland is just a part of it—two provinces, North and South Holland, to be exact. But for some reason, everyone decided to call the whole place “Holland,” kind of like calling the entire UK “London.” Imagine telling someone from Utrecht they’re from Holland. It’s like telling someone from Texas they live in New York—prepare for the side-eye! So next time someone says “Holland,” just smile and nod, knowing you’re now in on the country’s little identity crisis.

Just as we pull up to Schiphol Airport, I spot a flock of geese flying south. Cue the dramatic realization that winter is coming, and there go my favorite feathered friends until spring. But hey, at least I’m lucky enough to fly south myself—straight to Kansas, to reunite with my family and little Chippie! Ah, the joys of migration, human or otherwise.

Switzerland is like a postcard that got tired of being stuck on the fridge and decided to show off in real life. Famous for its mountains and valleys, you might be surprised when you roll into Basel and realize… it’s flatter than a pancake! Basel cozily snuggles between France, Germany, and Switzerland, so of course, everyone speaks at least three languages here. First up, Swiss German – a lovely, sing-songy dialect that’s like regular German but with more “yodel-ability.” Honestly, it might as well be Esperanto, that forgotten attempt to make one language for Europe. Spoiler alert: it never caught on. But Basel’s residents are language ninjas, flipping between Swiss German, French, English, Italian, and, if the mood strikes, a dash of Spanish. Polyglots much?

For all their linguistic flexibility, the Swiss are not nearly as relaxed when it comes to rules. They have rules for everything. Jaywalk at your peril – cross on a red, and not only will you get a disapproving glare, but a lecture from a local (if a car doesn’t get you first!). True story: a friend threw a birthday party, invited all the neighbors, and it was a respectable Swiss gathering. Wine, chocolate, light laughter. One neighbor decides he’s had enough, says goodnight, and heads home. Five minutes later? The guy calls the police because the “noise” was ruining his sleep. And the party? Shut down, Swiss-style. What are friends for, right?

Ah, the Rhine! I had the genius idea to jump into it and float downstream through Basel. They did warn me to hop out before the dam, or, you know, danger. The water was brisk, the experience refreshing. Though, knowing about the BASF factories upstream, I did wonder if I’d glow in the dark later. Spoiler: I didn’t, but I did get out before I became one with the waterworks. Survival 101.

Speaking of rules and progress, Switzerland isn’t exactly a speed demon when it comes to change. Case in point: women’s suffrage. The final Swiss canton granted women the right to vote in… wait for it… 1991! While suffragettes elsewhere were fighting for equality, the Swiss were taking their sweet time. But hey, they’re punctual with clocks, if not with social progress.

Sundays in Basel are the opposite of a fun day – the city shuts down like someone hit the off switch. Except for the essential cultural experiences, like McDonald’s (that’s “Mack-Donald,” Swiss-style), Mr. Wong, and Cinnabon. So, if you ever crave American cuisine in Switzerland, fear not.

Finally, a word to the wise: don’t mow your lawn during lunch hour. It’s a direct assault on Swiss serenity, and trust me, your mower will be confiscated before you can say cheese fondue. You’ve been warned!