 Rich enjoying supper in one of Sarajevo's more offbeat restaurants, Zlatna Ribica (it means Goldfish, don't ask my why) in 2019. “I never meet American people who don’t like to eat,” said Martine, my hostess at a dinner in the French alps a few years ago. “You all like to eat. You are very curious.” When you think about it, that may be America’s finest gift to world cuisine: curiosity. Our own culinary traditions are all over the place. We have to maintain constant vigilance to keep pernicious corporations from sneaking harmful substances into our diets. Most of us don’t know a sous vide precision cooker from a masticating juicer. But we tend to be enthusiastic omnivores who aren’t afraid to try new things.  For one horrified moment at a CA café last week, I thought my salad was sprinkled insect larvae, but it turned out to be blackened rice. Whew! Yes, experimentation can go too far! Not every culinary experiment is a howling success. I won’t be ordering more Mongolian бууз (dumplings) any time soon. At home, my riskier recipes occasionally teeter on the brink of disaster and can only be saved by the lavish application of last-minute rescues: olive oil, salt, lemon juice, wine, a dollop of Greek yogurt, and/or chocolate chips. And sometimes even those Hail-Mary ingredients can’t stop the train wreck. One of my worst disasters started innocently enough. To set the mood for a discussion about a possible future trip to Scandinavia, I decided to try making Lohikietto, Finland’s most popular chowder. Salmon, cream, potatoes, dill, and a recipe from the world’s happiest country — what could possibly go wrong? And in my defense, for once I scrupulously followed the recipe instead of improvising. The result was the kind of bland, watery soup I’d expect to be served on a tin plate in a maximum-security Russian prison.  I didn't take any photos of my Lohikietto, which was more of a grayish color. This picture is from food blogger Alisa, who clearly had better results. One by one I threw all my rescue remedies into the pot — except for the chocolate chips, which went directly into my mouth to steady my nerves. The remedies improved the soup just enough so that now it tasted like food you’d get in an American county jail. Rich manfully downed a bowlful, but he has never asked for it again. Despite the occasional dud, trying new food is one of the great joys of life, especially when we travel. Most of my road meals have been good to great, and whenever I write about them, people ask me for pointers that will help them find terrific eats in foreign towns. So here goes. To prepare your taste buds for the treats in store, look up local specialties in advance. Google the cuisine, check out blogs, and consult apps such as Culture Trip and Triposo, which describe the cuisine and give directions to places providing outstanding examples. As early in the trip as possible, book a food tour — or, if none is available, a walking tour. Warsaw’s Eat Polska food tour introduced me to the Soviet-era snack of brown bread with pork lard and gherkins (not nearly as bad as you’d think, especially with vodka) as well as gorgeous duck breast with buckwheat groats, honey, beets, and cranberries. “In the past, before McDonald’s and new kinds of processing arrived, the food here was more flavorful and nutritious,” said Ula, who led the tour. “There wasn’t much food in the stores, but at least everything was fresh and not full of chemicals. Many people here are quite nostalgic for food from the 1970s.” That was a perspective I didn’t see coming. In Dijon, France, my guide Philippe introduced me to the city’s iconic mustard, its famous gingerbread — which he ate (brace yourself) topped with chopped liver — and the 11:00 am aperitif. This French-style elevenses included gougères (cheese puffs) and kir, a mix of crème de cassis (blackcurrant liqueur) and white wine. At the colorful 19th century Les Halles Market, he showed me Europe’s most expensive poultry, blue-legged Bresse chickens, which go for $50 and up per bird. “Don’t even think about it,” said Rich. Traditional markets like Les Halles often have bustling eateries in the middle; I look for small diner-like counters serving incredibly fresh fish and bread hot from the oven. Open air markets are generally surrounded by cafés, and I like to wander around, snapping photos of anything that catches my fancy so I can try to find it again at mealtime. About now you may be wondering about consulting Trip Advisor, but frankly, I don’t advise it. In Seville, the European city I know best, cookie-cutter corporate chains rise to the top of Trip Advisor lists simply because people find them easily due to location and advertising. Sadly, visitors who are unfamiliar with good paella don’t always realize they’re being served inferior frozen versions. You can do better. What about asking at your hotel? In a big city, such as Paris or Rome, I find concierges will usually send me to “safe” places, soulless tourist venues they’ve recommended a thousand times. But in a more remote locale, with less jaded staff, I listen closely to what they say. Three years ago, on the Greek island of Ikaria, the desk clerk Dimitri told me Popi’s had the best cuisine on the island, possibly in all of Greece. It sure did. I fell in love with the food (the wild goat was amazing) and the Popi family; Rich and I ate there often. As it happens, friends were on the island this week and wrote, “We were treated like royalty when we dropped your name! We loved their food and meeting them!”  Kathryn, Mrs. Popi, her son Zisis, and Pete on the terrace of Popi's in Ikaria, Greece this week. Eating out can be great, but sometimes you just want to stay in and cook. On the road, you’ll want simple ingredients and recipes that won’t overtax your Airbnb’s modest kitchen equipment. I remember one rental apartment had no saucepans so I had to make my oatmeal in a frying pan. Yep, it works! Cooking in your lodgings lets you experiment with local ingredients you couldn’t resist purchasing and now realize you don’t want to lug home. If you splurged on tarragon mustard in Dijon, use it to create Mushroom Chicken in Dijon-Wine Sauce or Baked Dijon Salmon. Couldn’t resist buying Greek yogurt during your food tour of Athens? Try this Tzatziki Sauce on anything from raw vegetables to oven-roasted lamb. Don’t feel like cooking or going to a restaurant? EatWith offers private dinners and cooking classes put on by chefs in their own homes. It’s a great way to sample local fare and chat in a leisurely way about food, wine, restaurants, and life. You’ll walk away with a satisfied tummy and tons of ideas about what to see, do, and eat next.  Carlotta showed me how to make this Sausage Risotto at an EatWith dinner in Turin, Italy in 2019. I've been making it ever since; it's a huge hit with my family. You can find a link to the recipe below. Living in Seville, I’ve learned to view eating as the Spanish do — not as squandering time but as making the most of it. Growing up, I often viewed cooking and eating as an inconvenience, just one more obligation to squeeze into my day when I’d rather be doing something else. Now I look forward to every meal as the gift that it is. Good food not only nourishes body, soul, and brain, it provides opportunities for connecting with people wherever we are. Sitting down to a great meal with congenial cooks and a curious attitude creates memories that will last forever.  The world is full of intriguing little eateries like this café-bar in Chambéry, France. Where are you traveling these days? RIch and I are heading back to Seville next week, so I'll be taking a few weeks off to reorganize my life. I look forward to posting again in October, with all new stories about life in Spain. WANT TO KNOW WHEN I'M PUBLISHING NEW STUFF?
