A few blogs back, I tried to answer a person's query about what a surgeon thought about before an operation. Later, it occurred to me that I had one experience that was funny to the patient and me too.
I used to play golf occasionally with a local man, who I'll call Al. He was a nice guy and a good golfer. Al was a much better golfer than I was, but we enjoyed the game together. Al's wife was also a good athlete, and I could barely beat her in a tennis match.
Well, one day Al shows up in my office as a patient. He had a good dose of every neurosurgeon's dream case, a classic ruptured disc in his neck. Al's was textbook in every way. Patients such as this always have a great result, and I was pleased that Al would be happy with my treatment. So we put Al in the hospital, ran a confirmatory test, and got him on the surgical schedule.
The evening before he was to have his operation, it occurred to me that neither Al or his wife had ever seen me do anything but play golf or tennis. I always struggled to beat his wife, and I never came close to matching Al's golf scores. I dropped by Al's hospital room as was my routine on pre-op patients. While there, I said, "Al, I want you to know that I do this operation a whole lot better than I play golf". He got a kick out of that, and he got the expected good result.
27 March 2006
26 March 2006
Comfortable? Uncomfortable?
More and more, it seems that I hear people express whether or not they are "comfortable" doing this or that. Just who guarantees that we are all on this earth to be "comfortable"?
In past years, I told more than one doctor out in the boonies what I thought he should do with a patient before shipping them down the road to me. This usually takes place in the middle of the night with the patient being gravely ill or injured. The doctor is at home, and the nurse from an outlying hospital has called him. He doesn't want to get up, take care that the patient is in as good shape that he can be, before transferring him. This used to be especially true with children who had been injured. Sometimes a blood transfusion begun before transfer can be the difference between life and death in a kid with a broken leg, etc.
Of course, this means that old sleepy head has to rise up, start the transfusion, actually see the patient, etc. Now, we are talking out in the boonies ERs here, not at University City ER. When I used to hear, "I'm not comfortable doing this or that". It didn't make a flying flip to me about the person's comfort. I let them know quickly that their level of comfort was way down my list of things about which to worry. If they had wanted comfort, then selling shoes or something would be right down their alley.
Just a thought on today's ideas put forth by many people, not just doctors.
In past years, I told more than one doctor out in the boonies what I thought he should do with a patient before shipping them down the road to me. This usually takes place in the middle of the night with the patient being gravely ill or injured. The doctor is at home, and the nurse from an outlying hospital has called him. He doesn't want to get up, take care that the patient is in as good shape that he can be, before transferring him. This used to be especially true with children who had been injured. Sometimes a blood transfusion begun before transfer can be the difference between life and death in a kid with a broken leg, etc.
Of course, this means that old sleepy head has to rise up, start the transfusion, actually see the patient, etc. Now, we are talking out in the boonies ERs here, not at University City ER. When I used to hear, "I'm not comfortable doing this or that". It didn't make a flying flip to me about the person's comfort. I let them know quickly that their level of comfort was way down my list of things about which to worry. If they had wanted comfort, then selling shoes or something would be right down their alley.
Just a thought on today's ideas put forth by many people, not just doctors.
24 March 2006
Ashby
One of my lifelong friends was a guy who I'll call Ashby. He was a few months younger, but we grew up from toddlerhood to adulthood being friends. Ashby was a bloody genius in things mechanical, although in his early school years, it was thought he might be "slow". Turns out the kid couldn't read or write because he was half blind. Some glasses cured that problem, and then he took off.
By the time we hit high school, we were into some major adventures. Ashby could hot wire any motor, so we used to take a lot of unauthorized rides in his mother's black Cadillac or his dad's big old Buick. You'd be surprised at how the girls were impressed by those cars.
By the time we got to chemistry in high school, Ashby had a bee in his bonnet to make some gunpowder. The recipe was in the encyclopedia. So many parts sulfur, so many parts potassium nitrate, and so many parts charcoal. It was all available at the drug store. We mixed it up in a dish pan with a wooden spoon. OK. So what do you do with this dish pan of gunpowder? Well. You make a bomb. That's right, a bomb.
Now we weren't gangsters, but how do you know if you've made gunpowder unless it blows up. A man who lived across the street from worked for a metal pipe company, so getting a foot long 3 inch diameter pipe threaded on both ends and caps to screw on it wasn't hard. We took this and drilled a hole in the side near one end for a fuse port. The plan was to fill the pipe with gunpowder, have a cherry bomb inside with the fuse through the small hole, and cap it after compression with a ball bat. Then we would dig a hole, lean the pipe against the side, and place a railroad fusee so that it would burn down, light the fuse and WHAMOO!
OK. Where to dig the hole? Well, that brings up another topic. One that is likely long ago gone. High school fraternities and sororities were popular in the 40s and 50s. Ashby and I belonged to one. Our organization had rented a former night club outside of town that was a great place for parties and meetings. While close to the highway, it sat on the front of a huge wooded area that was totally wild. The terrain was a bit rolling, so we had a natural barrier between us and the "hole".
On a Saturday morning, we walked a few hundred yards into the wood, dug a hole about 2 feet deep, leaned the bomb across in one direction and the fusee in the opposite, lit it, and got the hell out of Dodge and over a small hillock. We had agreed that if there was a dud, we would leave and not return until the next day. Well, no dud. The thing blew up with a loud explosion and shrapnel flew through the trees. As soon as the commotion cleared, we ran over to the detonation site to find a 3 foot diameter hole.
