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Animal Doctor in Transition
Didn't grow up on a farm, didn't dream of becoming a vet since I was 5, didn't even own animals as a kid. Some people are born veterinarians. There are times when I envy them.
Monday, May 16, 2016
Show and Tell: Pelion, and a Cat's-Eye View of England
Whoever said a picture is worth a thousand words must have had some seriously chatty friends not keen on taking photos. But there is truth behind every exaggeration. In this post I'm letting pictures of our recent trip to Pelion (Greece) and London do most of the talking. At the above rate of conversion, it's probably one of the longest blog posts out there.
Unlike much of Greece, the Pelion peninsula is lush and green from the many creeks and waterfalls carrying melting snow from Mount Pelion. We visited this area during the off season and before most of the hotels and guesthouses had opened, and although this left the village of Agios Ioannis looking somewhat like a ghost town, it was eerily pleasant to have the beaches to ourselves.
The water off the Aegean coast of Pelion is very clear, but strangely enough there is no algae in the sea, and none washed up on the shore. The colour variations in the rock of this grotto are quite something. The black horizontal streaks are dried oil from a spill (several, actually) that happened some twenty years ago.
This donkey living in a meadow outside Volos is one of the few that remain on Pelion. She is kept more as a pet than for practical purposes, has plenty to eat, and, being a highly intelligent animal, is easily bored. After the first introduction she would greet our approach with loud braying.
The forests of Pelion are cool and shady, especially along the banks of streams. This bridge outside the village of Tsagarada is a couple of hundred years old. The Roman arch technique is amazing in its reliability: the vertically-placed stones outlining the arch are wedged tightly against each other under the weight of the bridge. There is no way this structure can crumble, since there is nowhere for the stones to fall.
Sweet cold water flows from a spring into the basin of a waterhouse. Everywhere along Pelion's roads there are small stone grottos with a faucet. Even the lion has been recruited.
Now that's a giant peacock moth to end all moths. We were very glad to find resting on the grass in an olive orchard. It was there early in the morning and it was still there seven hours later as we returned from our hike, a welcome and a farewell to a day in the hills.
This fellow was barked up the pole by two rather impolite dogs (who fortunately followed us and left him alone). Like any cat caught in great embarrassment, he desperately wished we'd go away.
A fog bank rolls toward land in the early morning. On hot days moisture evaporates from the sea and condenses overnight into fog that reaches the hills and seeps along gorges. The mist usually clears by midday if the sun is working well. There were no ghosts inside it, but I can see why the Greeks pictured Hades as souls of the dead poking around in a fog. It is a place of coldness and confusion.
This very pregnant lady came to the door of our condo and appointed us as her providers, but remained independent between meals. Unlike many stray animals in Greece, she approached us without hesitation or fear. We don't know what awaits her and her kittens, but we're glad our journeys crossed and we could give her affection, if only for a short time.
Seven years ago my husband came to Pelion for the first time with the assumption that it is arid and has no trees. As a German who can't stop working on holiday and who will not be stranded without material for his carvings, he brought with him from Canada a large bag of wood pieces. Then he met a few centuries-old platans in the village of Tsagarada. If trees could laugh...
I don't know the name of this tree, but it seems to live in two seasons, with last fall's berries right next to this spring's blossoms.
Sunrise on the Aegean sea happens very fast, as if the sun is making a running start before slowing down for its daily traverse.
Peter and a tomcat share a moment of male bonding. But not without some disagreement over who has the sexier moustache.
The lovely turquoise waters off Damouchari beach.
Pelion's little narrow gauge-train that could, and did.
On this visit to London I met Benjamin the cat who was drawn to church by the holy spirit - a very warm and comforting holy spirit. No wonder Benjamin raised a howl when I interrupted his devotions. It made for rather interesting acoustics.
Wednesday, November 11, 2015
To End All Wars
At this point it is customary to show your credentials. Russia pulled out of WWI to attack itself and thereby made it much easier on Germany (a bad thing to do), but my grandfather served in the Soviet air force during WWII (a good thing to do), so these contributions even themselves out. This says absolutely nothing about my own virtue or glory. My grandfather taught me how to be systematic and not make empty promises, but I did not defend Moscow in December 1941. My husband, born and raised in Germany, had no hand in starting WWII. We both left behind the countries of our birth because of irreconcilable differences with them, and because Canada really is unique in its benevolence and capacity to bring out the best in people. Still, I don't wear a poppy on this day: as the literal-minded person I am, I must first figure out exactly what it means.
It is common knowledge that as a Russian in WWII my grandfather fought for freedom and against evil. Interestingly enough, so did my husband's grandfather, a fighter pilot with the Wehrmacht - so he was told, so he believed. Everyone wants freedom, everyone knows it's a good thing. The word works miracles, for better and for worse. This magic word is indispensable if you're going to put the burden of an emperor's wayward madness on working grunts and have them destroy working grunts of a different nationality. If your emperor won't give you freedom while you live, you can at least die wishing for it and blaming a foreign land for taking it away. Those other guys had it right: World War I was supposed to end all wars. It didn't, and there will likely be more. The best I can wish for is that we stop dragging freedom into this sordid affair to make it look prettier than it is.
The nature of today's wars is already very different. We may not be dying for our country or even someone else's, but a distant war is never entirely foreign to us. What worries me is the carelessness with which Canada is extending its naive benevolence to victims of the war in Syria. Such promises are not to be made lightly; these people are not an opportunity for us to feel pleased with ourselves. I am afraid Canada is unprepared for such a commitment because I see on each volunteer trip to a First Nations reserve how badly it has failed to understand a different culture already living here, and to coexist with it into the present day. To this day the white man is simply afraid to speak to native folk as to grown people, preferring to treat them as perpetual children to be placated rather than taken seriously. To assume that the newcomers will just melt with gratitude in the warm glow of our benevolence is nothing short of arrogance, a 21st century version of the white man's superiority. I do not know what the practical solution to this is, but I firmly believe that charity begins at home, and must be our priority until the very word "charity" becomes obsolete.