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 Who's ready to travel among the stars? Disconcertingly, friends driving through Spain this summer had two of their car’s tires go flat at the same moment. When the tow truck arrived, the mechanic told them the extreme heat of the pavement had actually melted their tires. OK, technically the tires-plus-scorching-pavement equation couldn’t have added up to the full 1000 degrees Fahrenheit required to liquify rubber, but apparently it reached the 250 degrees that make tires fall apart. Let’s not quibble. My point is: the fate of those tires is yet another canary in the climate change coal mine. Here in California, where we normally experience mild summers, thermometers seem permanently stuck in the “Are you kidding me?” range. It’s 109 today — almost twenty degrees hotter than in Seville. The governor has declared a Heat Emergency plus a Flex Alert begging us to conserve energy. I guess I’ll find out just how long I can put off doing the laundry and running the dishwasher.  As for showers, this sensible Californian is making good use of a fire hydrant in her LA neighborhood. Photo: Jae C. Hong, AP Of course, lowering my household’s hygiene standards is a modest sacrifice, given what’s at stake. “Blistering heat waves have smashed temperature records around the globe this summer, scorching crops, knocking out power, fueling wildfires, buckling roads and runways,” reports MIT Tech Review. Thousands have died in Europe's heat wave. One third of Pakistan is under water. Antarctica's so-called "doomsday glacier," an ice mass the size of Florida, is hanging on by its fingernails, and if it goes, sea levels will likely rise significantly. Headlines use words like “apocalypse” and “the End Times” with alarming regularity. So it’s small wonder some of our best and brightest (or at least richest) visionaries are trying to figure out how to get off the planet while there’s still time. The real surprise is that they’re prepared to take quite a few of us — possibly millions —into outer space with them. The exodus isn’t happening any time soon. So far there’s a trickle of space tourism, mostly Jeff Bezos’ Blue Origin, Elon Musk’s SpaceX, and Richard Branson’s Virgin Galactic. Off-planet hotels will likely be next, followed by colonies — and not the NASA model of a few hand-picked astronauts subsisting in domes. Musk dreams of large-scale communities serving as a second home for the human race on terraformed Mars. Can we do that yet? No. But that doesn’t mean it can’t happen. “We want to make life multi-planetary,” said SpaceX Director Benji Reed, “and that means putting millions of people in space.”  Elon Musk wants to get going soon on a million-person colony on Mars — which might look something like this. "It is extremely uncertain," he says, "how much time is left to become multi-planetary." Some believe the first step is creating vacation playgrounds among the stars. "Eventually, going to space will just be another option people will pick for their vacation, just like going on a cruise or going to Disney World," said Tim Alatorre, senior design architect of the Von Braun Space Station. “The goal of the Gateway Foundation is to have the Von Braun operational by 2025 with 100 tourists visiting the station per week.” How realistic is that dream? A quick trip to the Gateway Spaceport website suggests they’re still in the fundraising stage, so I wouldn’t order your designer spacesuit just yet. Naturally, Elon Musk has bigger ideas. He wants to send the first humans to Mars in 2029 and establish a self-sustaining, million-person colony there by 2050. Plans call for terraforming Mars, a tricky prospect at best on a planet whose average temperature is -82 F. Although I have to admit, being that chilly sounds more attractive than it normally would as I swelter in my non-airconditioned office today. Galavanting around the galaxy isn’t cheap. Space tourists are currently paying $250,000 to $500,000 for a suborbital trip, one that reaches outer space briefly, without making a full orbit or reaching escape velocity. Industry insiders predict the cost of suborbital travel will drop to “just” $100,000 within the decade. Want the whole megillah? This April, SpaceX sent three billionaires up to the International Space Station for eight days in the first all-private astronaut mission. Price tag: $55 million apiece.  From left, Eytan Stibbe, Michael Lopez-Alegria, Mark Pathy, and Larry Connor. Lopez-Alegria is a former NASA astronaut and mission leader; the other three are ordinary guys (well, ordinary billionaires) who paid $55 million each to visit the International Space Station. Photo: Axiom Space I don’t know about you, but $55 million ia a stretch for my vacation budget. However, I’ve discovered a more affordable alternative. Sadly you won’t get the chance to take any selfies, or enjoy the view, or brag about your trip afterwards. I’m talking about, of course, having your cremated remains fired into the cosmos. Turns out there’s a whole industry just waiting to serve your post-life travel needs. And those of your animal companions. Who knew? For $12,500, your ashes (or your pet's) can be deposited on the moon or launched into deep space forever. They make it sound pretty romantic, with your loved ones gazing up at you in the night sky, but frankly, I wasn’t too keen on spending eternity as space debris. For $2500 your “cremains” will be shot up in a canister that’ll orbit Earth then reenter our atmosphere, where it will burn up and become a shooting star. Or space pollution, depending on how you look at it.  Yes, your best friend is also welcome to find a forever home in space or on the moon. You can also send “a symbolic portion of cremated remains” to the moon for $7500 — about the price of the average American funeral or cremation. Of course, since they’re only sending up a smidgeon of your remains, you’ll have to pay all the other costs anyway, so if you’re looking for a frugal solution, this isn’t it. That got me wondering about other alternatives for those who think basic burial or cremation is simply too ordinary. I’ve learned entrepreneurs are standing by with unique, outlandish, sometimes macabre memorials that’ll give your relatives something to talk about for generations. Are some of these final resting places a bit creepy? You be the judge.    The Bios Urn will turn your ashes into a tree someone can plant in the garden. Pine tree seeds are included.  Your beloved can get a tattoo with your ashes worked into the ink.  Your cremains can be turned into a diamond. Of course, this one’s going to set your heirs back $750 to $20,000, so it’s a big ask.  An Alabama company called Holy Smoke will insert your ashes into cartridges or shotgun shells — the perfect memento for hunters or assassins.  My personal favorite, the miniature Viking ship, is designed for burning your cremains at sea. Have your relatives start practicing now so they’re ready to shoot flaming arrows accurately when the time comes.  One thing is clear; the sky is no longer the limit when it comes to travel. You might begin your space odyssey in this lifetime, afterwards, or possibly in the form of a memento carried by a loved one honeymooning on a space station or emigrating to Mars. Or maybe this is all futuristic fantasy, on a par with the individual jet packs they thought we’d all be wearing by now. Whatever happens, I don’t think we’d better bank on outer space as the solution to our problems here on Earth. It’s up to us to solve them as best we can, and try to leave as many options as possible for those who come after us, wherever that may be. Well that was fun! YOU MIGHT ALSO ENJOY WANT TO KNOW WHEN I'M PUBLISHING NEW STUFF?
