What not to bring to hospital --

-- when you’re scheduled to go under the knife.

 

The most recent tracks I made, quite of my own volition, were to a Tel Aviv hospital and back. Or, to put it more bluntly, to General Surgery, to be cut up and sewn back together again.

 

When packing my bag on the preceding day, I spent an inordinate amount of time fretting about what to pack:

- Toiletries, of course. But do I take my fave shampoo-and-conditioner, or do I travel light and pack one of those small complimentary bottles provided by hotels? I have quite a collection of those, and they’re so cute! Do I need my hair dryer, or will there be one in the bathroom? It is supposed to be a good hospital, after all. And what about makeup?

 

I had this long, carefully thought-out list…

 

Then came Reality and laughed in my face.

• What on earth made me think, for example, that I would be in any state to make progress with knitting my scarf?

• And what possessed me to bring along a pencil case with three kinds of pens and two pencils? As well as a clipboard with Sudoku puzzles… my kindle…  laptop… iPhone… chargers for all… a thriller… Not to mention essentials such as bathrobe, slippers, flip-flops, and some sweatpants and Ts in case I didn’t like those hospital PJs. 

I spent only 4 nights in hospital. But, as Hugh Laurie says in The Gun Seller (which I’d also packed),

“Time is a funny thing.

I once met an RAF pilot who told me how he and his navigator had had to eject from their very expensive Tornado GR1, three hundred feet above the Yorkshire dales, because of what he called a ‘bird strike’…. Anyway, the point of the story is that, after the accident, the pilot and navigator had sat in a de-briefing room and talked to investigators, uninterrupted, for an hour and fifteen minutes about what they’d seen, heard, felt and done, at the moment of contact.

An hour and fifteen minutes.

And yet the black box flight-recorder, when it was eventually pulled from the wreckage, showed that the time elapsed between the bird entering the engine intake and the crew ejecting, was a fraction under four seconds.

Four seconds. That’s bang, one, two, three, fresh air.”

 Time in hospital stretched out for me like… sorry, no good simile or metaphor comes to mind. Every night seemed interminable as I tried to get comfortable, despite the IV drip, the disgusting little drainage thingy, the dressing that was either too tight or too loose, and trying to decide whether to attempt reading, listening to music, or texting someone who’s awake in the wee hours (such as my daughter in Canada, bless her and bless the time difference.) Every day was divided into shifts according to the nurses on duty – the efficient-but-nasty one, the well-meaning but bumbling one, the always-late one.

Whatever I chose to do, I needed my hands. But when you’ve got an IV stuck in a vein, you’re a bit restricted. Within my short stay, the doctors had to move the IV to a different spot several times. Not fun.

 

I was lucky in that my husband and son came to visit, keep me company, bring me anything I needed. And I was in a room for two, which isn't bad, compared to the usual over-crowding in government hospitals.

 

Of course, all this is based on my blissfully limited firsthand experience. But I am pretty certain that, on the whole, my observations apply to patients and hospitals everywhere. 

 

By now I've been home for two months, and even though my surgeon thinks I'm fine in purely medical terms, full recovery is still somewhere in the offing. I'm aiming for it, laboriously chasing it, as I mutter under my breath the theme song of that 1962 French film, La Guerre des Boutons, where the youngest urchin keeps complaining (in French), "If I'd've known, I wouldn't have come!"

Travel: experiencing vs. remembering

Inevitably, some of the comments left on this blog are spam -- various companies or individuals trying to promote their wares. I suppose I should consider myself lucky - spam could get much worse than that. Besides, I could take it as a compliment: these spammers seem to think that my blog is so popular, that their message might reach lots of potential clients!

Today's spam-comment was slightly more oblique. It went as follows:

Most travel is best of all in the anticipation or the remembering; the reality has more to do with losing your luggage.
Flights to Dingaling
Cheap Flights to Dingaling
Cheap Air Tickets to Dingaling

With the hyperlinks pointing to some travel agency, say DingDong Travel Bureau.