Monday, November 9, 2015
Darla of the Foggy Raincoast
Darla has the most beautiful eyes, and a quiet dignity about her which some might call shyness. She is gentle and loving, and her many children have grown up to be like her. Perhaps this is why they are so highly prized and why she was left to have many litters of puppies until her owner made the decision to have her spayed. She lives on the Ahousaht First Nations reserve on Flores island off the Pacific coast, a place of rare and wild natural beauty. The very idea of owning and keeping animals is alien to people who had a deep bond with nature before the advent of the white man, but it is here to stay, and the way the Ahousaht community relate to the animals in their care is changing. There is a growing understanding that dogs and cats are as vulnerable as people, not part of wild nature that must be left alone to follow its wisdom. Only a few days before the Canadian Animal Assistance Team arrived in Ahousaht for its fourth makeshift clinic here, Darla's owner was one of the first to come to the rescue of the passengers and crew of the whale watching boat "Leviathan" that capsized not far from Flores island. The community felt deep grief for those who perished and joy for the lives saved. Life here is tough, and precious.
Darla's day at the clinic begins with an exam to make sure she is healthy enough to undergo surgery. Next she is given an injection to make her drowsy and prevent pain before it is sparked off, but as the vigilant mother she is, she resists going to sleep. The drugs win, and sleep gets the better of her. A swatch on her arm is shaved to put in an intravenous catheter, a portal through which she will receive fluids to keep her blood pressure from dropping during surgery. But first it is used for induction, an injection that makes her completely unconscious and unable to feel my instruments and hands as I operate. A tube is placed in her windpipe to make sure she has an airway and to deliver oxygen should she need it. I make a cut in her belly, as small as I can, and remove her ovaries and uterus after tying off the blood vessels that feed them. I close her up, and she is taken to the recovery area where she will be watched as she slowly comes awake. An injection of pain medication is given to keep her comfortable for the next 24 hours, after which she will take this medicine in her food. Her puppies, the last of the children she will raise, were napping blissfully while she went through her transformation. As soon as she is able to get up, she is reunited with them, and her relief is obvious. She stands while they nurse, then watches over them as they eat solid food with ravenous gusto. All four settle into a siesta, the pups to sleep off their lunch and Darla to sleep off her anesthetic. Her remarkably loud snoring is her only unladylike quality.
Late in the afternoon Darla and her pups are taken to the home where she will recover and continue to raise them in warmth of every kind. The first part of her life was spent caring for her children and trusting people to do right by her. People have come through for her, and it is her turn to be loved.
Wednesday, October 28, 2015
Scaredy Cats and the People Who Love Them
One feature of Halloween will always be lost on me: I am incapable of being frightened by animals. Naturally existing animals or their fictional derivatives, it doesn't matter. Spiders, bats, toads and snakes are all invaluable sources of that burst of adrenalin that sends normal people running and shrieking, but I'm afraid all they do for me is send me into a frenzy of dotage: "Oh, look at that cute little spider/snakey/[insert name of hideous and repulsive animal of your choice]." If the animal is not downright venomous or obviously rabid, I will try to pick up and cuddle it. As for mythical creatures like werewolves, well, those are really just people pretending to be animals. What self-respecting wolf goes around grunting and slobbering like that? We know that animals are simply more competent and effective than we are - we know, because we used to be them, - and on Halloween we express our admiration and nostalgia in clumsy and roundabout ways.
Last week I was awakened in the middle of the night by a shaking and quaking of my pillow. My first thought was that I must have imagined it. (We have no pets because we both travel too often.) When the quaking repeated itself, my next thought was that it must be an animal, because my husband was right there and sleeping. It had to be. A normal person would have been scared out of their wits. I know this because everyone I'd told the story assumed that I was scared (which also means I've been mistaken for a normal person). All I thought was, "Cool: an animal. Touching me. Way cool! Let's see who it is." Never mind that it was impossible for an animal to be there. Suspension of disbelief works much better when you're only half awake. I turned around and saw a cat on the windowsill. A fully-grown cat had materialized inside a closed room. I stretched out my hand to let him sniff, and we made contact. I patted the mosquito net to evaluate the size of the hole he'd torn to get inside. But of course there was no hole, and he'd never got in through the window. He wanted out, not in. By now I was awake enough to realize he'd got in through the open balcony door during the daytime, had hidden under the bed as we walked into the apartment, and had lain in wait until the middle of the night. Maybe he was scared, or maybe he'd fallen asleep. Until he decided it was time to pee or eat or return home. I let him out on the balcony and he went back down the way he'd come. One cool cat.
So the stories I find scary never contain animals. And here is the next installment of this week's Halloween Reads from Angela Kulig: www.angelakulig.com/2015/10/halloween-reads-2015-day-two.html
My "Day of the Dead" is among them. Enjoy!www.amazon.com/Day-Dead-Valerie-Albemarle-ebook/dp/B00V5AOW3K/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8
Tuesday, October 27, 2015
Be Very Afraid - or as Much as You'd Like to Be
I don't know what it is about the appeal of Halloween, and that's a good thing: If I knew, it might not work. Which would be a bad thing because I love Halloween, I love to be scared. It seems that we have an organic need for fear as much as for air and water and you-know-what. (Of course I'm talking about coffee, you dirty people!) Our modern lives are built on a foundation of safety. Safety is an expectation, an entitlement, and a cult. But as creatures who evolved by surviving and overcoming danger, it's in our blood to take perverse pleasure in fear. Fear is our friend and our saviour. And in a culture sanitized by safety, we turn to movies and books for our daily allowance of fear.