My automatic sign-up form is on the fritz. Yes, still. If you would like to subscribe to my blog and get notices when I publish, just send me an email. I'll take it from there. enjoylivingabroad@gmail.com Thanks for understanding. Technology. Always a moving target.  After two hours of sampling coffees in Thessaloniki, Greece in 2019 I felt like a new woman. "To travel is to take a journey into yourself." — Danny Kaye One of the great things about travel is the way it lets us reinvent ourselves. The “me” who is sipping espresso in a strange city isn’t exactly the same me that days earlier was racing around the supermarket, cursing under my breath because I couldn’t find the coffee filters. Nor is it the same me that stumbled zombie-like off my last long plane ride, or the me that in July was stretched out on a sandy beach, too lazy and contented even to read the book I’d brought. Travel constantly invites us to be new and different. Our destinations shape us in unexpected ways. Which is why I was so delighted when I was kidnapped and taken to Treasure Island this week. OK, maybe kidnapped is too strong a word. Some friends had planned a surprise expedition to an undisclosed location, and when Rich and I climbed into the backseat of their car, they gave us eye masks to blindfold ourselves in order to draw out the suspense. Actual hoods, like the ones in TV crime thrillers, might (they felt) attract unwanted attention from random passing officers of the law. I put on the eye mask feeling that little thrill of excitement that always comes with heading off to a mysterious destination. Eventually our friends instructed us to remove the blindfolds and I discovered where we were headed.  To create Treasure Island, the Army Corps of Engineers piled hundreds of thousands of tons of boulders onto the the shoals north of Yerba Buena Island. They dug up the equivalent of 2½ million dump-truck-loads of bay mud and sand, dropping the muck inside the boulder dam. Treasure Island is one of San Francisco’s least visited and most oddball neighborhoods, an artificial land mass created to transform some dangerously rocky shoals into “Magic City” just in time for the 1938 World’s Fair. All it took was the Army Corps of Engineers, hundreds of thousands of tons of boulders, and 2.5 million dump-trucks-worth of bay mud and sand. The new 400-acre island was bursting with style and glamour. Everyone from Judy Garland to W.C. Handy, the father of the blues, performed there. Most of the entertainment was suitable for the whole family, but there were a few burlesque shows, the most notorious of which was Sally Rand’s Nude Ranch with its scantily clad (but far from actually nude) cowgirls. The sexiest seaplane ever — the China Clipper — had its own hangar on the shore and regularly flew (gasp!) to Asia. According to local legend, someone claimed gold had been found in the island’s mud, and the name Treasure Island was born and stuck. And then, just as the party was really getting started, WWII broke out, and Treasure Island was turned over to the Navy for the rest of the century. When I first met Rich, he was still in the Naval Reserve and spent his weekends serving there. For him, traveling to Treasure Island was a journey back in time to his youth.  This was taken on Rich's graduation from Officer's Candidate School in 1966. Despite having grown up in the Bay Area, I’d never set foot on Treasure Island until that day, and I had the novel experience of feeling like a tourist in my own city. I was impressed with the hustle and bustle, and hoped the island wasn’t on a collision course with climate destiny. Right now, Treasure Island is knee-deep in a multibillion-dollar renovation project. Recreational space: 210 acres. Hotel rooms: 500. Retail: 550,000 square feet. New homes: 8000, with 27% of them reserved for low-income and homeless households. Everyone’s excited about the potential. All the developers have to do is solve a few pesky little problems — like what to do about the rising water in the bay. Stop me if you’ve heard this, but apparently climate change is melting the ice caps and causing seas to rise all over the planet. I know, bad news for everybody, and especially people in coastal California. “It’s unlike any disaster we have ever seen,” warn scientists, who have this crazy idea we ought to try to curb carbon emissions so it doesn’t keep getting worse. Last I heard, the bay's water levels are projected to rise a foot by 2030, three feet by mid-century, and seven feet by 2100. Yikes! Good thing I took swimming lessons as a kid!  Engineers are hoping the dirt pile shown at right will help the island settle. Not surprisingly, Treasure Island has been identified as one of the most vulnerable locations in the state. “Engineers built the island atop a bottom layer of mud,” explains science writer Kevin Stark. “The weight of earth and buildings on this gooey muck compresses it like a sponge and over time causes the island to sink. Treasure Island is descending at about the same rate as the sea is rising.” So islanders can look forward to twice as much flooding in half the time. Of course, this being let’s-try-something-new California, engineers are embracing all sorts of innovative solutions. Giant straws knows as “wick drains” are sucking water out of the mud. Towering cranes are hammering the ground to compact it. Enormous mounds of earth are weighting down the island. House are being moved back from the shore. And everyone is sending up prayers to whatever Higher Being they believe in. If the effort’s successful, it could become a model for other coastal cities preparing for higher and higher tides.  Towering cranes slam long, vibrating beams into the ground with the idea that the vibrations cause the land to settle quicker. “We are well-positioned to adapt to even some of the worst-case scenarios,” insists Bob Beck, director of the Treasure Island Development Authority. Which sounds worryingly close to the deckhand on the Titanic who said, “God himself could not sink this ship.” But Beck’s right; the only thing we can place our faith in is our ability to adapt. Nobody knows how high seas will rise or what other natural or man-made disasters may befall us. But if history has taught us anything, it’s that we humans are remarkably gifted at course corrections. And that’s especially true of Treasure Islanders, whose stories are being preserved in an oral history project. MeeSun Boice, for instance, left corporate life to reinvent herself as a restauranteur. She and her business partner, chef Parke Ulrich, opened Mersea (it’s Old English for "island oasis") serving delicious food on the Great Lawn with stunning views of the San Francisco skyline. The buildings are repurposed shipping containers, and many of the tabletops started life as bowling alley lanes in the officer’s club of the Naval base. “We made the tables ourselves,” Ulrich told me. “One day I found an old man wandering around and I asked if I could help. He said he’d heard about our tables and wanted to see them for himself. Many years ago he’d been stationed here and met his wife while she was working at that bowling alley. They’d been married all these years. And then he told me she’d just passed away.” Everyone brings a different part of themselves to a place like Treasure Island; our visits transform each of us in different ways. For some, it’s deeply nostalgic, for others it’s a journey of discovery, for environmentalists it’s an exciting chance to try out innovations, for developers it’s a nail-biting business risk. How will it all turn out? No idea. And that’s what makes it interesting. I’ll keep you posted as the project progresses, even if I have to write my rough drafts in waterproof ink.  