To show how the grace of God protects fools, about two years later, a young highschooler in Knoxvile, TN blew himself in half making a pipe bomb in his parents' garage. He was packing the powder with a metal rod which sparked off a pipe edge. Glad we used a baseball bat of wood.
By the time we hit high school, we were into some major adventures. Ashby could hot wire any motor, so we used to take a lot of unauthorized rides in his mother's black Cadillac or his dad's big old Buick. You'd be surprised at how the girls were impressed by those cars.
By the time we got to chemistry in high school, Ashby had a bee in his bonnet to make some gunpowder. The recipe was in the encyclopedia. So many parts sulfur, so many parts potassium nitrate, and so many parts charcoal. It was all available at the drug store. We mixed it up in a dish pan with a wooden spoon. OK. So what do you do with this dish pan of gunpowder? Well. You make a bomb. That's right, a bomb.
Now we weren't gangsters, but how do you know if you've made gunpowder unless it blows up. A man who lived across the street from worked for a metal pipe company, so getting a foot long 3 inch diameter pipe threaded on both ends and caps to screw on it wasn't hard. We took this and drilled a hole in the side near one end for a fuse port. The plan was to fill the pipe with gunpowder, have a cherry bomb inside with the fuse through the small hole, and cap it after compression with a ball bat. Then we would dig a hole, lean the pipe against the side, and place a railroad fusee so that it would burn down, light the fuse and WHAMOO!
OK. Where to dig the hole? Well, that brings up another topic. One that is likely long ago gone. High school fraternities and sororities were popular in the 40s and 50s. Ashby and I belonged to one. Our organization had rented a former night club outside of town that was a great place for parties and meetings. While close to the highway, it sat on the front of a huge wooded area that was totally wild. The terrain was a bit rolling, so we had a natural barrier between us and the "hole".
On a Saturday morning, we walked a few hundred yards into the wood, dug a hole about 2 feet deep, leaned the bomb across in one direction and the fusee in the opposite, lit it, and got the hell out of Dodge and over a small hillock. We had agreed that if there was a dud, we would leave and not return until the next day. Well, no dud. The thing blew up with a loud explosion and shrapnel flew through the trees. As soon as the commotion cleared, we ran over to the detonation site to find a 3 foot diameter hole.
To show how the grace of God protects fools, about two years later, a young highschooler in Knoxvile, TN blew himself in half making a pipe bomb in his parents' garage. He was packing the powder with a metal rod which sparked off a pipe edge. Glad we used a baseball bat of wood.
Gigli Gets the Needle
Yesterday, I went over to the hospital for an injection of cortisone into my right shoulder joint. This was set up after I saw the orthopedist a week before and found that I had degenerative arthritis (known as gray hair of the skeletal system) in both shoulders. He knew that I was a physician, and we talked about the procedure a bit.
So, I show up and go to the ER where a c-arm fluroscope is set up. The doc shows up, preps my shoulder, and under fluroscopic control places a needle into the joint and delivers the medicine. I am out of there is 5 minutes and go home.
So? Well, at no time was I asked to sign any consent or hear a litany of horrors as to what might happen to me. If I had being doing the same procedure in the USA, I would have had forms signed by the patient saying that they understood the possibilities of infection, paralysis, and death. Even with all that, there would still be a lawyer willing to sue because he would know that the insurance company would settle. If I refused to settle, then the company would have dropped me the next year.
Just not quite as litigious over here. A doc can get into trouble, but he has to be almost criminal in his actions. In medical school, a lawyer taught us jurisprudence. The idea was that docs are humans, and humans make mistakes. You would never be sued for a mistake. Nowadays, if a doc takes on a patient, there is an implied contract that the doc will make the patient well.
That's a bunch of horse feathers!
So, I show up and go to the ER where a c-arm fluroscope is set up. The doc shows up, preps my shoulder, and under fluroscopic control places a needle into the joint and delivers the medicine. I am out of there is 5 minutes and go home.
So? Well, at no time was I asked to sign any consent or hear a litany of horrors as to what might happen to me. If I had being doing the same procedure in the USA, I would have had forms signed by the patient saying that they understood the possibilities of infection, paralysis, and death. Even with all that, there would still be a lawyer willing to sue because he would know that the insurance company would settle. If I refused to settle, then the company would have dropped me the next year.
Just not quite as litigious over here. A doc can get into trouble, but he has to be almost criminal in his actions. In medical school, a lawyer taught us jurisprudence. The idea was that docs are humans, and humans make mistakes. You would never be sued for a mistake. Nowadays, if a doc takes on a patient, there is an implied contract that the doc will make the patient well.
That's a bunch of horse feathers!
21 March 2006
Prayer Meeting
My medical school ran on the quarter system. Every eleven weeks, a new quarter began. We began to take surgery courses in the ninth quarter and would have class room and surgical clinics until we graduated. Surgery was interesting, and because we had some good teachers, we enjoyed it.
EXCEPT FOR:
Prayer meeting. This was a gathering of all surgical students, ninth through twelfth quarters held in a large auditorium at one PM each Friday. Each class tried to sit together, and all tried to look as inconspicuous as possible. The later quarter students were especially nervous because they were expected to know a lot more than the ninth or tenth quarter classes. It was a bitch of the first water!!