Especially books, and especially this week. My "Day of the Dead" (appearing tomorrow) is among a number of books featured by the lovely Angela Kulig on her blog. Do check them out. And next time you clean, don't be too pleased about killing the 99.9% of germs. It's the surviving 0.01% you might want to be worried about. Very, very worried... www.angelakulig.com/2015/10/halloween-reads-2015-day-one.html
Friday, October 2, 2015
If I May Ride into the Sunset
Before a difficult surgery yesterday I was fortunate to spend some quiet moments alone with a cat. He snuggled up to me for security and warmth, I snuggled up to him for primal peace that only an animal can give. His purring radiated through me in soft waves and melted away my worries and my very thoughts. There was only the cat and myself in the universe, the two of us oscillating with dumb gratitude for our lives. But since I can't banish thoughts for very long, they came back soon enough. I though about the less healthy animals I had held like this, some on their way to recovery and others at the end of their life's journey. I thought about who would be with me when my turn came to say goodbye to life, and for the first time I gave it serious thought. I knew it would not be my dear husband - I hope not, as he is incapable of being alone. I hope he precedes me, but not because I want to live longer. While I would be devastated to lose him, I have a feral and solitary self I can revert to. He does not. We have no children, and I do not wish to be comforted by strangers. Right then I knew that I wanted to hug an animal close to me as I made my exit. If I am fortunate enough to plan this moment and lucid enough to make this request, if I have enough feeling in my shrivelled skin to delight in the softness of fur, the warmth of a sniffing nose and a tongue grooming my face, I will go out with this kind of flourish. I would like to hope I have earned this privilege.
The surgery went well, and for that I am thankful to the cat. He made my hands steady and cautious, and my purpose bold and brazen. He reminded me that the rest of the world is none of my concern at such moments.
Thursday, June 18, 2015
My new husband and I are back from our European odyssey that included stays at our childhood homes, a wedding and a family reunion, a honeymoon, and making memories that will take many years to process and fully appreciate. Our wedding was on the 70th anniversary of the end of a war in which our grandfathers were tasked with destroying each other by two homicidal madmen playing with tin soldiers. As we are both first-generation Canadians, our visits to the countries of our birth can be a walk through a minefield overgrown with wildflowers. In Germany, I was an enchanted traveller who saw and felt only the beauty and magic of a newly-discovered place. I often felt guilty, and still do, because I will never fully understand my husband's anxiety and sadness over visiting his home village and his relatives. For me it was a place of profound peace among rolling green hills that happened to be blessed with sunny weather during my entire stay. For him, it is the place where he spent his youth watching his mother die slowly of cancer, was plagued for years by a debilitating and painful injury, and fought many battles to acquire an education and a solid job. Maybe one day we will go to Russia together and he will give me a purely lighthearted view of my home; it would be interesting and useful to get such a perspective. There is value in such second-hand innocence.
The London where I grew up and that was the first stop on our journey has changed very little in 37 years; it was probably designed to require little or no change. The streets of London now have chain coffee shops, but the row house where we lived and St Mary Abbots school where I went look about the same; so does Holland Park. Also unchanged are the double-decker buses, and the nuclear simplicity of the British call to order: "Good dog owners pick up after their pet. Bad dog owners don't."
In Moscow people are getting less irritable and more attentive to creature comforts, bureaucracy is becoming simplified, and cars stop at designated crossings to give way to pedestrians. In the twelve days I spent in my childhood home visiting my mother and keeping either the radio or the TV turned on, the US was mentioned maybe twice, maybe three times. Canada, not once. Most political attention was divided between two topics. The first was Iran, its likely already developed nuclear weapons, its once and future empire, and what Russia should do about all this. The other topic was the sanctions imposed by the EU and how they're pushing Russia to become self-sufficient. Cheese was a particularly hot topic. Russians are only beginning to master the production of fine cheeses that are no longer coming from France or Holland or Italy. A radio program invited callers to share their opinions about the cheese embargo. Most callers were patriots who agreed that they could survive without fine imported cheeses, which Europe could take and stuff you-know-where. One man called in and said, "I don't really care for cheese, but I have to eat it, because I like wine, and there are certain kinds of wine that must be accompanied by cheese." Many Russians disapprove of Putin, but not all for the same reason. Some disapprove of him because they think he's cowardly, indecisive, and trying too hard to please the West. These people wish he'd sent real troops into the Ukraine for real, thereby preventing the bloodbath and the flack Russia is getting for it. A propos freedom of speech, I watched a movie named "Leviathan" that was released in cinemas in Russia last year with the abundant swearing bleeped out but otherwise uncensored. Filming was funded partly by the Russian Ministry of Culture. It's somewhat like a French existentialist movie except that the existentialism is of the glum and despondent Russian variety. What amazed me was how the movie took a swipe at corruption and hypocrisy inside the Russian Orthodox Church. This would be like getting away with a swipe at the Communist Party during, say, the 70s.
Then it was on to Germany for me, starting with a tour of Köln, then visits to some towns on the Rhine and Mosel prior to our wedding in my husband's home village. The castles and wines of the Rhine get plenty of coverage, but the smaller and slower river Mosel that meets the Rhine at the "German Corner" does not get many visitors any more. Most of them were Germans to begin with, and now they have less money for travel. Poor people are not readily obvious, they tend to hide from sight because poverty is embarrassing. However, camping in RVs on riverbanks is becoming popular, so a segment of people do have money. Of the castles we saw, Burg Eltz stands out in my memory (as well as on its rocky hill) for its harmony with nature. It is a fairytale vision reached after a walk through a forest that starts in the town of Moselkern. We met all of two people on our walk through this town from the train station, although there were several guesthouses, suggesting that this was once a tourist destination. This is not a ghost town, but a town of ghost guesthouses. We met Moritz and Paulchen, two solid cats cherished by their owner if not by each other. (We did see one or two raggedy feral cats in Germany; in Italy there were many more.) In Moselkern there is an abandoned 19th century wool mill by the stream, and an organization with enough money wants to restore it rather than letting it get torn down. I hope they succeed; an old factory is very romantic. Their endeavour is helped by the fact that real estate here is not worth very much. In this little haven on Mosel only tourists can be truly free of cares; the place is romantic only for them. We visited a winery and bought some lovely wine we meant to keep for the wedding but consumed much sooner, and learned from the owner about the heavy bureaucratic and tax burdens carried by small business owners. Waiting for the train and watching the sunset, we met two enormous swans and two impossibly cute Egyptian geese grazing on the lush grass on the bank of the river, the old and the new inhabitants of Moselkern. Globalization is hard at work in the animal kingdom.