I loved the way this scary warning sign captured a little of the pirate spirit you'd expect to find in a place called Treasure Island. How have your travels transformed you? Do you feel like you come home a different person? YOU MIGHT ALSO ENJOY WANT TO KNOW WHEN I'M PUBLISHING NEW STUFF? My automatic sign-up form is on the fritz. Yes, still. If you would like to subscribe to my blog and get notices when I publish, just send me an email. I'll take it from there. enjoylivingabroad@gmail.com Thanks for understanding. Technology. What can I say?  Not all bluebirds are happy these days. Are you sitting by a window? Look outside. See any birds? If so, let me ask you this: Do you trust them? Because I’ve just learned some worrying facts about the wild birds in my garden — yes those innocent-looking chickadees, finches, and titmice — and I’m not sure what to do. It all started innocently enough, when Rich took up birdwatching. This summer he put up a second songbird feeder and splurged on upscale feed, making him a hero — a god, almost — to birdkind. Then I saw that a nearby bird and animal rescue center was finally re-opening to the public; I knew Rich would love to visit their courtyard to see what kind of wild birds they were nursing back to health. I expected a serene sanctuary and arrived to find the place in a state of considerable alarm. A notice posted out front warned about Highly Pathogenic Avian Influenza.  “What’s going on?” I asked. “Is bird flu back?” “It’s not back exactly,” she said. “But yes, it’s here again.” The distinction was way too subtle for me to grasp. “So where are all the birds?” I asked. “We’ve removed them. A highly contagious strain of avian flu is spreading across the country. It’s everywhere.”  "If you have backyard birdfeeders, get rid of them," the staffer continued urgently. "Where birds congregate, the flu spreads. You're going to be seeing birds falling out of the sky. Swans swimming in circles." The woman next to me had just handed over a hummingbird she’d transported to the center in a cardboard box. Another woman ran in from the street calling out, “I’ve got an injured cormorant in the car.” Two staff members appeared in hazmat gear and sprinted across the street to the woman's SUV. Yes, of course we followed them. One of the hazmat-wearing staffers scooped up a blanket-wrapped bundle and dashed off, presumably to the avian emergency room. Yikes! Before I could panic properly, Rich was shaking his head. “No, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve got catastrophe fatigue. I just can’t worry about this, too. ” He had a point. Even by California standards, this summer has been overloaded with potential emergencies and disasters. We’ve had horrendous wildfires. “Used to be,” a firefighter said in a Zoom meeting, “a 100,000 acre fire was a career-defining moment. Now we’re getting million-acre fires.” A major earthquake is predicted within the decade. We’re 22 years into the worst drought in 1200 years. But what has us reeling right now is the news that one day, possibly soon, we’re going to be hit with a megastorm of biblical proportions. How biblical? Think of the parting of the Red Sea — not the bit about the Israelites crossing dry-shod to safety, but the part where the walls of water closed over the heads of the Egyptians.  Apparently California will soon look like this, only without Moses. In this megastorm, the West Coast will be hit by a vapor plume hundreds of miles wide and 1200 miles long. I know, vapor doesn’t sound too scary, but when it crashes into the mountains it will fly upwards, cool, and turn into rain and snow. The deluge will likely last forty days and forty nights, causing thousands of deaths and $725 billion in damage. Does anybody think we should we start building an Ark? I could see why Rich felt he didn’t have the bandwidth to worry overmuch about whether wild swans were swimming in circles. But we agreed that we’d stop filling our birdfeeders for the duration. It’s been brutal for everybody. Our once cheerful feathered friends are morosely circling the empty feeders in silence, landing on nearby branches to stand glaring at us. “I’m not sure I can take the pressure,” I said to Rich yesterday. “You don’t think they’re massing for an attack, do you?”  A lone goldfinch perches near the empty feeder to glare at me. “Do you think we should break it to them that birds aren’t real?” Rich asked. He was referring to the famous “Birds Aren’t Real” movement, launched in a prankish moment by young Peter McIndoe in 2017. A new president had been elected, emotions were running high, and having grown up a rebel in a hyper-conservative community rife with conspiracy theories, he felt inventing one would express something of the absurdity and angst embedded in the moment. En route to a protest in Memphis, McIndoe scribbled the absurdist statement “Birds Aren’t Real” on some cardboard and took his sign to the streets. A friend’s casual video went viral. McIndoe created a backstory involving avian genocide and the rise of spy drones masquerading as birds. Incredibly, despite frequent tell-all interviews, many of McIndoe’s fans refuse to believe it’s a satire. “McIndoe says more than a million people now call themselves bird truthers,” reported CBS News. “They've flocked to rallies around the country. In front of Twitter's headquarters, they demanded the company drop its bird logo… In an age of outrage, Peter McIndoe is hoping to drown out the chorus of crazy in this country. With a little crazy of his own.”  Peter McIndoe takes his parody on the road. These days it’s not easy to out-crazy anyone or to distinguish fact from fiction. My own world view was shaken by Lulu Miller’s book Why Fish Don't Exist. It explains that taxonomists, the scientists tasked with classifying the natural world in an orderly and sensible manner, completely blew it when it came to aquatic creatures. You probably learned in school that whales and porpoises are not fish but marine mammals, but beyond that we all got the impression every other scaly aquatic creature was a legitimate fish. However, scientific grouping requires tracing things back to a common ancestor, and that’s where things get dicey. The lungfish, for instance, is technically more closely related to a cow, because they both have lungs, than it is to a salmon, which doesn’t. In short, the whole 33,000-species classification system is a disaster and someone is going to have to untangle it. This has been clear since the 1980s, but ichthyologists, the scientists studying fish, find the idea so counterintuitive and depressing they are largely choosing to ignore it.  So we live in a world where fish don’t exist, birds do but people think they don’t, and the weather is turning biblical on us. In the midst of all this chaos, one fact has emerged with searing clarity: Rich and I are going to keep feeding our wild birds. It turns out songbirds don’t fall ill with avian flu, although they can be carriers. Minnesota’s Raptor Center, which in spring advised taking down birdfeeders as a precaution, now says this isn’t necessary. And as we all know, raptors are the total bad-asses of the bird world; I am not about to second-guess them. Besides, according to astrologists, “keeping food and water for birds, or feeding a dog or a cow on regular basis, increases one’s prosperity, eliminates conflicts, lessens the impact of past life sins, and brings victory in court cases.” And with luck it will generate enough good karma to keep us out of harm’s way until we return to Spain next month.  Our backyard feeder is back and more popular than ever. Are you feeding any backyard birds? Have you figured out how to get yours to start social distancing to avoid spreading the avian flu? YOU MIGHT ALSO ENJOY WANT TO KNOW WHEN I'M PUBLISHING NEW STUFF?