Why? Because it was run by the chief resident in surgery and the grand doo dah professor of surgery. Now, the professor was benign, although he could be sarcastic (a quality that I had not learned to appreciate yet). The chief resident, who later became a friend, struck terror into us all. The chief resident was a fifth year general surgery resident but also on the surgical staff as a paid member. He was selected by the teaching staff each year, and as chief he was responsible for scheduling other residents, teaching, problem solving, and everything else that no one on the regular staff wished to do. His perks were prestige, some salary, and the fact that he got the pick of any case that hit the door, no matter what. I knew only three chief residents, but they were all superior physicians and highly successful in their later careers. All general surgery residents would have gladly traded a gonad for the job.
Our chief resident was "Big Lou". He went on to become a renown transplant surgeon. He once told me that he always went to bed with a surgical journal. " you learn something, and it is a great sleeping aid." He was an imposing figure of a man, slicker than greased owl poop, and always right in his judgments (at least it seemed that way). He and the professor ran the prayer meeting and in a perverse way were proud of the name we had given the "conference". I do not remember how the roll call was kept, but I do know that it was not a class to cut. Unless you were hospitalized, you were there!
The format was this: A patient from the wards was brought in and presented to the audience with history, physical findings, and lab reports. The diagnosis was not usually given but ranged from the exotic to the everyday ailments that affect people. At that point one or more students were asked to come to the stage. That was white knuckle time. Those students would be queried on anything remotely to do with the case in front of their peers and judged by Big Lou and the professor. If a mistake was made or ignorance professed, results ranged from a mild rebuke and the answer, to a "WHAT, YOU DON'T KNOW!!!!", and the thought out loud that maybe another profession was in your future.
I only remember one time that I was in the hot seat. Big Lou and the professor quizzed me on a lady's varicose veins, and I got away like a bandit in a cold sweat. I am sure there were other times, but repression is a powerful mental mechanism. I did see a few compatriots raked back and forth though, and until graduation day, Prayer Meeting was always on our minds.
One more thought on Big Lou. He wasn't a bully, but he believed that tension was a great adjunct to learning. In our last quarter, we were each paired with a surgical resident, including the chief resident. The most timid and introverted man in our class got Big Lou. We wondered if he would survive. He was a good student but came across as scared of his shadow. Well, he realized that it was sink or swim time, so he gave Big Lou everything he received from him right back. Both of them survived and became friends.
EXCEPT FOR:
Prayer meeting. This was a gathering of all surgical students, ninth through twelfth quarters held in a large auditorium at one PM each Friday. Each class tried to sit together, and all tried to look as inconspicuous as possible. The later quarter students were especially nervous because they were expected to know a lot more than the ninth or tenth quarter classes. It was a bitch of the first water!!
Why? Because it was run by the chief resident in surgery and the grand doo dah professor of surgery. Now, the professor was benign, although he could be sarcastic (a quality that I had not learned to appreciate yet). The chief resident, who later became a friend, struck terror into us all. The chief resident was a fifth year general surgery resident but also on the surgical staff as a paid member. He was selected by the teaching staff each year, and as chief he was responsible for scheduling other residents, teaching, problem solving, and everything else that no one on the regular staff wished to do. His perks were prestige, some salary, and the fact that he got the pick of any case that hit the door, no matter what. I knew only three chief residents, but they were all superior physicians and highly successful in their later careers. All general surgery residents would have gladly traded a gonad for the job.
Our chief resident was "Big Lou". He went on to become a renown transplant surgeon. He once told me that he always went to bed with a surgical journal. " you learn something, and it is a great sleeping aid." He was an imposing figure of a man, slicker than greased owl poop, and always right in his judgments (at least it seemed that way). He and the professor ran the prayer meeting and in a perverse way were proud of the name we had given the "conference". I do not remember how the roll call was kept, but I do know that it was not a class to cut. Unless you were hospitalized, you were there!
The format was this: A patient from the wards was brought in and presented to the audience with history, physical findings, and lab reports. The diagnosis was not usually given but ranged from the exotic to the everyday ailments that affect people. At that point one or more students were asked to come to the stage. That was white knuckle time. Those students would be queried on anything remotely to do with the case in front of their peers and judged by Big Lou and the professor. If a mistake was made or ignorance professed, results ranged from a mild rebuke and the answer, to a "WHAT, YOU DON'T KNOW!!!!", and the thought out loud that maybe another profession was in your future.
I only remember one time that I was in the hot seat. Big Lou and the professor quizzed me on a lady's varicose veins, and I got away like a bandit in a cold sweat. I am sure there were other times, but repression is a powerful mental mechanism. I did see a few compatriots raked back and forth though, and until graduation day, Prayer Meeting was always on our minds.
One more thought on Big Lou. He wasn't a bully, but he believed that tension was a great adjunct to learning. In our last quarter, we were each paired with a surgical resident, including the chief resident. The most timid and introverted man in our class got Big Lou. We wondered if he would survive. He was a good student but came across as scared of his shadow. Well, he realized that it was sink or swim time, so he gave Big Lou everything he received from him right back. Both of them survived and became friends.
My Funeral Home career
When I was a junior in high school, I got a job at a funeral home(a friend was an apprentice funeral director, so I guess I "networked" it). I knew that I wanted to go into medicine, so I was interested in the anatomy, and it is certainly a good way to learn how to deal with folks at a bad time, as well as, meet the public. I worked after school, nights, and weekends, and it was a great job. I slept there, and since the phone bell was right under the head of my bed, I became conditioned to waking on the first ring. That came in handy later.
One of the two owners was the county coroner, and I enjoyed going on his cases with him. In those days, there were no EMTs, so funeral homes ran an emergency ambulance service. There was no training as today. We had a big red standard shift Cadillac accident ambulance with more lights and sirens than you could count. That scoundrel would go 70 MPH in second gear. I only drove it when the boss told me to take it out for a warmup spin, but at seventeen, that was a thrill. Our place had been in business for 100 years, so we buried all the aristocrats in town.