Each castle in Germany is unique, but they all have one thing in common. A walk through the chambers (for "rooms" seems too modern a word) of any castle puts a chill into the core of your being that stays there for the rest of the day. Bring something warm even on a summer day. These places were once alive, and never thought they would become museums. The wood did not smell of dry rot as it does now, nor the stones of dust. People who lived here put up with much of what we consider unacceptable. They slept in sitting positions, afraid to resemble corpses if they lay down, or unable to pull enough air into their frail lungs in this position, and died from illness and wars in numbers that were often very high for their time. It takes quite a bit of arrogance topped with quite a bit of ignorance to claim that before our century no war had swept and decimated the entire known world. (Consider The Thirty Years' War.) But that's all over now, and we know better. We have reached the pinnacle of civilization after a very long climb; some of the terrain was so shitty we wonder how people could live there. We are the party of climbers that made it, through no virtue of our own, only because we were born at the right time. We are the incredibly lucky, the redeemed, the washed every day with warm water and soap, the entitled to safety and happiness, and these castles are part of our heritage.
After the wedding we flew to Italy to imbue the lightness and warmth. Creative people go to Italy because the country is supposed to inspire them to create. I have no idea how writers manage to write there. In all my time in Italy I was hard-pressed to come up with words for so much as a journal, never mind ideas or sketches for a new story. The place took me over. It made me look, listen, smell and taste, but wouldn't let me talk back. The scent of white acacia followed us from Liguria where we worked on a farm tending grapes and olive trees, to the island of Elba self-exiled from the mainstream tourist circuit, then to the gardens on the outskirts of Florence, and finally back to northwestern Germany where spring arrived after two months of our travels. In Pisa we took refuge from the heat and crowds in a botanical garden where pond turtles flocked to us in expectation of food. Not far from Cinque Terre in Liguria is the little town of Montemarcello on top of a hill overlooking the Gulf of Poets. (Ha ha, very funny. You're supposed to write poetry as well as prose.) Montemarcello does not have world heritage status (that part of Italy has run out of quotas), so its narrow streets are empty of tourists. The hillside is covered by a forest of umbrella pines, chestnuts, and white acacias, the ground bulldozed by boars who root for nuts and wild onion bulbs by night and sleep in the thicket by day. In places there are mud puddles with imprints of fur from the boars' bellies where they lay to cool off. At the foot of this hill the river Magra meets the sea, and in the distance, behind the heat and dust rising from the fields, the Apuan Alps rise like petrified clouds of gray and pink. The white patches on their slopes are not snow but the marble quarries of Carrara. The river valley is prone to flooding and drained by a system of channels straight as runways; swallows whistle the call of summer as they swoop back and forth along the channels in their hunt for insects. The banks are overgrown with wild yellow irises, and the water is home to a strange species that look for all the world like flying fish. They move in perfect wedge formations, skimming the surface of the water for food which they slurp up with their gaping mouths; you hear them before you see them. We watched two such formations work their way from opposite directions and meet head-on. They startled themselves terribly, all fish jolting in unison and producing a rustle and shimmer in the water. Not a moment later they re-grouped and swam off in one large flotilla. I don't know if this is a native or a so-called invasive species, and if the latter, how it came to be here. The canals are also home to many coypu, animals that look like large guinea pigs with full white mustaches and penguin feet. These are definitely immigrants from South America. Despite their decent number, they are not hunted here. The cuteness factor is too strong, and the harm they do, if any, is not yet perceptible.
On Elba we stayed in a little house in a village with a meadow nearby, and after dark we listened to nightingales and walked through galaxies of tiny stars coming into being and fading in momentary bursts of white light: fireflies. These fireflies are different from the ones on the mainland; those have smaller and greener lights with a steady glow. The water that washes Elba is cold and very clean, but not too cold to swim in even in mid-May. A jellyfish stung my arm during one such swim; at first it felt like the sting of a wasp, but the salty water soon pulled out the venom. The mark it left was the shape of a large plump strawberry with the "seeds" being red spots from the jelly's tentacles; they welted up right away and stayed red for a few days, but caused little bother. I have since googled this out and found that only a fried egg jellyfish could make such a sting pattern. Funny how I didn't see this creature in the water; it is not as transparent as other jellies. Unfortunately, the mark it made on me has almost faded now. I would have liked to keep this accidental tattoo.
There is a great variety of coastal terrains on Elba. Behind Portoferraio the banks of the island are very steep, with a beach of dazzling white pebbles below. In Sant'Andrea fantastical rock formations make up moonscapes on the shore of the sea. The stone looks as if it's made of crushed granite, with little perfectly rectangular inclusions that sparkle in the sun. Much tectonic grinding and mixing must have gone into the making of these rockscapes. Their surface is so smooth you could roll a ball over it, but not for any distance: they are arranged like whalebacks, with multiple chasms between the undulations. The cliffs that tower above are overgrown with hanging vines of bright magenta flowers. On the opposite side of the island, between Rio Marina and Cavo, there is a beach of shimmering black sand that ends in an outcropping of plum-purple rocks and the remains of a smeltery that could be very old. The mouth of an abandoned mine shaft looks like a small cave, and the rocks near it are frosted with sulphur-yellow and lime-green. We could find no seaweed or animals in the water off this beach; maybe the metals that make its rocks so beautiful are leaching into the sea and keeping living things away.
After Elba we came to Florence which I am hard-pressed to describe because of the multitudes of people it hosts even during "low" season. I am too easily distracted by people, by their appearance and their voices and by what they might be saying in languages I don't understand. Their presence takes priority, and I am unable to tune it out even in the face of the most magnificent works of the Renaissance. But I will not forget the evening on the river Arno when the sun's rays poured from under a solid gray cloud whose lower border was a perfectly straight line. And I will not forget our walk along Guelfa street (the name delighted me with its resemblance to my alma mater) when the buildings ahead of us became steeped in severe orange light. We turned around and saw the setting sun touching down on the road in the distance - at the vanishing point. We had found ourselves on this street unimportant by Florentine standards (although we seek out just such streets) in the year and on the day and at the moment the sun was to set in the narrow gully between the houses.