My automatic sign-up form is on the fritz. Again. If you would like to subscribe to my blog and get notices when I publish, just send me an email. I'll take it from there. enjoylivingabroad@gmail.com Thanks for understanding. Technology. What can I say?  Can we agree this would make a much more fitting time travel vehicle than the DeLorean in Back to the Future? Show of hands: who believes time travel is possible? If you said yes, you’re in the minority (39% of Americans) but in good company that includes Albert Einstein, Stephen Hawking, and NASA. "People like us, who believe in physics,” said Einstein, “know that the distinction between past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion." Very zen, Al. Very zen indeed. Time travel science is way above my pay grade (I hear it involves going faster than the speed of light via cosmic strings, traversable wormholes, and something called Alcubierre drives). It’s still largely theoretical and baffles our best minds. “If time travel is possible,” Stephen Hawking once asked, “where are the tourists from the future?” Well, I can tell you where some of them are, Steve; at county fairs like the one I just attended. If Napa Town & Country Fair wasn’t time travel, it was very, very close. I felt I’d jumped back half a century. When was the last time you saw Kool-Aid on tap, ate a funnel cake, or spun madly on a ride? When you were twelve? Twenty? At the gate, I asked the burly young security guard with the shaved head if he had any recommendations, and he leaned forward confidentially. I leaned in, expecting to hear about the tattoo booth or a motorcycle demo. “Don’t miss the quilt exhibit. It’s really wonderful!” Wow, did not see that coming! Among the joys of travel are the constant surprises and the sensation of journeying back in history. Old-fashioned railway carriages, Victorian mansions, Gothic cathedrals, medieval castles, ancient pyramids — and, yes, county fairs — all conjure up our collective past and let us indulge in some cozy nostalgia. “Would you travel back to the past if you could?” I asked Rich yesterday. “Not permanently. The dentistry alone…” he said with a shudder. Recent work on his teeth has convinced him (as if any more proof were needed) of the value of modern pain killers. “And remember how dangerous air travel used to be?” The so-called “Golden Age of Air Travel” may have been more elegant, but it was risky business; the year 1959 saw 40 fatal accidents per one million flights; today it’s around 0.1 per million. Statistically you have more chance of being killed riding a bicycle or getting hit by lightning. When Rich was a kid, there was one horrifying, freakish two month period (December 1951 to January 1952) when three separate planes crashed down on the town of Elizabeth, New Jersey, just 25 miles from Rich’s home. Airports began installing kiosks selling flight insurance. And in the 1960s and 1970s there were so many hijackings — 225 attempted, 115 of them successful — that “Take me to Cuba” became a standard punchline for comedians.  The only unsolved hijacking in US history was by D.B. Cooper in 1971. He took over a flight going up the West Coast on a day I happened to be driving directly below his route. I heard about it on the radio and watched the sky the whole time but never saw him parachute out with his money. Nobody else did, either. He disappeared and remains a legend. “If I could travel in time,” Rich told me, “I’d much rather see the future.” As it happens, most Americans agree; if we could move safely through time, 53% of us would go forward, while only 40% would head back to the past. Where the other 7% would go is a cosmic mystery; a parallel universe, perhaps? Cuba? An armchair in front of the TV?  Curiosity about the future is part of our DNA; no doubt our protohuman ancestors sat around caves by those newfangled fires speculating about where the bison would head next and how long the rain would last. Zipping ahead to modern times, we’re overrun with futurists who are, as the saying goes, “Often wrong, never in doubt.” One of the most famous prognosticators is Ray Kurzweil, an inventor who helped give us optical character recognition, text-to-speech synthesis, and the transhumanist movement, which advocates using technology to enhance humans by mechanizing parts of our bodies and brains. Because what could possibly go wrong with that? Kurzweil is 74, so we can check his track record over time, and 86% of his predictions — the fall of the Soviet Union, the growth of the Internet, computers beating humans at chess — have come to pass. So what’s next?  "2029 is the consistent date I have predicted for when an AI will pass a valid Turing test and therefore achieve human levels of intelligence," says Kurzweil. By 2045, he says, we’ll have Singularity — the moment when technology becomes smarter than humans, moves beyond our control, and becomes irreversible. I know, but please, try not to panic. Because if history has taught us anything, it’s that nobody, not even Kurzweil, is always right. During the first half of the twentieth century, leading minds dismissed such “fads” as electricity, automobiles, telephones, musical recordings, and television. In 1955, the president of a vacuum cleaner company said confidently, “Nuclear-powered vacuum cleaners will probably be a reality in 10 years.” In 1966 Reader’s Digest insisted by 1999 we’d have rocket packs on our belts, flying cars, and climate-controlled cities under glass domes. And in 1997, Wired magazine demanded that Apple admit it was “out of the hardware game.”  Back in the sixties, this is how Reader's Digest envisioned our world would look in 1999. "The future is not set," says John Connor in Terminator 2. "There is no fate but what we make for ourselves." So how can we get our arms around tomorrow? “Begin by looking back. As it turns out, futurists are closet historians,” says a report on the Technological Summit of the 2021 World Economic Forum. “Don’t predict the future, predict several of them.” It adds, somewhat consolingly, “Our historical, and projected, capacity to create game-changing solutions — from stone tools through to quantum computing — gives us an edge in responding to emergent perils.” In other words, we may be able to survive, even thrive, in the coming robot apocalypse. I mean the Singularity. Or whatever actually happens.  In 2000 John Titor claimed to be a time traveler from 2034 who needed a 1975 IBM computer to stop a global nuclear war. He said his time machine was installed in a 1967 Chevy Corvette. As for the question about where are the time travelers of the future, they’re all over YouTube and Google. The really surprising part is that no futurist in any era predicted the deluge of obvious hoaxers, hucksters, and loons who would try to pass themselves off as being from the next phase of human history. Time travelers' predictions, such as the American Civil War of 2015, usually fail to happen. And that’s for the best. As much fun as it would be to fast forward, it’s probably enough, for now, to live in the present moment and advance through time as humans have always done: one second per second. "We all have our time machines, don't we,” said H.G. Wells. “Those that take us back are memories ... And those that carry us forward, are dreams." Sweet dreams, everyone!  Well, that was entertaining! YOU MIGHT ALSO ENJOY WANT TO KNOW MORE ABOUT THE FUTURE? LIKE WHEN I'M PUBLISHING NEW STUFF? My automatic sign-up form is on the fritz. Again. If you would like to subscribe to my blog and get notices when I publish, just send me an email. I'll take it from there. enjoylivingabroad@gmail.com Thanks for understanding. Technology. What can I say?  