It all began on a sunny day in Rio—yes, that Rio, the one with the stunning beaches and samba beats, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Dr. Susan Little and I were there giving lectures when it hit us—there was a serious need for better information about cats, their health, and feline medicine. Dr. Susan had already penned two books on the subject, and I had contributed various articles. There were also incredible global associations focused on cats, but it still wasn’t enough. The world needed another educational platform.
But first, we had to change hotel rooms (long story short: toilet explosion—don’t ask). We ended up in this amazing spot on Copacabana Beach, and it was there, in the heart of Rio, that we made a decision. We would start a podcast. So, we grabbed our gear and recorded the first three episodes right then and there.
And thus, the Purrpodcast was born—a podcast for veterinary healthcare professionals, all about cats. Fast forward seven years, and we’ve just released our 200th episode! Sponsored by Norbrook, this milestone episode features Dr. Thomas Schermerhorn discussing feline hyperthyroidism, the most common endocrine disorder in cats.
It’s been an incredible journey, and I couldn’t be prouder. Catch the episode here and enjoy it as much as I did!
After a quick hop from Melbourne to Sydney, I find myself chauffeured by a bus driver who’s clearly under the impression he’s auditioning for Formula 1. I swear, if Max Verstappen ever needs a backup driver, this guy’s ready to go, using the streets of Sydney as his personal racetrack. The radio blares out Australian rugby, which takes me back to a time in Perth when I had a surprise elevator encounter.
Picture this: I’m in the hotel elevator, minding my own business, when someone yells, “Hold the door!” Being the Good Samaritan that I am, I stick my foot in. In walks ten very large men… and one tiny one, all dressed in black. “Where are you from?” they ask. “Holland,” I say. “What about you?”
“Oh, we’re from New Zealand, mate,” they reply.
“Oh? What are you doing here?” I inquire.
“We’re the All Blacks,” one says, with an air of self-assurance that clearly expects me to fall over in awe.
“Football?” I say, oblivious.
They clarify, “Rugby,” and I go, “Oh.” (Way to play it cool, right?) Later that night, I bump into them at the bar, and we have a beer together—turns out, they’re really nice blokes. The next day, when I mention this casually to my hosts, they look at me as if I’ve just revealed I dined with the Queen. “You met the All Blacks?! And their coach?!” Safe to say, the FOMO was palpable.
Back in the present, our driver—who’s navigating the surprisingly smooth new tunnels from the airport—mentions how construction is everywhere, but these tunnels have shaved a 45-minute traffic nightmare down to a breezy 10 minutes. Mid-rant about Sydney’s skyrocketing costs (apparently it’s now one of the priciest cities in the world), he suddenly cranks up the radio. “Sorry, mate, these are my horses,” he says. Turns out he’s into horse racing. His favorite, Esquema, is racing, but as the race ends, he grumbles, “Lilac wins… Esquema came seventh.” So close yet so far.
The botanic gardens and city skyline
Sydney, I quickly learn, is a bike-sharing paradise. Green rental bikes are scattered all over, but the problem is, people seem to think it’s okay to abandon them wherever they please. A favorite spot turns out to be any water ways. Reminds me of the canals in Utrecht—filled to the brim with discarded bikes until they send a boat to dredge them out. It’s a tradition, I suppose, if you’re into pulling rusty bikes from murky water.
On the way to one of Sydney’s northern beaches, I spot smoke in the distance. “Ah, that’s a controlled burn,” my Uber driver explains. “Problem is, they often go out of control.” Sad truth—every year it’s the same story, and the wildlife and native plants take the hit. You’d think they’d learn by now.
Apparently, Sydney is also building a shiny new airport, set to open in 2026, with planes landing 24/7. Great news for night owls, I guess. With two airports soon competing for flights, my bet is the budget airlines will be sent packing to the outskirts while Qantas gets the prime central slots. Because, you know, prestige.
Beach north of Sydney
We finally pull up to my destination, one of the northern beaches. The driver praises my choice, saying, “If you’d gone to the southern beaches, you’d be swamped by bottomless brunchers—young women who start the day all dolled up and bubbly. But by the time you pick them up? Oh boy, they’re a mess. You’ll need to disinfect the car after they stumble out, lifeless and completely inebriated.”