After Florence our paths diverged for a week. My husband flew back to Germany to spend more time with family and childhood friends while I (who speak hardly any German and feel like a deaf-mute if smiling idiot at such gatherings) did the slow crawl northward by train. I stayed at places he'd been to before, but that were new to me. There is a region of Italy around Lago Maggiore and to the east that, together with the Alps and the south of Bavaria, makes up the land of Rhaetia. This was once sort of a country, and it sort of still is. Here the deepest past, or what we call pre-history, lies closer to the surface than in other parts of Europe. Bicycling through a chestnut forest outside the town of Arona on Lago Maggiore, I came upon a lake that must be very old indeed. Now it is overgrowing with rushes and water lilies. Near this lake archaeologists found remains of the Golasecca culture: a boat made of a hollowed-out tree, pots, and cart wheels. The time interval indicated on the plaque was XV-VIII century B.C. What's a mere seven hundred years' difference, if history hasn't yet started? As a linguist and a writer I wished these people could have left more written records of their lives. Why didn't they describe themselves, draw attention to themselves? Well, they did. "For Latumaros and for Sapsuta, Naxian wine." It doesn't get more specific than that. No carrying on about feelings here.
My journey on the red train over the Bernina Pass was for the most part shrouded in fog; only toward Chur did the sky become clear and the sun come out. I never saw more than a small corner of Lake Poschiavo from the wuthering heights of the railway above it, and I saw nothing at all of the Alpine peaks and glaciers. I didn't mind. There could have been anything in that mist. Fog conceals infinite possibilities, including another pilgrimage to this place sometime in the future. Out of the fog emerged names of stations, primal and feral names that sent a shiver down my spine. Scuol-Tarasp. Morteratsch. Bonaduz. Filisur. They are not pretty names, not the champagne-and-roses kind of romantic. They are almost menacing in their indifference to being admired, approved of. Maybe so were the people who once lived here. Mountains put a limit on silliness, gratuitous change, and the kind of ambition and indulgence you can get away with on the plains.
On the other side of the Alps my journey along the Romantic Street began in the unannounced and uncelebrated little town of Feldkirch. Inside the city walls is a building with a fresco of the founding and ruling fathers of the town, and the date 1218. Next to this building is a jewelry/curiosity shop displaying a fossilized sea lilly about 420 million years old. On a hilltop above the town is a wildlife park where I saw my first wild boars. Two of these proud and highly intelligent animals lay side by side on straw; they have nothing to do but lie about and eat. On the next morning I took a rather smelly diesel train named alex across Bavaria. In Landsberg I watched a trout propel itself into the air out of the swift river Lech, and wiggle frantically before flopping back into the water. He must have been doing it for sheer fun; there were no insects above the water to catch. A side channel of the Lech runs through the old city and washes the foundations of its houses much like a canal in Venice. That evening I arrived in the little town of Harburg after a thunderstorm that had driven people indoors. It was strange, in a brothers Grimm fairytale sort of way, to walk through an empty medieval town with a robust stone bridge over the quiet river. A multitude of snails had crawled out onto the paths, the large fat variety of edible snails once brought from France and accidentally set free. People slowly re-emerged from their houses as the evening sun came out, and on a walk to the other side of the Wörnitz river in search of sustenance I discovered a milk pavilion. A local farmer leaves fresh milk in the refrigerator, and a coin-operated dispensing machine pours out as much or as little as you pay for, into a bottle you bring with you. It tasted much like milk did in my childhood; but that was still warm from the cow. Rothenburg ob der Tauber, my next stop, gifted me with two surprises bordering on miracles. Although it is a large and very well-advertised city on the Romantic Street, the tourists on that day had all gravitated to the centre with its gingerbread houses and gilded shop signs, leaving the walkways along the walls and the spacious circular hospital tower empty. The next wonder was ten minutes of alone time with the Holy Blood altar by Tilman Riemenschneider, a story carved from lime wood that glows golden. Rothenburg is surrounded by forests and meadows, steeped in rural peace that begins right outside the city walls. In Ochsenfurt, a much smaller town and not on the official Romantic map, I got locked inside the City Hall after following the tourist brochure's advice to look at the rooms. Most of the rooms have been modernized, but two looked like they haven't changed in a few hundred years. The building is secular and mischievous. The painting on one of the ceiling beams shows a plump cherub peeing into a pot that a nymph is holding up for him. The front door was unlocked for me by a friendly clerk who was the second person to ask if I had an appointment with the mayor. Even with my broken German, that scenario must have seemed more likely than simply going in to gawk. From Ochsenfurt I travelled to my husband's home village for a final stopover before our flight back to Canada. My last swim in Europe was in the chilly river Ruhr at the spot where my husband and his brother learned to swim some forty years ago. Downstream from a threshold of rocks the river deepens and the current quickens, bouncing you along for a few giddy seconds.
Many national stereotypes hold true, others are melting away together with borders. Both in Germany and in Italy people are under considerable strain to find work, pay taxes, and navigate an increasingly elaborate bureaucracy. England is part of the EU, but somehow also apart, somehow above it all. Russia is not part of anything and does not aspire to be, but its citizens are becoming 1920s' Europeans in their tastes and expectations, and their TV programs are carbon copies of American reality TV. A lot of Europeans smoke a lot. Italians can be very passionate in their speech, but otherwise they are not easily rattled. Most are friendly and helpful if laconic, but the occasional few are capable of glacial indifference if they don't have an answer to your question or don't wish to give one. Germans, by contrast, vibrate with a sense of duty to respond to a traveller's needs, and seem deeply if silently bothered if they are unable to do so to their own satisfaction. In this they are by far the more emotional nation. Of course there are regional differences. Bavarians, who were already gathering strawberries in late May, are prosperous, relaxed, and seem happy. Sauerlanders (my husband's tribe) are sour from the cold foggy weather and from interaction with bureaucrats who are themselves sour because the government sent them here. Two thousand years ago these folk got sour enough to destroy three Roman legions, all of twenty thousand men, stumbling through the dense forest under a pouring rain to spread the empire eastward. Rome was never the same after that. And who knows what the rest of Europe, including Russia, would be like without that battle.