With every keystroke and photo defining us, I wonder if the robots in charge of the new reputation economy are beginning to worry about me. Photo: Halloween 2020 To me, some of the most terrifying words in the English language are, “And now, Karen will sing for us.” The moment that’s said, I always glance down to see if I’m naked; if so, I’m overwhelmed with relief that it’s only a nightmare and with luck I’ll wake any second. Unfortunately, it doesn’t always work out that way, and I realize to my horror that I am A) fully clothed, and B) actually expected to raise my voice in song while others are in the room. The variant “And now, Karen and Rich will sing for us” does little to improve matters; I’m may be one of the least musical people on the planet, but Rich (and I say this lovingly) is even worse. In Seville, we’ve been thrust into the musical spotlight so often Rich and I have worked out a routine. I teach everyone the fa-la-la-la-la chorus and launch into Deck the Halls; Rich makes sure his voice gets drowned out in the general cacophony. No one ever demands an encore, for obvious reasons.  Rich dances for our hosts in a farmhouse in the Republic of Georgia back in the 90s.  Performing to entertain friends was commonplace before the digital age, and I’ve done it in many countries but never in America — until a recent weekend with friends in San Diego. When one of my fellow guests suggested we should each provide some entertainment, I flinched and glanced down to see if I was fully dressed. Yep. Damn. Luckily it turned out our performance options weren’t limited to singing. In fact, another guest had that covered. Pete is working on the lyrics for a musical comedy about aging, and entertained us with such highlights as “I Feel Droopy” (to the tune of “I Feel Pretty”), the Colonoscopy Blues, and the rousing finish, “I’m Getting Buried in the Morning.” My contribution was poetry, including this canine point of view from the delightful collection Unleashed: Poems by Writers’ Dogs: Are you gonna eat that? Are you gonna eat that? Are you gonna eat that? I’ll eat that. Kathryn, being of a more practical turn of mine, gave us a demonstration of her latest tech toy: Apple’s AirTag.  You can locate your luggage — or each other — with these handy gizmos. Add your own markings to tell them apart. About the size of a quarter, an AirTag tucks into your suitcase and lets you know where it is at any given moment. As you can imagine, it's popularity has soared during the chaotic 2022 travel season, when US airlines have “mislaid” an epic amount of luggage — 220,000 bags in April alone. An AirTag tells you exactly where your bag is — still sitting on the tarmac, in the hold of the plane, or inexplicably on its way to Cleveland via Istanbul. Here in disaster-prone California, I can think of emergency uses as well. For instance, if Rich and I were apart during an earthquake, flood, or wildfire, it could show me whether he was stranded, racing home, or heading to one of our rendezvous points. No phone service during the catastrophe? At least we have better shot of finding each other in whatever remained of the Golden State afterwards.  San Francisco is no stranger to colossal disasters. I can't help imagining myself standing in the aftermath wondering what to do next, like this character in the film San Andreas. “What about a stalker slipping one into your pocket in a bar?” somebody asked. Apparently the device works by bouncing off other iPhones, and Apple will automatically alert you if there’s an AirTag nearby. If so, check your pockets and bags. Should you discover a stranger’s AirTag, have some fun deciding where to put it; you might give it to a cop, toss it in the back of a pickup truck with a gun rack and a Rottweiler, or drop it down a sewer grating. Apple insists that no data is collected and you have nothing to worry about from connecting with random iPhones all over the world to activate your AirTag and track your bag. And I’m not saying I doubt their sincerity. But as Ralph Waldo Emerson put it, “The louder he talked of his honor the faster we counted our spoons.” And with good reason. Have you been on the site How Normal Am I? It invites you to “experience how ‘artificial intelligence’ judges your face. Access to your camera is necessary, but no personal data is collected.” Yeah, right. For some reason, my camera refused to cooperate, increasing my unease while letting me off the hook. I felt safer watching vlogger Voy Zan walk me through the experience, which soon realized was designed to make me uncomfortable in precisely this way.  We all groan and roll our eyes about the way our every keystroke is being used by corporate marketers and political hucksters to track and influence our behaviors. But it seems that’s just the tip of the disaster. How Normal Am I? was created by Tijmen Schep, a Dutch consultant who researches artificial intelligence for the EU and works with people attempting to grapple with our technological future. He talks a lot about “social cooling,” describing “the large scale chilling effects that arise as our information society slowly changes into a ‘reputation society.’” Want to know what this looks like? China is developing a program that ranks people’s “social credit” — essentially their “trustworthiness” as defined by the government. It began nearly a decade ago, with eight Chinese mega-companies assigning customers social credit scores under state-approved pilot programs; participation was theoretically voluntary but difficult to circumvent. Today, if you live in China your scores are affected by what you buy, how you drive, your profession (journalists, teachers, and medical doctors are automatically suspect), smoking in prohibited areas, acting disruptive on a train … the list is endless. Authorities can (and do) prevent those with bad scores from buying business-class train tickets, checking into better hotels, and flying; 17.5 million attempts to get airline tickets were blocked in 2018. Dating and matchmaking services ignore you, you won’t be able to get student loans, jobs are scarce, and your dog can be taken away. I know what you’re thinking: Not my dog! They’ll have to pry the leash out of my cold, dead fingers…  Jinan, China is leading the way with a social credit system for dog owners. If leash law violations and public disturbances reduce your credit to zero, you lose custody of your canine until you pass a test on responsible pet ownership. Luckily this Orwellian state of affairs only exists in China. Or does it? Data collectors everywhere constantly sift through our online history and, like China’s government, use complex, secret algorithms to rank us. What you post on Facebook can make loans more costly or up your odds of a tax audit or affect what jobs you’re offered. The reputation economy is subtly but consistently pushing us towards conformity, away from creativity and risk-taking, and into a state in which we think less and buy more. Anybody else find that a bit worrying? By now, I'm pretty sure Big Data takes a dim view of my digital reputation. As you know, my writing covers all sorts of topics, from Nazis to communist prisons to bed bugs. Uh-oh, did typing that sentence just make my score plummet yet further? Are they going to take away my dog? Oh wait, I don’t have a dog. Whew! Now that Big Brother is watching, I am more grateful than ever for friends who insist we do things offline. Yes, even if it means occasionally having to sing Deck the Halls or recite poems allegedly written by animals. “Privacy,” says Schep, “is the right to be imperfect. When algorithms judge everything we do, we need to protect the right to make mistakes. Privacy is the right to be human.”  Dancing in this fountain was technically forbidden; no doubt Rich and I would have been docked a few points if the reputation economy was in full effect that night in 2015. Well, that was interesting! YOU MIGHT ALSO ENJOY TECHNOLOGY & ME (HEY, I DO MY BEST) My automatic sign-up form is on the fritz. Again. If you would like to subscribe to my blog and get notices when I publish, just shoot me off an email. I'll take it from there. enjoylivingabroad@gmail.com Thanks for understanding.  