- Ooh, I thought to myself, that's a negative attitude to take towards foreign travel! But then I realized that the punchline was the bit about losing your luggage. "Book your ticket with DingDong," it seemed to say, "and we'll give you a really good deal on luggage insurance!"

Well, I have two comments to make:
First of all, I have been traveling for many years and have never actually lost my luggage. In three cases (over scores of years) my luggage lagged behind me, as it were, when I had a tight connection. It arrived a bit late, but it arrived safely. Which doesn't mean I neglect to issue proper insurance before each trip.

Second, the statement about anticipation and remembering has some validity to it, or at least the first half does.
Only recently I finished reading a chapter called "Two Selves" in Daniel Kahneman's excellent book Thinking, fast and slow. This chapter deals with the concepts of the experiencing self and the remembering self. "Confusing experience with memory of it is a compelling cognitive illusion," says Kahneman (p. 381), and continues to elaborate on the subject.

So yes, much of the emotional value of the trip is in your memories, which you can relive, aided by photos, notes, blogs and conversations with your fellow-travelers, if any. And if you suffered the misfortune of a bad experience towards the end of your trip, it has doubtlessly colored your entire memory of the trip, even if most of it was enjoyable.

But, applying the same logic, if you lost your luggage early on in the trip, but the luggage was later retrieved, or you got very prompt and generous compensation that enabled you to continue the trip complete with a spanking new suitcase, stylish jeans, quality toiletries and a new laptop and camera -- and if the rest of the trip was terrific -- then your memories will be terrific, too. Lost luggage? Who cares!

So, thank you, Ms. X from Down Under, for giving me this idea for a blog post.
I hope all travelers take out travel insurance, and I wish you all safe landings and wonderful, memorable trips.
Oh, and do read Daniel Kahneman -- both enjoyable and enlightening.

Valencia - first impressions

“Valencia? What’s that? Never heard of it. I thought you said Venezia,” said my hairdresser, who was hopefully giving me that wash-and-wear haircut I value so much on trips.

As my daughter pointed out, I value Ari for his hairstyling skills and pleasant manners, not for his geographical expertise or insights. When he travels, Ari never goes to the same place twice. He’s of the been-there, done-that persuasion, and wants to see as much of this planet as he can.

And so we reached Madrid airport and wended our way through generic airport passageways to Terminal 4, gate K96, at the very edge of the universe – sorry, of the airport -- to await our flight to Valencia:

Madrid: An airport is an airport is an airport. 

Landed in Valencia. Walked down to the metro station, checked which stop to get off at – Xativa – and walked down the road to number 9, Plaza del Ayuntamiento:

Beautiful Plaza del Ayuntamiento, Valencia

The entrance to "our" building

Yep, I think I could easily get used to living in the center of Valencia! Despite the city noise, which is no worse than the noise in my daughter’s apartment in the center of Tel Aviv. And when the windows are tightly closed, the noise is much less noticeable. Oh, and being on a higher floor obviously helps, too. Fourth floor was fine, fifth or sixth are probably even better.

Since this specific apartment was obviously refurbished, arranged and furnished with tourist rental in mind, it’s a bit lifeless and devoid of character, unlike some of the apartments offered on Airbnb, which have a very unique, lived-in nature. One of them especially appealed to me in terms of its charm, but it was so full of photos, wall hangings, knickknacks and doodads that I wondered how the owner could bear to put her precious things in the hands of total strangers on a regular basis. Aren’t guests tempted to touch, feel, possibly dropping, breaking or tearing in the process? I’d have to ask the landlady.

Adding our personal mess to the rented apt.

If we were renting the apt for any length of time, rather than three nights, we’d probably endow it with a bit of our mess and personality (see photo. Yes, that's a mural decorating the living room wall.)

Though of course you can’t go so far as to hammer nails into the wall. And, talking of nails, that’s what was missing in this otherwise perfect apartment: A few hooks, towel racks, and such things on which to hang the hand-towel in the bathroom, your dressing gown, handbag, etc. The towel rack opposite the shower stall was so high that I’d need the stepladder to reach it. I mentioned these minor shortcomings in an email to the owner, and truly hope he does something about it, for the sake of future tourists.