One coroner call will remain in my memory fore life. We were called by the police to a home that I had passed many times on the main street leading into the business district. As we entered the front door, it was obvious that all the house except a large kitchen was filled with lumber stacked almost to the ceiling. In the kitchen was a black man who was employed by the owner. He had reported the case to the police after finding his employer dead. It turns out that this employer owned a lot of property in the poorer section of town and lived off the rents. He didn't have rental payment problems because if a renter failed to pay, the black man just went by and took the front door off the house until payment was received. The dead man had lived alone with his mother in the house until she died. The black man showed us a brand new Lincoln in the garage that had never been driven except home from the dealer in town. It had been covered totally with cosmoline, that grease with which that weapons shipped at sea used to be covered. It was about three years old.
The deceased man was no doubt psychotic, but he did rig up an ingenious way to kill himself. In a corner of the kitchen, there was a wooden box built flush to the walls. It was about 4 by 4 by 8 feet in dimensions. The black man said he had helped the man build it, and they had caulked it like a boat. It was air tight when the lid was closed too. Now this dead man was really big (so big that we had to get a specially built coffin from a supplier to fit him). He was lying in the box clad in a nice bathrobe, quite dead, and quite cherry red. His skin and even the whites of his eyes were bright red. He was peaceful in repose, as if no struggle had occurred. There were about six carbon dioxide fire extinguishers, all discharged, at his feet and sides. He had done a good job of asphyxiating himself.
We took him back to the funeral home, embalmed him, and got him situated in the new coffin. He had two nephews as survivors. It was a small funeral.
One of the two owners was the county coroner, and I enjoyed going on his cases with him. In those days, there were no EMTs, so funeral homes ran an emergency ambulance service. There was no training as today. We had a big red standard shift Cadillac accident ambulance with more lights and sirens than you could count. That scoundrel would go 70 MPH in second gear. I only drove it when the boss told me to take it out for a warmup spin, but at seventeen, that was a thrill. Our place had been in business for 100 years, so we buried all the aristocrats in town.
One coroner call will remain in my memory fore life. We were called by the police to a home that I had passed many times on the main street leading into the business district. As we entered the front door, it was obvious that all the house except a large kitchen was filled with lumber stacked almost to the ceiling. In the kitchen was a black man who was employed by the owner. He had reported the case to the police after finding his employer dead. It turns out that this employer owned a lot of property in the poorer section of town and lived off the rents. He didn't have rental payment problems because if a renter failed to pay, the black man just went by and took the front door off the house until payment was received. The dead man had lived alone with his mother in the house until she died. The black man showed us a brand new Lincoln in the garage that had never been driven except home from the dealer in town. It had been covered totally with cosmoline, that grease with which that weapons shipped at sea used to be covered. It was about three years old.
The deceased man was no doubt psychotic, but he did rig up an ingenious way to kill himself. In a corner of the kitchen, there was a wooden box built flush to the walls. It was about 4 by 4 by 8 feet in dimensions. The black man said he had helped the man build it, and they had caulked it like a boat. It was air tight when the lid was closed too. Now this dead man was really big (so big that we had to get a specially built coffin from a supplier to fit him). He was lying in the box clad in a nice bathrobe, quite dead, and quite cherry red. His skin and even the whites of his eyes were bright red. He was peaceful in repose, as if no struggle had occurred. There were about six carbon dioxide fire extinguishers, all discharged, at his feet and sides. He had done a good job of asphyxiating himself.
We took him back to the funeral home, embalmed him, and got him situated in the new coffin. He had two nephews as survivors. It was a small funeral.
20 March 2006
This Surgeon's Thoughts
I got an email from a friend today with the following quote about a question that another friend had asked him.
In casual conversation ** mentioned that he was always
curious about what a surgeon thought about before an operation. Was it
just the body of the day on the table? Was it a known person who had been
researched ahead of time? Etc., etc. I can't really relate his thoughts
but he is kind of a deep thinker on things like this but would be afraid
to ask questions of a real surgeon because ** would think of them as
being so far above him.
Well, I can only answer for myself. First, a surgeon puts his pants on one leg at a time just like everyone else. So, lets just forget the caste system. If you are willing to let some person flay you open with a scalpel without questions, you aren't the sharpest tool in the shed.
With few exceptions, I never was a personal friend of a surgical patient under my care. I did, on occasion, have occasion to operate on friends or children of friends. It was usually an unpleasant emergency situation and was an added stress. I did do several operations on friends with serious and yet non-traumatic conditions, where life could be lost or, the person left incapacitated in some way. Again, these were stressful above the norm.
With an "average" operation, I did not dwell on the procedure or patient to excess. Depending on the procedure's complexity, the preparation mentally varied. I was never a "ghost" surgeon, so I always knew the patient's background from a health standpoint, considered the complications, and discussed this, as well as the risk/benefit ratio, with them. In the case of children and those without good faculties, this was done with some responsible party. Of course, with emegencies, there was often no choice. I have met a number of parents and relatives for the first time after the surgery was done, and the patient had been treated in an emergency.
With complex procedures such as intracranial and intraspinal tumors and vascular lesions, I used to try and walk myself through the operation the day before. For some years, I was a runner, and many an operation has been rehearsed in my mind as I did my morning run. It was always good to plan for contingencies. The old saying that no one likes surprises in an operating room is true. They are usually not pleasant. For many of my operating years, I had a scrub nurse that was always with me. We could discuss in detail, if needed, the procedure beforehand. That was always helpful too.