How much do we really know about what's going on in our own homes? “How can this even be legal?” I was staring aghast at the squishy tube in my hands. I had searched every meat counter, deli section, and cold case to find what was apparently the only soft chorizo sold in this vast supermarket. My triumph at the discovery soon plummeted into dismay as I began reading the ingredients. “This contains pork salivary glands and lymph nodes.” I turned to Rich. “I can’t serve my guests stuff like that.” “You should stop reading labels,” he said. “But—” “We need chorizo for the paella.” He took the tube out of my hands and tossed it into the cart. “It’ll be fine.” He had a point. Pretty much anyone who’s eaten hot dogs, sausage, or chorizo has consumed various unspeakable parts of the pig, and it was just a quirk of stricter labeling laws that I could no longer maintain my blissful ignorance. I had a brief tussle with my conscience about whether I should reveal the unnerving truth to my guests but was forced to conclude they were better off not knowing. Especially as I was going to have to put them on high alert about the newly discovered health hazards of my drinking water.  A water testing kit let us check for all sorts of minerals and some bacteria — but not, unfortunately, the type of bacteria we seem to have. The night before, I’d discovered that my faucets were leaking a foul black sludge. This being the weekend, professional help was unavailable, so I bought a water testing kit, stocked up on bottled water and hand sanitizer, and consulted Google to find out what I might be up against. I learned that most likely the sludge started with a mineral called manganese, which is not hazardous; in fact, it helps our bodies form connective tissue, bones, and sex hormones. So far so good. However, if this theory proves correct, the thick black sludge isn't the manganese itself, it's the masses of bacteria that gather to feast on manganese. Several articles blithely assured me these bacteria were “harmless.” Then I learned these bacteria were only formally identified in 2020. “The bacteria, tentatively christened Candidatus Manganitrophus nodulliformans and Ramlicbacter lithotrophicus, can borrow electrons from metals like manganese and use them as fuel for growth,” reported Science magazine. I find this less than totally reassuring. These little critters are so new scientists haven’t even settled on names yet, so I’m wondering how they can be so sure they're safe for human consumption. Historically, scientists have praised the beneficial effects of mercury, tobacco, bloodletting, tapeworms, cocaine, electroshock therapy, and lobotomies. Frankly, I’d like a second opinion about my manganese-eating bacteria. Perhaps more worryingly, the test kit revealed the level of manganese in my water is (drum roll, please) absolute zero. Is this because our bacteria have consumed it all? Are they now looking around for something else to devour? Dimly remembered highlights from The Blob and the bathtub scene from Ghostbusters II began oozing through my brain.  Ah, the joys of home ownership. I do love my cottage, which was built in 1900 on a small plot of land, providing endless puttering and repair projects, plus just enough gardening to keep Rich’s thumb green. This is where we live during the six months a year we’re in California (the other six we’re in Spain) and every once in a while we sit down and review alternatives. Would life be better, we wonder, in a place that didn’t require quite so much maintenance? Or wake us up at 4:30 in the morning — as happened today — to announce with beeping alarms the carbon monoxide monitor needs new batteries? What about apartment living? With this in mind, we made a spur-of-the-moment visit to look at a big apartment complex in nearby Novato, close to the charming main street and the newly reopened train station. The apartments were big and handsome — as they should be, for five times the rent we pay in Seville — and the common spaces and rooftop gardens were beautifully designed. But they’d skimped on the corridors, making them narrow, gray, and absolutely featureless, like something from a dystopian movie.  This isn't the actual apartment complex, but it captures the spirit. I found it in an article called "What Makes a House Seem Haunted." “The corridors go on for two miles,” said the sales agent brightly. “Good for walking on rainy days.” “With my ability to get lost,” I said, “it would be more like four miles.” I wondered if anyone would mind my leaving a trail of breadcrumbs so I could find my way around. A few discreet enquiries among friends my age revealed many are already selecting a senior living community with a spectrum of care. “If you don’t, all the good ones will be taken,” one friend confided. “You don’t want to have to settle.” Yikes! Maybe I ought to look into this. So I fired up the laptop and dug in. “Why is everything beige in these places?” I muttered to Rich. “It would be like living in a vat of oatmeal.”  Many senior communities look like the set for a remake of the movie The Stepford Wives. I learned luxury senior accommodations tend to be stunningly expensive and famous for hidden costs; one reviewer wrote that after her mother died the family had to keep paying the whopping fees for seven years to fulfill the contract. Another requires you to discuss your relationship with Jesus. One website featured a video of very fragile oldsters with canes, walkers, and wheelchairs lip syncing to James Brown’s “I Feel Good” under the direction of a perky staff member. I felt toe-curling embarrassment on their behalf. “We are never, ever, ever doing that,” I told Rich. So I’ve come to the conclusion my best bet is to embrace what I call the Ikaria Solution. In 2019 I visited the Greek island of Ikaria to learn why people there live longer than nearly anywhere else on the planet. One third of the island’s residents make it into their nineties with minimal incidence of heart disease, cancer, depression, and other ills. Older Ikarians remain fit enough to embrace life pleasures, including lovemaking. According to one study, eighty percent of Ikarian men between 65 and 100 still enjoy an active sex life, and I’m fairly certain Viagra has nothing to do with it. Possibly the water there is extra high in manganese; I don’t know.  I met this fellow at a party on Ikaria. He opened the dancing and was still going strong as I staggered out in the small hours of the morning. He was 93. How do Ikarians live so long and so well? A low-stress lifestyle without schedules. A healthy diet, with little meat and two to four glasses of wine a day. Plenty of fresh air and exercise. The understanding that they’ll likely stay healthy into their nineties. And a strong sense of community; it’s a rare evening that neighbors don’t drop in on one another to share stories of their day and pass the bottle around. That all sounds pretty good to me. Obviously we’ll reconsider if necessary, but for now, Rich and I have agreed we will be staying right here in our cottage. We will continue to enjoy busy days and raise a glass in the evenings, whenever we can, with friends, family, and neighbors. As journalist Jim Kershner put it, “Why not dock contentedly in the harbor?” If we have to put up with a little black sludge and howling carbon monoxide alarms for that lovely lifestyle, it’s a very small price to pay.  Rich, Joe, and Phil making the paella. For the record, the chorizo tasted terrific. Next week I'll be on the road so I won't be able to post. See you the week after that. Want to stay in the loop? Sign up to receive an alert when I publish new stories. OFFICIAL SIGN-UP FORM Or just send me an email and I'll put your name on the list. enjoylivingabroad@gmail.com YOU MIGHT ALSO ENJOY 
The game is afoot!
