Global Veterinary Surgery

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.

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.

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.

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.

So there I was, 40 floors up in one of Shanghai’s swankiest hotels, staring straight at the city’s iconic spire like it was challenging me to a staring contest. I got lucky this time—upgraded to a suite with multiple rooms and a jaw-dropping view of the Shanghai skyline. Below me, the Huangpu River was buzzing with cargo boats, and I couldn’t help but think back to its more infamous moment in 2013, when 16,000 pig carcasses floated downstream like some surreal, porky parade. Turns out, some farmers upstream decided the best way to handle a pork surplus was to send it straight downriver. Thankfully, that’s been sorted—although I can’t completely rule out an occasional bacon encounter if you’re bold enough to take a swim.

Shanghai is the definition of organized chaos. The traffic is heavy, but shockingly not apocalyptic like in some other major cities. And bikes? Oh, they’re everywhere. The bike lanes are protected by pillars and wire, so it’s like a VIP lane for cyclists, keeping them safe from the legions of electric cars zooming around. Speaking of cars, Tesla must have a Shanghai fan club because they’re everywhere, along with other Chinese electric brands. Regular old gas guzzlers seem like a rare species here, probably because you’ve got to sell your soul (and wallet) to afford a gasoline car tag. Motorcycles? Even worse. It’s a financial horror story just to get a tag for one of those.

One Tesla that caught my eye had a giant “Lady Driver” sticker above the bumper. As we passed her, I noticed this so-called “lady driver” was fully engrossed in her phone and paying zero attention to the road. I just hoped she was in autopilot mode. Oh, and here’s a fun fact: ambulances in Shanghai have the same sirens as back home, but everyone just ignores them like they’re the ice cream truck on a diet.

Now, Shanghai prides itself on being China’s most international city, and with 8,530 coffee shops (yes, I counted), it’s not hard to believe. A lot of those are Starbucks, though, which had a rough patch when they tried to Americanize their Chinese stores. Turns out, people weren’t thrilled about losing their local snacks. Cue the sacking of the country’s GM. They quickly brought back the pork buns and mooncakes, and voilà, business was booming again. KFC learned this lesson and adapted early. They’re serving oil sticks (basically a savory churro) and corn cups alongside their buckets of chicken. But even with all those options, I still haven’t found a good reason to set foot in a KFC while I’m here.

As I’ve said before, China has transformed in the last decade or so. WeChat, for instance, didn’t even exist 10 years ago, and now it’s the Swiss Army knife of apps—you can do literally anything with it. The city’s also a magnet for young people, thanks to its better job prospects and education. And let’s not forget, Shanghai is the city that never sleeps. How do I know? Because every night, the buildings are lit up like Christmas trees, and you can see people working all hours. I passed the famous Jing’an Temple (you know, the one where people donate so much that even the local government asks for loans), but sadly, my schedule didn’t allow for a stop.

My hotel was cozied up right next to the second tallest building in the world, standing a casual 632 meters tall. The name Shanghai is quite poetic: “Shang” means above, and “Hai” means ocean. It’s like a palindrome of geography: 上海自来水来自海上 (Shanghai’s water comes from the sea). And with a population of almost 25 million in the city alone, it feels like the entire ocean is in town.

To top off my stay, we hopped on a boat and sailed down the Huangpu River toward The Bund. It’s the postcard version of Shanghai, with the glittering skyline on one side and the old town’s European charm on the other. We made our way to the famous morning-coffee-afternoon-booze street, where little bars lined the sidewalks. It was the perfect way to wrap up my short visit to this city above the ocean—though next time, I’ll skip the pig parade.

I’ve been to China a few times—mostly Beijing—but every trip has been great. One of my all-time highlights is, of course, the Great Wall near Beijing. It’s such a jaw-dropping marvel that each visit felt like meeting a new celebrity, only taller and with more bricks. I’ve gone three times! The first was a sunny day tour, but it was so packed with tourists, I had to hike miles just to be alone with this legendary structure. The second time, the cold and mist gave the Wall a spooky, “Game of Thrones” vibe. And my last trip? Hot, sunny, and deserted. It was just me, the Wall, and the knowledge that this thing is so big, you can see it from space. I felt like a tiny ant on the world’s most famous fence.

This time, I ventured to Suzhou for the 49th WSAVA World Congress. Suzhou, often dubbed “The Venice of the East,” is like if you mixed a Chinese watercolor painting with Silicon Valley—pretty gardens and tech hubs everywhere. And let’s not forget the canals! I’ve done Venice of the South (the real Venice), the North (Amsterdam), and now, I’m wondering if Venice of the West is… San Antonio? If so, check!

At the hotel, I wrestled with the Wi-Fi (as you do). After multiple tries, I went to reception where a nice guy tried to help. He typed my name, Jolle, but he spelled it out J…O…R…R…E. Gotta love the good ol’ “L” turned “R” trick that happens in Asia! We laughed, and voilà, internet!