If Germans take comfort in duty, Italians place great trust in reflexes, theirs and yours. Car drivers trust other car drivers, bicyclists trust car drivers. Miraculously, this works more often than not. Oncoming drivers trust that you will react when their car comes round the bend with half of its ass in your lane. And, you do react. You discover in yourself neuronal agility that lies dormant and unused in more civilized driving conditions. This is absolutely unacceptable, exasperating, it will make you sweat proverbial bullets, and at the end of the day (or the month, or the year) you might just love these people for forcing you into excellence bordering on heroism. The only unbreakable traffic rule in Italy is, Can the Other Driver See You? If they can, proceed with whatever you must do. Because if you don't, someone else will, and so on until the second coming, or until you're honked and jostled into proceeding. Italians adore their vintage Fiat 500s, and well they should. If you think the new Fiat is small, take a look at one sitting beside the original model. There is a vintage Fiat 500 club on Elba, and well there should be: the lovable little buggers were made for just such terrain. These "antique" cars are super-lightweight and innocent in both appearance and function. Unlike the modern computers on wheels whose mission is to render their drivers coddled and helpless, these machines can be opened up, studied, understood, loved, cared for, and repaired. A 50 year-old Fiat station wagon put our brand-new rental Chevy Spark to shame on a descent of an Elban mountain road. But why should that be surprising? We're the ones who demand constant re-invention of the wheel.


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"Keep your eyes on the road, your hands upon the wheel."
OPINION: Another piece of good advice for avoiding road accidents is to work out where you want to go, and how to get there, before you turn on the ignition. The same holds true for avoiding political stuff-ups.
After the Government drafted legislation restricting the use of cellphones in cars this year it soon became clear it had set off without adequate preparation.
Getting clarification on what the law change actually meant was tortuous.
Last week, The Dominion Post asked the Transport Ministry whether it would illegal from November to use mobile phones as satellite navigation aids in cars.
The initial response from spokesman John Summers was confusing and ambiguous. But pressed for clarification, Mr Summers consulted colleagues and came back with a clear answer:
"You asked whether a driver can look at a navigation system on a mobile phone even it is securely mounted. The answer is to this is no, not while driving.
"Under the Road User Amendment Rule 2009, you can use a mobile phone held in a cradle (including those that double as a GPS device) while driving but only to make, receive or terminate a phone call. You cannot use them in any other way such as reading a GPS map, reading email, or consulting an electronic diary."
I would contend that was a sensible and considered position, and that Transport Minister Steven Joyce's decision yesterday to cave in from pressure from gadget-fans and amend the rule was a mistake.
Mr Joyce said it was not the intent of the rule to make it illegal for motorists to use the satellite navigation or music functions of their cellphones, "provided these are mounted in the vehicle and are manipulated infrequently".
He met with officials and instructed them to "amend the rule accordingly".
Mr Joyce appears to have thereby explicitly sanctioned people taking their eyes off the road and looking at instructions on their mobile phone, and tinkering with it, while their vehicle is in motion.
That is arguably more dangerous than people using unmounted cellphones to answer calls, the problem the rule change was originally designed to tackle.
Trying to redraft the rule in a way that does explicitly condone careless driving will be an administrative headache.
How long does Mr Joyce believe it would be safe for people to take their eyes off the road? Say it takes 2 seconds to absorb the visual information from a smartphone doubling as a SatNav. In that time a car travelling at 50km will travel 27 metres.
That could be the two seconds during which a child steps out in front of the vehicle.
As 2degrees chief executive Eric Hertz recently found out at an intersection in Auckland, even "glancing" at a SatNav phone while driving even at low speeds is a recipe for "fender benders".
Sure, there are lots of potential distractions when driving, many of them little to do with technology. But Mr Joyce is nevertheless sending out a dangerous message.
- The Dominion Post
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MathStats Commencement Breakfast
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A few years ago I bought Iron Maiden's fifteenth studio album, The Final Frontier. I used to listen to it while driving my car. 114 more words
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This month I have been largely listening to metal, because there are times when one simply must thrash. Ok, so I'm also researching a top ten thrash albums piece and have just finished reading part 2 of the superb… 327 more words
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Even though Iron Maiden: Legacy of the Beast was announced for early June, it has just been soft launched in Malaysia. The game brings the world of Iron Maiden, the English Rock Band, to life. 304 more words
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Hoe kan een metalhead zijn vakantie beter inzetten dan met een weekend vol bier en heavy metal? Dessel maakte zich weer klaar voor het hardste festival van het land. 1,437 more words
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The title of the song is taken from Mark Antony's famous "friends, Romans, countrymen" speech, addressing the crowd of Romans after Caesar's murder in Julius Caesar… 110 more words


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Michael Maize Celebrity Watchlist
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... 10mg doses
Nabilone - love it but developed tolerance. What can I do if cesamet is no longer effective even at?
- Posted:
- 6 Jul 2012 by puppy love
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- cesamet, fibromyalgia, nabilone, tolerance
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Its name is also called "nabilone".
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2011 Year in Review: Herd in Review
A look back at some of the most significant people moves of 2011
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Home > Restaurants >
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Nice Matin
201 W. 79th St., New York, NY, 10024
at Amsterdam Ave.
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French on the West Side
By Parks on 8/10/2003
Nice Matin was quite pleasant. The service, however, was rushed. The crab cake was meaty but too many kids in the afternoon could be a problem for a couple who wanted a bit of romance. I prefer the Riveria but on the West Side this is a good substitute.
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252 out of 457 people found this review helpful.
not worth getting sick over
By froggy on 8/4/2003
When Nice Matin initially opened, I had a very good brunch. The french fries were especially delicious. However, the second time I visited, the quality deteriorated. I got food poisoning from the steak frites. When I sent back the steak, the chef said there was nothing wrong with it. However, it smelled like bad meat, tasted like bad meat, and gave me diarrhea for two days. It was about 100 degrees outside, but that is no excuse. It seems that the quality worsened once the restaurant extended operating hours. Fortunately, Marseille in hell's kitchen (same owners, but different chef) has kept its standards higher and remains consistent.