So, in a nutshell, that is it. Anyone with questions can leave me a comment, and I'll try to answer.
In casual conversation ** mentioned that he was always
curious about what a surgeon thought about before an operation. Was it
just the body of the day on the table? Was it a known person who had been
researched ahead of time? Etc., etc. I can't really relate his thoughts
but he is kind of a deep thinker on things like this but would be afraid
to ask questions of a real surgeon because ** would think of them as
being so far above him.
Well, I can only answer for myself. First, a surgeon puts his pants on one leg at a time just like everyone else. So, lets just forget the caste system. If you are willing to let some person flay you open with a scalpel without questions, you aren't the sharpest tool in the shed.
With few exceptions, I never was a personal friend of a surgical patient under my care. I did, on occasion, have occasion to operate on friends or children of friends. It was usually an unpleasant emergency situation and was an added stress. I did do several operations on friends with serious and yet non-traumatic conditions, where life could be lost or, the person left incapacitated in some way. Again, these were stressful above the norm.
With an "average" operation, I did not dwell on the procedure or patient to excess. Depending on the procedure's complexity, the preparation mentally varied. I was never a "ghost" surgeon, so I always knew the patient's background from a health standpoint, considered the complications, and discussed this, as well as the risk/benefit ratio, with them. In the case of children and those without good faculties, this was done with some responsible party. Of course, with emegencies, there was often no choice. I have met a number of parents and relatives for the first time after the surgery was done, and the patient had been treated in an emergency.
With complex procedures such as intracranial and intraspinal tumors and vascular lesions, I used to try and walk myself through the operation the day before. For some years, I was a runner, and many an operation has been rehearsed in my mind as I did my morning run. It was always good to plan for contingencies. The old saying that no one likes surprises in an operating room is true. They are usually not pleasant. For many of my operating years, I had a scrub nurse that was always with me. We could discuss in detail, if needed, the procedure beforehand. That was always helpful too.
So, in a nutshell, that is it. Anyone with questions can leave me a comment, and I'll try to answer.
16 March 2006
The Irish Really Are Crazy
Both the spouse and I have Irish roots. The Vances come from Belfast, and the McDarbys came from County Clare. I don't let that bother me at all, but Barbara gets a big bee in her bonnet every year about March 17th, St. Patrick's Day. This year, she got the urge to corn a beef, so we could have corned beef and cabbage to celebrate. Now, if there is commercially available corned beef in CH, I am not aware of it and likely wouldn't pay the price they would ask for it. So, for some days now, we have had a piece of beef under a solution in a dish in the refrigerator "corning". In the process of searching the internet for instruction on corning, we did learn something about it as a preservation method.
Still, I don't think that our kitchen is going to become a corning center anytime soon. I think the Swiss have had some education too. When Barbara went to a drug store to buy some Saltpeter (potassium nitrate), she got queried on what she was going to do with it. No surprise since it is also an ingredient of gun powder. I suppose that she doesn't fit the profile of a terrorist (little that they know) because she did get some, and it along with salt and other ingredients are perking away on that beef for the third day. Hope it doesn't blow up!
Irish soda bread has been made, and cabbage and potatoes are on hand. I just bought a bottle of Irish Whiskey, and sometime today, we will dive into a St. Patrick's Day feast interspersed with shots of the Irish Dew and some Guiness Stout. Think our house won't sleep well this night?
Still, I don't think that our kitchen is going to become a corning center anytime soon. I think the Swiss have had some education too. When Barbara went to a drug store to buy some Saltpeter (potassium nitrate), she got queried on what she was going to do with it. No surprise since it is also an ingredient of gun powder. I suppose that she doesn't fit the profile of a terrorist (little that they know) because she did get some, and it along with salt and other ingredients are perking away on that beef for the third day. Hope it doesn't blow up!
Irish soda bread has been made, and cabbage and potatoes are on hand. I just bought a bottle of Irish Whiskey, and sometime today, we will dive into a St. Patrick's Day feast interspersed with shots of the Irish Dew and some Guiness Stout. Think our house won't sleep well this night?
They're Going to do WHAT with the Swiss Constitution?
Plans are afoot for the Swiss government to ship the Bundesbrief (the original charter of the Swiss Confederation of 1291) to Philadelphia as a loan to a museum for an exhibit called "Swiss Roots". This document can be compared to the USA's Declaration Of Independence and usually resides in a glass enclosure in the village of Schwyz in the Kanton of Schwyz, one of the original signatories of the Bundesbrief.
Some members of the far right SVP party formed a foundation recently and asked the government to accept a million Swiss francs and sell them the document. This was to thwart any such plans for its travel. Of course, the federal authorities quickly said that the Bundesbrief was not for sale at any price. Now the papers are full of opinions about whether this move is good or not. One school says that people who see it in Philadelphia will want to come to CH as tourists. Another group says that tourists already here will miss seeing it while it is in the USA.
I don't know if the Declaration of Independence has ever traveled outside the USA, but I do remember The Freedom Train which carried it around the USA for many months. Even that would not likely be done now because of all the kooks that would love to hold it hostage. I think the Bundesbrief should stay put.
Some members of the far right SVP party formed a foundation recently and asked the government to accept a million Swiss francs and sell them the document. This was to thwart any such plans for its travel. Of course, the federal authorities quickly said that the Bundesbrief was not for sale at any price. Now the papers are full of opinions about whether this move is good or not. One school says that people who see it in Philadelphia will want to come to CH as tourists. Another group says that tourists already here will miss seeing it while it is in the USA.