Suzhou isn’t just about canals; it’s also home to The Monkey King in Chinese opera. That character’s been doing flips since the Ming Dynasty. The opera’s based on a story where a monk, a monkey, and a pig face monsters (sounds like a very weird road trip, right?). Anyway, after much battling, they find eternal wisdom—like a monk’s version of “The Hangover,” but with enlightenment instead of regrets.

Now, on to Suzhou’s tech scene, which sits next to its ancient past like a flashy cousin who drives a Tesla. When I first went to Beijing, the smog was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Now, thanks to electric cars, the air’s clear enough to breathe, which is always a plus! Suzhou, with its Singaporean-planned tech park, is the perfect mix of old and new. But don’t be fooled by its polished exterior—this “small” town has 10 million people. It’s like if a quaint village ate New York City for breakfast.

And speaking of eating… let’s talk hairy crabs. Yes, they sound like something you’d avoid, but in Suzhou, they’re a culinary treasure. People flock to Yangcheng Lake during crab season like it’s a seafood version of Coachella. The crabs’ claws look like they’re wearing tiny mittens, and their meat is buttery heaven. Just don’t think too hard about the “hairy” part.

To wrap up this story, Suzhou’s signature tree is the willow. I happen to have a willow at home named Paul (because I follow the “stick a twig in the water, and it grows” philosophy). My willow, much like me, faces demon challenges—mainly deer trying to eat it—but it’s hanging in there, wise and resilient. Just like life, right

So here I am in Cancun, just a quick 20-minute jaunt from the airport, gearing up for our next Global Symposium.

The place is so off-season that the hotels are basically ghost towns—it’s like I’ve rented out the entire resort just for myself. In contrast, arriving at the airport is like walking into a carnival—only instead of performers, you’re surrounded by a swarm of overly enthusiastic tour operators all vying to whisk you away to your destination. It’s like an abundant all you can eat menu, with one traveler for every ten tour guides, all desperate to win your f(l)avor.

Most folks seem to have noped out of their vacation plans, spooked by the ominous warnings of a gnarly hurricane season, courtesy of our not-so-friendly pal, global warming.

This year’s hurricane season is shaping up to be a real overachiever, thanks to a cocktail of a half-hearted El Niño, Atlantic waters as hot as a summer BBQ, and trade winds that decided to take a vacation. With all that extra moisture in the air, it’s like Mother Nature cranked up the humidity and said, “Let’s see how many hurricanes we can whip up this year!” Buckle up—it’s going to be a wild ride!

Cancun, by the way, is perfectly perched on the Yucatán Peninsula, where it gets up close and personal with the Caribbean Sea and the massive Nichupté Lagoon, a saltwater lake that’s practically an all-you-can-eat buffet for crocodiles with a taste for adventure—and, well, the occasional tourist.

The hotels here are cleverly tucked away on this slender peninsula, far from the city’s hustle and bustle. They’re working on a new bridge that should be ready by 2026, but for now, all we’ve got are these giant, lonely pilons sticking out of the water like some unfinished art project. The bridge is supposed to span the lagoon, but for now, people are sticking to swimming in the sea—probably because no one wants to be a croc’s mid-morning snack. These scaly fellows don’t shy away from a bit of human tapas, and every so often, one of them decides to switch things up and takes a dip in the sea. I can only imagine the confusion on their reptilian faces: “Wait a minute… where did all the fish go, and why is everything so extra salty?”

The locals, however, are totally unfazed. They paddleboard on the lagoon like they’re leading a croc parade, but I think I’ll stick to the sea, thank you very much.

Now, let’s talk about the food. I have a deep, abiding love for Mexican cuisine, and let me tell you, I’ve got a foolproof grading system for chips, salsa, and margaritas. Spoiler alert: this place aced it. They really know how to serve up some delicious local fish dishes that make you want to marry the chef.

The Hill’s Global Symposium is going to be a blast, especially since it’s being streamed to 30,000 people around the globe. The hotel’s Wi-Fi is so fast, I’m pretty sure they’ve got a direct line to the internet gods. The IT guy was practically bursting with pride when he told me, “No one beats us here!” The hotel itself is stunning, with all the amenities one could ever need.

But all good things must come to an end, and on my way back to the airport two days later, I find myself once again in the company of a small army of tour operators who, I assume, have gathered to see me off with tears in their eyes.

P.S. The lady’s face was priceless when the immigration officer unearthed a conch shell the size of my dog Chippie from her luggage. I bet she asked, “Can I take this back to the US?” and the officer, barely suppressing a smile, replied, “No ma’am, you most certainly cannot.” It was all smooth sailing—right up until she tried to smuggle half the ocean home with her.