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243 out of 454 people found this review helpful.
Another interesting new westside place worth the trip
By Baratti on 5/22/2003
While hardly a "destination" restaurant, it is worth a special trip if you don't live in the neighborhood. Did not quite remind me of the French Riviera, but it was more comfortable European bistro than Upper westside. On the noisy side but conversation is still possible. Small but thoughtfully chosen wine list with interesting options from around the world. On the recommendation of an owner, we tried an incredible early 1990s Rioja. We started with a salad and pissaladiere. Enjoyed the salad, not outstanding but well balanced flavors. Pissaladiere was a sad interpretation of a pizza but had some interesting flavor combinations. My fiance had the steak and frites - which were better than average. Frites were crisp and disappeared before the steak. Highly recommend the salmon. Perfectly cooked, seasoned (not too salty like most places) and complemented with wonderfully grilled vegies. While it is an obvious menu item, Nice Matin manages to make it interesting without trying too hard.
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197 out of 379 people found this review helpful.
Impressive Newcomer
By colpo on 5/21/2003
From the evening's outset, a proper tone was set here. The male bartender was friendly and communicative with wine suggestions. The space itself is exceedingly handsome. All of the dishes ordered by the four of us, with no duplicates, were exceptional, including the sardines starter, the sea bass main, and the tarte tatin. There was a real "feel" for the provencal-style food here, not a french-by-the-numbers job a la "Bicyclette"/Columbus. Highly recommended.
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241 out of 438 people found this review helpful.
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Thursday, April 23, 2009
4 Comments | Copyright: IANS
Mumbai, April 23 (IANS) Having recovered almost fully from her knee surgery, Lata Mangeshkar will be back to recording songs from next month. Before that she will participate in her father Pandit Dinanath Mangeshkar's death anniversary event.
'I recently got the Radio Mirchi lifetime achievement award. But I was unable to attend. They very kindly came home and gave it to me. But attending the function for my father is something I'd never want to miss,' Lata told IANS.
The legendary singer will attend the function Friday in Pune.
Every year a handful of distinguished artistes are honoured in Pune for their contribution to society. A novel addition to this years' Pandit Dinanath Mangeshkar award would be trophies to cops who fought terrorists on 26/11.
Lata refused to reveal names of composers who have been waiting patiently for her to recover fully; she says she has become more choosy about songs.
'I was always choosy about what I sing. Now I've to be even more particular. The language of the songs doesn't matter. It could be Hindi, Bengali or Marathi. But I've to be convinced about singing them,' Lata said.
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The son of a murder suspect and the son's former girlfriend gave slightly differing accounts in court Wednesday of the moments before and after a fatal shooting outside the suspect's home.
Leland Burns, 57, of Rockfield, is on trial for murder and tampering with physical evidence. He is charged in connection with the death of 20-year-old Casey Olmsted, who was shot outside Burns' residence at 2514 Galloway Mill Road in the late hours of Oct. 26, 2009. Olmsted was pronounced dead the following day at The Medical Center.
Patrick Burns, Leland's 19-year-old son, testified for the prosecution Wednesday in Warren Circuit Court, taking jurors through a series of hostile text messages he exchanged with Olmsted.
Texts from Olmsted alluded to a sexual relationship he had with Latasha Sampson, Patrick Burns' former girlfriend who was living with the Burnses at the time.
Sampson and Patrick Burns shared a cellphone, and Sampson testified Wednesday during questioning from Warren County Commonwealth's Attorney Chris Cohron that she accepted a friend request from Olmsted on Myspace about a week before the shooting.
On the night of Oct. 26, 2009, Olmsted sent a text to the cellphone shared by Sampson and Patrick Burns asking for Sampson. An hourlong texting exchange grew heated, with threats and obscenities traded back and forth.
Sampson typed the last text to come from Burns' phone, he said, and it urged Olmsted to "drop it," warning him not to come to the Burnses' house or he would get shot. Olmsted replied with two messages - the first said he was coming over and the second, sent at 10:15 p.m. Oct. 26, 2009, said, "Shoot me."
Olmsted arrives; argument resumes
Minutes after the last text message, Olmsted pulled into the Burnses' driveway in a Honda Civic registered to his father, Ken Casey, then backed out and stopped in the middle of Galloway Mill Road in front of the home, according to testimony.
Patrick Burns, realizing that Olmsted might be outside, said he picked up a .40-caliber Glock handgun before setting off toward the front porch.
"I start walking toward the door. … My mom sees the gun in my hand and she stops me before I get to the door," Patrick Burns said.
Moments later, Leland Burns took a .45-caliber handgun out of a drawer in the kitchen area and went outside. Patrick Burns said he heard three or four shots, then saw his father return inside and set the gun on the kitchen table.
Differences emerge in testimony
Patrick Burns said he did not recall his father speaking after the shots were fired, but Sampson gave a different account of the immediate aftermath during her testimony.
Sampson, who testified before Patrick Burns did, told jurors that after the shots were fired, Leland Burns came back inside, closed the door and talked to her.
"He asked me if I thought they would come back and I told him I didn't think so," Sampson said. "He kept asking me if they'd come back."
Sampson said she was worried there were other people in the car with Olmsted. She testified that she spoke to Olmsted over the phone shortly before he arrived and that she heard voices in the background.
Another difference in their accounts concerned the sex Olmsted had with Sampson.
Sampson denied ever telling Patrick Burns that Olmsted raped her, but when Patrick Burns was questioned by Leland Burns' attorney, Brad Coffman of Bowling Green, he said that Sampson claimed to him that she had been raped by Olmsted.
After Olmsted was struck by a bullet, the car he was in traveled 253 feet on Galloway Mill Road before coming to a stop off the shoulder.
Sampson and the Burns family were notified minutes later by Jerelyn Muth that a car had been involved in an accident. Muth, who was driving home from work in Simpson County that night, said she came upon the Honda Civic and saw a man inside slumped against the driver's side window.
Sampson testified that she realized it was Olmsted in the car when his cellphone fell out of his pocket as they were leaning him back. Sampson also said she noticed two additional cellphones in the back of the car, adding to her belief there were other people with Olmsted earlier.