Other than that, as I said, the place is perfect. Kitchen with everything you need for either a light meal or serious cooking; a spacious dining table, comfortable sofa, and so on.

Most important for us was the central location. Just take the elevator downstairs and walk out in any direction – you’re smack in the center of town, with friendly Tourist Information kiosk, shopping, eating, entertainment, antiques, city bikes for rent, all within walking distance.  And walk we did. And walk. And then walked some more.

A propos walking: It’s very easy to tell the locals from the tourists, and not only by the cameras, maps and backpacks they carry. It’s the clothes. To the natives, end-of-October spells Beginning-of-Winter, and they dress warmly with scarves and jackets. To many tourists, coming from colder climes, 17 deg C is still summer, and many girls are in shorts and flip-flops.

Recommended taberna: La Coveta, Calle de Vallanca. Intimate side-street, good food, pleasant service:

La Coveta is on the left

La Coveta menu

 Recommended tapas bar: Lizarran, a chain I enjoyed in Salamanca back in 2002. A huge selection of appetizing, delicious tapas.

Warning: Beware of local sangria. It may not be what you think.

Amazing site: Ciudad de las artes y las ciencias, Valencia

- to be continued -

Notice to Prospective Burglars

Posted on the eve of our departure abroad:

The short version: Don’t bother. You’ve taken everything of value on your previous break-in.

The longer version:

Well, if you insist… if you’ve already gone to all the trouble and risked being observed by curious neighbors, let me give you a few pointers:

1. Don’t assume the house is empty just because you heard we’re abroad, or because the car is dirty and hasn’t been moved in days. Re car – it’s nearly always dirty; and it doesn’t get moved in days because, as old-age pensioners, the bus is so much cheaper. Re empty – we’ve hired the services of an out-of-work Russian mafia thug to check in from time to time. He needed a place to lay his weary head. But he’s not so weary that he won’t wake up when you break in. He’s pretty nasty but he owes us a favor.  You really don’t want to meet him.  Oh, and when he’s not around, our son or daughter or cleaning lady or her sister might be using the apartment.  And the next-door neighbor is also permitted to let herself in when she needs a cup of sugar for baking or if her toilet is clogged up and the plumber is late.

2. Say you’ve overcome all these hurdles, you’re in, and you’ve started snooping around:

         i.                        I told you: you, or one of your ilk, has already taken my good jewellery last time, and I didn’t replace any of it, even though I got a few shekels from the insurance. How could I possibly replace the braided, 3-colored gold necklace that used to belong to my dead sister? Or the one-of-kind silver pendant, designed by an unknown artist, that my husband bought me over 30 years ago? For shame! I hope you are deeply ashamed of yourself.

       ii.                        Anything with pearls is fake.

      iii.                        I’ve taken my (new) laptop with me, as well as my iPhone, Kindle and camera. So there are no nifty electronic devices to steal. My PC monitor is okay, I guess, but a bit clumsy to carry.

     iv.                        The Degas (pl.) hanging on the walls of my study and bedroom are cheap reproductions. Like, really cheap; probably torn out of a magazine before being framed locally. As for the real, signed lithograph over the sofa, the one of the running bulls – be my guest, take it; I’m tired of it anyway.

       v.                        The silver is clunky, and you’ll have trouble selling it: no one wants that kind of stuff anymore; they’d rather buy kitchenware at Ikea.

     vi.                        Oh, and if you want to show your girlfriend how thoughtful you are, look in the left-hand door of the bathroom cabinet under the sink and take the unopened bottle of Jean Naté after bath splash – it doesn’t agree with me.

    vii.                        One last warning: In one of our more appealing objects d’art there’s an implanted microchip. If you happen to nick that one item, you’re done for. You will be tracked and arrested in no time. Oh, you don’t believe me? Never mind, it was worth a try :-)