I don't know if the Declaration of Independence has ever traveled outside the USA, but I do remember The Freedom Train which carried it around the USA for many months. Even that would not likely be done now because of all the kooks that would love to hold it hostage. I think the Bundesbrief should stay put.
14 March 2006
A Trip to the Faulhorn
How about a 4 hour hike up to a hotel where the only way in or out is by foot or helicopter? That idea sounded intriguing to me when I first heard of this place years ago. Eventually, I made it up there three times.
The Faulhorn Hotel is a far cry from the usual 5 star Swiss hotel, but it is an experience. When you get there, you are about 8000 feet above sea level and looking across a valley directly at the Jungfrau, Moench, and Eiger Nordwand. The view is free for as long as the light lasts and you sit on the terrace. There is a separate building that houses the kitchen and dining area. Then the main hotel building houses two large rooms and quarters for the employees and family that run the place.
You say, "Only a two room hotel?" Well, that is right. However, each room sleeps about 40 persons! Whoa Boy!! Who would sleep in a room with 39 other people? The answer is that so many that you have to call for a reservation. Since the hotel is only open about three months a year, a lot of hikers want to get there in a short time. These rooms are called "Matratzenlagers" or mattress areas. Picture a double bunk that has been widened to hold 40 beds with stairs at each end and then put two of these across from each other with an aisle between them. There you have a Matratzenlager. Each person has an individual mattress and blanket with a pillow running the length of the bed. The whole room is spotless and clean with windows high near the ceilings. All shoes are deposited outside in a cloakroom area, so only sock feet ever touch the floors. The night and breakfast will cost about 25% of what a regular room in a hotel costs.
The dining room serves as a communal place to eat, drink, and entertain one's self for the evening. The food is not fancy, but after a 4 hour walk up (only the last few minutes are really tough), it tastes mighty good. Then people talk, play cards, or read. No one has trouble sleeping either. On my first visit there was a howling wind most of the night, but insomnia was not a problem. If you must heed nature's call in the night, it can be done in a communal bathroom with running cold water. On the first visit, one had to go outside (I did not) to use the facilities. On the later visits several years ago, they had upgraded the bathroom beautifully.
The hike can begin either in Grindelwald or Schynige Platte. My visits have always begun at First, reached from Grindelwald by cable car, and with the return by way of Schynige Platte and the rail down to Interlaken. This means about 4 hours up and 5 hours across the next day to Schynige Platte and home. The walk both ways is scenic, and only about 40 minutes is steeply up to the hotel. After arrival, one checks in with the lady in the restaurant, and she will assign a bed to you.
On one visit, we were treated to a magnificent thunderstorm the rolled across from us obscuring the view for some minutes. One should not miss the sunrises and sunsets from here. The tips of the mountains look like golden spikes at both events. By 9 or 10 PM, all are ready to pile it in for a night. Sleeping with 40 people can be a hoot. There are the usual sounds, snores and otherwise, but sleep comes quickly. Once, as we lay in the dark, this Indian guy who was a bit drunk started telling jokes to his friends in dialect with a Hindi accent. The whole room was in stitches even though we couldn't understand what he was saying, but this guy had a head the next day, I am sure.
Most people are up early since the sunrise is a treat. Breakfast is the usual milchkaffee or chocolate, bread, rolls, jam, butter, and cheese. Then the new day's hike begins. Ours has always been over to Schynige Platte, where a good lunch can be had on the terrace before a ride down on a cog rail to Wilderswil where the train to home begins. I enjoy this hike every few years, but it is always good to get home to a shower and my own bed.
The Faulhorn Hotel is a far cry from the usual 5 star Swiss hotel, but it is an experience. When you get there, you are about 8000 feet above sea level and looking across a valley directly at the Jungfrau, Moench, and Eiger Nordwand. The view is free for as long as the light lasts and you sit on the terrace. There is a separate building that houses the kitchen and dining area. Then the main hotel building houses two large rooms and quarters for the employees and family that run the place.
You say, "Only a two room hotel?" Well, that is right. However, each room sleeps about 40 persons! Whoa Boy!! Who would sleep in a room with 39 other people? The answer is that so many that you have to call for a reservation. Since the hotel is only open about three months a year, a lot of hikers want to get there in a short time. These rooms are called "Matratzenlagers" or mattress areas. Picture a double bunk that has been widened to hold 40 beds with stairs at each end and then put two of these across from each other with an aisle between them. There you have a Matratzenlager. Each person has an individual mattress and blanket with a pillow running the length of the bed. The whole room is spotless and clean with windows high near the ceilings. All shoes are deposited outside in a cloakroom area, so only sock feet ever touch the floors. The night and breakfast will cost about 25% of what a regular room in a hotel costs.
The dining room serves as a communal place to eat, drink, and entertain one's self for the evening. The food is not fancy, but after a 4 hour walk up (only the last few minutes are really tough), it tastes mighty good. Then people talk, play cards, or read. No one has trouble sleeping either. On my first visit there was a howling wind most of the night, but insomnia was not a problem. If you must heed nature's call in the night, it can be done in a communal bathroom with running cold water. On the first visit, one had to go outside (I did not) to use the facilities. On the later visits several years ago, they had upgraded the bathroom beautifully.