No other witnesses, including numerous law enforcement officials, testified seeing or collecting any cellphones from the car other than the one belonging to Olmsted.
Parade of law enforcement, expert witnesses testify
Four members of state police Post 3 in Bowling Green and a KSP firearms examiner were among the experts who testified about their actions during the investigation.
KSP Trooper Brad Bowles was the first law enforcement officer who arrived at the scene, having been called to respond to what he initially believed was a single-vehicle accident.
As paramedics treated Olmsted, Bowles said Leland Burns was peering over their shoulders to the point of interfering with their work, even after he was asked to stand back.
"I made a point to roughly address Mr. Burns and ordered him to back away at that point," Bowles said.
A volunteer firefighter at the scene indicated to Bowles that Leland Burns was peering out at the scene from behind a tree in the woods about 50 feet from the vehicle. Bowles was informed a short time later by one of his supervisors that Olmsted had been shot, and detectives would be responding to the scene.
KSP Detectives Tim Adams, Chad Winn and Brad Stevenson also testified about their roles in the case.
Adams, the lead detective, interviewed Leland's wife, Mary Burns, at the scene, assisted investigators in looking for bullets and shell casings at the scene and arranged for Olmsted's car and cellphone to be processed as evidence.
During cross-examination from Coffman, Adams was asked how he could be sure there was no one in the car with Olmsted at the time of the shooting. Adams said he spoke with relatives and friends of Olmsted and saw several personal items in the passenger and back seats.
"There's no evidence to support that anybody ran off," Adams said.
Winn helped process the crime scene and allowed Leland Burns inside the house to assist in the search for the suspected murder weapon, which authorities had spent hours trying to find. At a suggestion from Burns, Winn found the .45-caliber handgun in a boot under the kitchen table around 11:15 a.m. Oct. 27, 2009, the detective said.
Winn said he did not know how the gun got into the boot when questioned by Coffman.
Stevenson spoke about recovering three bullets found in a tree across from the Burns' front porch, along with three shell casings found in the front porch area. Stevenson did not recall at what angle the bullets entered the tree and did not recall them being examined by a ballistics expert.
Jeffrey Doyle, a firearms examiner for the KSP, determined through tests that the bullet recovered from Olmsted's body was shot from the .45-caliber pistol discovered in the Burnses' home.
Olmsted's father testifies
A professor at Hopkinsville Community College, Ken Casey spent Oct. 26, 2009, celebrating his birthday and traveling to Louisville with his family.
Casey returned to the Bowling Green house where he lived with his wife and Olmsted. Casey said he went to bed and was unaware that his son had taken his Honda Civic to the Burnses' residence that night.
Questioned by Cohron, Casey said he was en route to work on the morning of Oct. 27, 2009, when he was contacted by the KSP and notified of his son's death.
Under cross-examination, Casey said that his son's license was suspended, he did not ask to drive the Honda that night and Casey Olmsted had no keys to the car.
Testimony is scheduled to resume today.


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This is my #1 fav reality crime show! No smarmy voiceovers, don't know the outcome from the getgo, actual pics with reenactment, and usually is the least likeliest suspect. Not always though, and that irks me.
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The Senate on Wednesday passed a bill sponsored by Senator Lamar Alexander (R-Tn.) that would lower student loan interest rates for 200,000 Tennesseans going to college this fall.
Rates on all new undergraduate loans taken out this year since July 1 will be 3.86 percent, cutting the current rate nearly in half.
Senator Alexander, the senior Republican on the U.S. Senate education committee and former secretary of education, said, "This permanent, market-based plan makes students' loans cheaper, simpler and more certain. It ends the annual game of Congress playing politics with student loan interest rates at the expense of students planning their futures."
The Bipartisan Student Loan Certainty Act, sponsored by a bipartisan group of senators including Alexander and Joe Manchin (D-W.V.), Richard Burr (R-N.C.), Angus King (I-Me.), Tom Coburn (R-Ok.), Tom Carper (D-De.), Tom Harkin (D-Ia.), and Dick Durbin (D-Il.), will lower rates immediately for all students this year from the current rates of 6.8 and 7.9 percent and will tie rates on all new loans to the market.
Senator Alexander said, "This plan is fair to taxpayers and fair to students. It's realistic because it's market-based, which means it's based on what it costs the government to borrow money. And the rates are fixed for the life of the loan, which provides certainty to students and parents."
The Bipartisan Student Loan Certainty Act:
The bill ties rates to the government's 10-year borrowing cost, specifically the yield on the last auction before June of each year of the U.S. Treasury 10-year Note. This year, that yield is 1.81. The rates for undergraduate loans are the 10-year Note plus 2.05 percentage points—an addition to cover costs of defaults, collections, deferments, forgiveness, and delinquency. So, this year, all undergraduate rates would be 3.86. Undergraduate rates are also capped at 8.25, so students will never have to pay more than 8.25 percent interest on their loans.
The rates for graduate Stafford loans are the 10-year Note plus 3.6 percentage points. So, this year, those rates will be 5.41 percent. They are capped at 9.5 percent.
Rates on PLUS loans to parents and graduate students will be the 10-year Note plus 4.6 percentage points. This year, those rates will be 6.41 percent. They are capped at 10.5 percent.
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Michigan State University's Master of Arts (M.A.) in Program Evaluation prepares professionals for a career in program evaluation. Specialists in this rapidly growing field are in high demand, and our program provides both the theoretical knowledge and real-world experience to make our students successful.
The M.A. in Program Evaluation is a 37-credit program that can be completed in 16 months. All courses are delivered entirely online by accomplished and respected evaluation professionals. As a student in this program, you'll consult with faculty, exchange ideas with classmates, and complete knowledge and skill-building activities—all at locations and hours that are most convenient for you. Also as part of your coursework, you will complete a two-semester supervised practical application course; you'll work alongside evaluation practitioners in a professional evaluation setting to gain first-hand experience applying your learning from prior classes. Most importantly, in the end, you will have developed the skills needed to start a successful evaluation career in local, state, and federal agencies, as well as the private sector.
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