And, last but not least, the final nugget of wisdom from my Sydney adventure: don’t swim at dusk or dawn. That’s when the sharks start their buffet run. Normally, they’re chill, but at those times, it’s like walking into a McDonald’s full of ravenous brunch-goers—except the sharks are much less forgiving.
Arriving in Melbourne, I was immediately whisked away to the infamous Lane 2, or as I like to call it, the “Red Line of Doom,” where customs officers meticulously comb through every item in your bag. Australia, being an island, has a serious aversion to anything foreign—especially if it might be a virus, pest, or god forbid, a rogue banana. Honestly, I half-expected them to confiscate my hand sanitizer for harboring “nasty microbes.”
Now, here’s the thing: after flying halfway across the Pacific, I lose all sense of time. I turned to my driver and, in a state of utter confusion, asked, “Is tomorrow Wednesday?” Without missing a beat, he replied, “No sir, just Friday.” As if that wasn’t confusing enough, he pointed to the passenger side of the car and said, “That’s your door unless you fancy a bit of driving yourself!” Welcome to Australia, where even cars are upside down.
Then came the moment every traveler dreads—he wanted to talk American politics. Now, I have one golden rule: *I don’t.* So, in a classic deflection maneuver, I asked about Australian politics. “Ah, it’s pretty quiet here now,” he said. “We have the UK system, but we can boot the government whenever we feel like it. And trust me, we do! Happened about 3-4 times recently.” Just casually ousting governments? Talk about keeping things interesting.
Once we’d solved global political crises, we moved on to what really matters in Melbourne—**footie**. Apparently, footie is an Australian mashup of soccer and rugby, where players dash around a massive field, kicking, punching, and, I assume, inventing new ways to break bones. Melbourne is the *spiritual* home of this game, and its devotees are nothing short of fanatical. The Melbourne Cricket Ground (MCG) hosts the AFL Grand Final, and trust me, that place is more sacred than a church on Christmas. “Explain the rules to me,” I asked the driver, clearly still in post-flight brain fog. “Mate, I don’t get them myself, but it’s a cracker of a game! And you never know who’ll win,” he said. Apparently, the 16 best clubs in the country are currently battling it out for footie glory, and the city is buzzing. Melbourne’s sport obsession doesn’t stop at footie, though. They’ve got everything—tennis, rugby, cricket—and best of all, the Belmont! (Don’t ask me about horses, I’ll trod along like a local.)
Melbourne by night
As we zipped through the streets, the driver began a culinary tour of Melbourne. The city, he explained, is a multicultural melting pot, which means one thing: *food*. And lots of it. The coffee is legendary, the people are friendly, and life is good—unless you’re in Sydney, where people are apparently too busy to be bothered with pleasantries. “Melbourne is more laid-back,” he said, “while Sydney people are always on the go.” My driver, it turns out, moved to Melbourne from India in 2005 as a student and never looked back. His parents visit for a couple of months at a time, or he heads back to India. “Easy when you’re an Uber driver!” he chuckled. His parents love Melbourne but miss India, so they’re always happy to go home. At some point, our chat turned to food again—naturally. He’s from the north of India, where potatoes reign supreme. “The southerners eat rice,” he explained with a shake of the head, as if rice were a personal affront. Apparently, the divide between rice and potato eaters is a thing. As we wound through the city streets, he mentioned how easy it was to immigrate and buy property back in the early 2000s. But now? Forget it. “Everything’s expensive, mate. People from China and India want to come here, and property prices are through the roof.” Apparently, foreign buyers snatch up anything that hits the market, though the government’s trying to cool things down. “But, you never know,” he said, with the kind of resignation that comes from battling a housing market that’s more competitive than a footie final. And, of course, we couldn’t talk Melbourne without a mention of ‘that’ story—the Danish prince who walked into a bar and walked out with an Australian wife, turning her into a princess. Moral of the story? Anything’s possible in Melbourne.
Touching down in Mexico City after leaving the clean, organized, and almost-military precision of Shanghai? Let me tell you, it’s like stepping into a Salvador Dalí painting. Where Shanghai’s streets are pristine and regulations reign supreme, Mexico City gives you a glorious, chaotic symphony of honking horns, smoky skies, and a traffic situation that feels more like an extreme sport. But before you think I’m knocking it, let me tell you, this place has a magic all its own—starting with the street art. You can’t walk five steps without bumping into a mural or a wall that basically yells, “¡Amor por la ciudad!” And you know what? They’re not kidding. They live for and love this city.