The hike can begin either in Grindelwald or Schynige Platte. My visits have always begun at First, reached from Grindelwald by cable car, and with the return by way of Schynige Platte and the rail down to Interlaken. This means about 4 hours up and 5 hours across the next day to Schynige Platte and home. The walk both ways is scenic, and only about 40 minutes is steeply up to the hotel. After arrival, one checks in with the lady in the restaurant, and she will assign a bed to you.
On one visit, we were treated to a magnificent thunderstorm the rolled across from us obscuring the view for some minutes. One should not miss the sunrises and sunsets from here. The tips of the mountains look like golden spikes at both events. By 9 or 10 PM, all are ready to pile it in for a night. Sleeping with 40 people can be a hoot. There are the usual sounds, snores and otherwise, but sleep comes quickly. Once, as we lay in the dark, this Indian guy who was a bit drunk started telling jokes to his friends in dialect with a Hindi accent. The whole room was in stitches even though we couldn't understand what he was saying, but this guy had a head the next day, I am sure.
Most people are up early since the sunrise is a treat. Breakfast is the usual milchkaffee or chocolate, bread, rolls, jam, butter, and cheese. Then the new day's hike begins. Ours has always been over to Schynige Platte, where a good lunch can be had on the terrace before a ride down on a cog rail to Wilderswil where the train to home begins. I enjoy this hike every few years, but it is always good to get home to a shower and my own bed.
09 March 2006
A Miami Beach Wannabe
Our day to go to Ascona was another gray and wet one. We were to leave soon, so this was it. A short ride on the bus that stops across the street from the train station got us to the post office stop in Ascona. From there we spent an hour or so wandering the neighborhoods and wound up on a path that parallels the lake shore. It was definitely the high rent district Some of the hotels along the way reminded us of Miami Beach with colors and architecture. There were definitely no crowds! We then came into the main harbor which would be pretty with the trees in foliage, but this day looked awfully bleak.We took a break to get our email in a small bar. Internet spots abound in Locarno and a few were in Ascona. The Locarno tourist office had given us a sheet of internet cafes earlier in the week. For 8 CHF, you get 40 minutes or lesser times for fewer CHF. Anyway, I ordered a beer and Barbara needed something warm, so she ordered an Irish Coffee. Now ordinarily she is a cheap date, but the Irish Coffee was 11.50 CHF. That's closing in on 9 US$ at today's rate. Guess Ascona is used to the high rollers, just like Miami Beach.
The net worth remained intact though, and after a stroll along fine shops mostly closed for the season, we were back to Locarno.
A Day on the Town in Locarno
This day was still gray but not too wet. We decided to stay and explore the old town. After the main shopping areas, we took a street map and wandered. We found the Cathedral of St. Francis named after Francis of Assisi and went inside. The history was on a plaque on a rear wall, and like all these churches, it was strikingly beautiful. This one was 700+ years old. It was a good place to meditate about friends and children lost.After our visit there, we wandered some of the narrow streets above the main part. There were a lot of stores and restaurants along this way. Then of course, we had to hit some of the local markets. We found one practically in our front yard and went in out of curiosity. It was a Dominican Republic grocery run by a man from the DR who had been in CH for 20+ years and three wives. He spoke good English, and we walked out with a bargain kilogram of nice frozen shrimp (14 CHF for a kilo). Then we went back home and played Jass. Jass is the national pastime in CH, and we are slowly learning.
08 March 2006
My 39th Birthday in Domodossola
Actually, I was 67 on my birthday, but the restaurant only had a "3' and a "9" candles, so I opted for 39 instead of 93.
Before we get to the birthday party, you need to hear about how we got to Domodossola from Locarno. Locarno is separated from Domodossola by the Centovalli, a combination of deep gorges and high mountains rising to, and crossing the Italian border to end in Domodossola. There is a road but the fun way to see this area is by train. These trains leave from a separate but adjacent station to the Locarno SBB station. It is underground, as is the railway until one gets out of the main town. After that, the train runs along the side of a deep valley and snakes its way upward and westward. At the Italian border, one may need to show a passport. The Italian border guards are a real riot to me. They all look and walk like Sylvester Stallone. If you are female, reasonably attractive, and unaccompanied by a man, you can be sure that you and your papers will get careful scrutiny.
At this time of year and with all the snow that Ticino got this winter, it was a beautiful ride. I had done this once in summer, but in winter, without all the tree foliage, one sees a lot more houses, huts, and paths along the walls of the valley. There is a webcam here.
http://www.costa-borgnone.ch/webcam2.htm
and some great pictures here
http://www.centovalli.ch/
One passes through numerous small villages along the way with stops at most. At Santa Maria Maggiore, one is at the highest point along the railway. We were going to get out and explore, but the snow was hip deep. From there on, one descends slowly downward through more villages until you reach the Ossla valley floor. Domodossola has its own separate station beneath the main train station for the Centovalli trains.
It was closing on noon, so we got directions and a map through town looking for Da Sciola restaurant, a recommendation of the tourist office. Domodossola is easy to navigate with a map, so we looked at the ancient walls of the city, some marvelous old Italian architecture, some interesting people, and just generally gawked around. Then we arrived at Da Sciola. The first person we saw was one of the tourist office people, so we figured if it was good enough for the natives, it would do for us.
The lady who seated us, spoke no English, but her German was better than ours. We decided to let her order our lunch. I found out later that barbara had told her later that this was my birthday. We had a wonderful meal of three courses with carpaccio, gnocchi in a walnut-gorgonzola sauce, and beef roast with polenta and veggies. The, to my surprise, out comes the head lady and three service people with a cake on which there was a "39". Two glasses of spumanti appeared, and the whole crew knew "Happy Birthday" in English no less. The chocolate/pear cake was cut and tasted very good in spite of the big meal before. While this was going on, the cell phone rings with greetings from my daughter and the two oldest grandkids. A better birthday, I do not remember! The whole meal cost 56 Euro (that would be 108,431 old Italian lire)
We walked off our lunch in the town and had time for an espresso before train time back to Locarno. The train fare was 30 CHF apiece round trip. The day was priceless!
07 March 2006
Tessin to Luino Market
Every Wednesday, there is a big market in Luino, just across the lake from Locarno but in Italy. This Wednesday was a wet one, but we were up and out on a train to an intermediate stop between Locarno and Bellinzona where we changed to a train to Luino. We took passports, but were never asked to show them. Barbara had done this market once before, so she led the way into the market area. I found a fine new umbrella for 5 Euros, since the rain had that feel of one that would last all day. Because of the rain, we did not have big crowds with which to deal, but it had not deterred the vendors who were out in force with just about anything that was legal to sell. Of course we had to buy some food for home. It was amazing how many good things they had hauled in to the market.
We cruised the whole number of streets lined with stalls, looking, feeling, and people watching. Again, German seemed to be a second language outnumbering English. Then, what do you know? It was time for lunch! It was not a day for al fresco, that was certain, but we were guided by good fortune a nice place. Ristorante and Pizzeria Lo Scoglio was at hand. We both craved pizza, so that was that. The pictures tell the tale on that count. The whole bill for two with pizzas, a beer, a quarter liter of red vino, mineral water, a coffee for me, and a split dessert was 25 Euros. Italian things are still a better buy.
We made for home but not before a stop at a very nice train station cafe to get warm, mingle with the locals, and watch some Olympic skiing.
An Old Mistress
A 1974 Porsche 911 Targa. Kept it for 20 years and sold it for 8000 US$. Bought it for 13,500 US$ in "74. As much fun to drive the last day I owned it as the first.
05 March 2006
In Tessin-2
Tuesday it was raining, as it did for most of the week,. We had a trip planned to Como, across the Swiss-Italian border by about 5 minutes. The weather was gray but not too wet when we got to Como, and it was about lunch time. We looked for a small store we had been in on another visit, and after a few minutes we found it closed for lunch. Just across the street, there was a very small store that was open. It was my kind of joint with hams, cheese, booze, Balsamic vinegars,olive oils and all sorts of goodies. This great emporium is called Enosalumeria and is located on via Independenza #25 and is open from 8 AM until 8 PM, a decidedly unusual thing where most places close from noon until 3 PM. I went in and asked about grappa. One of my goals for the day was to find and bring back some really good grappa. In years past, I had bought grappa in Como and was particularly impressed with a brand called Nardini. Some of you may know that grappa can be really good, or it can take the enamel off your teeth. Well, Nardini comes in a clear and a slightly gold variety, and it is as smooth as grappa gets. It is also damn hard to find. Anyway, this store had bottles of the stuff to sell. I didn't want carry it around all afternoon, so I asked the man to put four bottles aside for me to pick up later. I wanted some for the week, to take home, and to give to an Italian-American friend in Newport who gave me a nice grappa last year.Then we were off to find a lunch spot. On the way through the Grand Piazza at the cathedral, we walked by the place in the picture above. Cold, rainy, and gray, but is anyone wanted an al fresco lunch, this place was ready with two tables under a tent. We walked along the street bordering the lake headed eastward and just past the second train station in town. We walked past a door where a guy came out with a load of pizzas, but they also had a nice looking dining room. We went in and were seated in a place that Tony Soprano would love. The menu was extensive
, but one of my two antipastos (instead of a main dish) was a plate of unsalted anchovies. These were about two dozen items made up of two anchovies, flattened, with a sliver of mozzarella between, and then battered and fried. It would make a bulldog break its chain. Next time, I'll just have that. The restaurant is at via Ugo Foscola 11 in Como, and it is called OROLOGIO after a watch, I guess. Both our lunches with some house wine, coffee, and one shared dessert was 55 Euros.
Then it was back to the shop that had some things we wanted to buy for gifts, and for me to pick up the Nardini. While doing that, I also got some aged Balsamic vinegar, some Parma ham, and some Asiago cheese to take back to Locarno. The train was on time, and we made it a day getting back to Locarno in time to watch the Olympics on TV.
04 March 2006
Back Home and a Year Older
After a rainy week in the Italian Swiss Kanton Of Tessin (Ticino), Fred and spouse made it back to the homeplace. While on the trip, Fred got a year older and had a great birthday to boot. We took the train across the Centovalli to Domodossala, found a nice spot for lunch, and during lunch I got a call from my two oldest grandapes. B had let the restaurant staff know about the birthday when we went in, and they surprised me with a pear and chocolate cake along with a glass of Spumante. They even sang "Happy Birthday" to me. That is one song that all know in English.
This year, Tessin has had an inordinate amount of snow, so it looked and felt like winter. Our apartment was one of those used in the regular season by Idyll, so it was very nice. They had a satellite TV hookup, so we got to watch the Olympic events at night. I could see from the balconies that this spot would be nice in summer too. There are so many Germans in Tessin that it is a second language. That made it feel like home too.
Our place was no more than two minutes from the train station, but train noise was not a problem at all. The most unusual thing about the apartment is that the elevator run on a key, and in our place, you walked out into the kitchen.
More come later on the Tessin trek.
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