Street art
Now, when I asked the locals what’s extra special about this chaos masterpiece, the answer was instant and unanimous: the food. Oh, the food! We’re talking tacos for days, people. And not just your average, run-of-the-mill tacos either. Nope, there’s a taco for every imaginable—and some unimaginable—scenario. Cheese tacos? Check. Cactus tacos? Of course. And if you’ve got a gluten allergy, no worries—corn is the reigning champion here. You can taco your heart out with zero gluten fear.
What makes the food so ridiculously good? Everything’s fresh, straight from the market, and when I say fresh, I mean if you want the best produce, you’d better be up at an ungodly hour like 3 AM, prowling the stalls of Central de Bastos, the city’s giant food market. Think of it as a gladiatorial arena for early risers—if you’re there past 4 AM, you’re practically yesterday’s news. Breakfast around here isn’t just some dainty yogurt-and-granola affair, either. Oh no, we’re talking scrambled eggs, beef tacos, the works. Just steer clear of the scrambled eggs with jam… that combo is a crime against humanity and possibly tacos.
A taco and a Marg, a perfect combo
My friend says: ‘I have a buddy whose taco shop game is strong—like, hardcore strong. He works all night, crashes for a power nap at 1 AM, then drags himself up at 2 to hit the market before dawn. By the time I’ve had my first cup of coffee, he’s already prepped an entire lunch rush. I don’t know how he does it, because if I tried that, I’d be the living embodiment of a zombie apocalypse.’
The city itself was buzzing—more than usual—because Mexican Independence Day (September 16th) is right around the corner. The streets were decked out in green, white, and red, and, surprise, surprise, there were taco stands as far as the eye could see. I tried to distract myself from taco overload by visiting a museum filled with Egyptian artifacts, but plot twist: nearly everything there was a replica. One single original piece. I guess you win some, you lose some.
Speaking of losing some… while I was there for business, everyone was in a bit of a tizzy about some recent government changes. Apparently, they’re overhauling the judicial system, and instead of judges being chosen for, you know, their qualifications, now anyone can be elected a judge. Yeah, you heard that right—anyone. I joked that even I could throw my hat in the ring, but let’s be real, my sense of justice would probably revolve around taco disputes, and I’m not sure that’s what Mexico needs right now. Protests are expected, which reminded me of the last time I was in the city.
Lots of celebrations
Back then, my hotel was across from the famous roundabout (because, sure, let’s put a circle in the middle of a square—why not?) the Angel of Independence, most commonly known by the shortened name El Ángel and officially known as Monumento a la Independencia. Farmers had been protesting government interventions for months, which isn’t exactly newsworthy in Mexico. What was newsworthy? They were protesting naked. Yes, the famous nude resistance. Imagine trying to figure out the appropriate price for tacos when you’re dodging naked farmers left and right. That’s a memory that’s tough to beat!
Ah, the end of August and the beginning of September—it’s Kansas Sunflower Parade time, folks! That magical moment when the fields around Lawrence burst into a sea of yellow. There’s this one farm, Grinters or sunflower central, where the blooms stretch as far as the eye can see. But, of course, this year, my globetrotting ways meant I was running a bit late to the party. So there I was, sneaking in one final sunset with the sunflowers—Chippie by my side, and a whole lot of droopy blooms that seemed to be nodding at me like, “Yep, we had a good run, didn’t we?”
Now, usually, these sunflowers tower over me like botanical giants, but this year? Shoulder height. Not too tall, not too short—just a little drought-stunted Goldilocks situation thanks to a few weeks of no rain. Still, the field is packed with thousands of them, like a sunflower army standing at ease. As the sun dips below the horizon, the colors start doing their thing—yellow, green, blue, and even a touch of red. Honestly, it felt like I’d stumbled into a Van Gogh painting. Nature’s version of a fireworks show, and boy, was I mesmerized, despite knowing these beauties had been meticulously planned and planted.
Growing up, we had our own sunflower extravaganza in the garden. Every year, those big, green plants would rise up like something out of a fairy tale, exploding into yellow and black glory. When they eventually hung their heads, we’d dry the seeds, saving them for the next year. And so, the sunflower cycle of life would continue, year after glorious year. Ah, the simple joys of a well-timed sunflower bloom.
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