My life has never been so full of mystery and suspense. For instance, why does the tag on my new bathing suit read, “Do not dry in sun”? What might happen? Will the fabric melt? Burst into flames? Shrivel up to half its size? Should I be worried it’ll do all that while I’m wearing it at the beach? Just what is the intended use of this garment — beauty pageants? No one can shed much light on my bathing suit conundrum, and authorities remain even more puzzled over the question of how a kitten managed to get inside an ATM in Fort Smith, Arkansas. A startled customer heard meowing from the depths of the machine and called firefighters, who had to take the whole thing apart to extract the critter — now known, of course, as Cash. “Probably trying to find shade is why,” said Alexis Bloom, cat handler at Fort Smith Animal Haven. “But I can’t tell you how.” 
As one headline put it, "You've Gotta Be Kitten Me!"
As I was writing this piece, I consulted a few notes I’d made in advance, and thought, “Right, bathing suit, kitten in ATM, and there was one more…” The next notation read, “stamp story.” What stamp story? Did I have a stamp story? It seemed unlikely. Passport stamp, maybe? Hand stamp at an event? I began shuffling through my mental files with increasing urgency. Nada. I consulted Rich, who looked as baffled as I felt. This sort of thing is happening to me with increasing frequency of late, and I’m just glad that Rich is equally memory-challenged. Keeps our marriage brimming with exciting surprises. You’d think I’d be better at unraveling enigmas like this after the gazillion hours I’ve spent watching detective shows on TV. I have what I consider the equivalent of a PhD in crime-solving. So you can imagine how excited I was to discover I could give my skills a real-time workout with the tabletop mystery game Death at the Dive Bar. I'd played other types of mystery games requiring multiple people, extensive roll playing, and a long night of competing to uncover the killer. Tabletop mysteries provide a box full of clues that you can review at leisure and solve over time, on your own or working cooperatively with others. A few nights ago, Rich and I headed to a favorite road house, ordered wine, and opened up the game box. Inside were letters, handwritten notes, photos, files on suspects, a locked pouch that had to be opened with a secret code, and more, including a sealed envelope with the solution. “Oh, are you into those mystery games, too?” asked our server excitedly, peering at the papers strewn across the table. “I love them.” Another said, “I have one whole wall in my house devoted to murder mysteries. I tape up the clues so we can all play.” “Brilliant!” said Rich. “We’ll set up a murder board in our dining room.” 
How long do you figure it will be before one of us gets carried away and starts drawing arrows and timelines on the wall with felt tip pens?
So far I’ve just begun reading the notes, examining footprints, and puzzling over such oddball items as the menu with the words “We have to talk” scrawled on it. Friends who stop by are riveted and keep asking questions I can’t answer. “Why are developers sniffing around Devil’s Well?” and “Whose handwriting is that on the menu?” and “When will you know who did it?” I’m beginning to have a lot more sympathy for those TV detectives who are always getting hassled by the Chief to make an arrest already. I decided to apply mystery game techniques to my stamp story conundrum and examined all my clues (aka notes). Eventually I came upon this cryptic remark: “Swiss cheese solution.” Of course! I had it now! 
This clue will mean a lot more to you in just a moment.
The stamp story is a true life medical mystery. Dr. Carter Mecher was asked to figure out the reason Charleston’s VA hospital had a shockingly high number of patients dying of colon cancer. Clearly they were being diagnosed too late, but why? Mecher spent days studying everything from medical protocols to scheduling. He finally ended up in the hospital’s mail room and noticed a curious thing: a pile of envelopes stamped with the words “Insufficient Postage.” It turned out patients were given kits with pre-stamped envelopes so they could mail stool samples to the hospital for testing. Unfortunately it hadn’t occurred to anyone the kits were slightly heavier than a letter and needed two stamps instead of one, so most samples never reached the hospital. “I loved that moment,” said Mecher. “It was so commonsense.” Simply adding a second stamp saved countless lives. 
"Common sense is as rare as genius," said Ralph Waldo Emerson.
I’m a big fan of common sense —such a rare commodity these days! — and of the Swiss cheese solution, described by British psychologist James Reason in his book Human Error. He suggests when you're in unknown territory without an obvious silver bullet, the smart move is to use multiple, semi-effective strategies; you layer multiple solutions on top of one another like slices of Swiss cheese, until there are no holes you can see through. This saved lives during the pandemic (using masking and social distancing while working like mad on vaccines) and may help me catch the killer in Death at the Dive Bar. The Swiss cheese solution and stamp story both appear in Michael Lewis' bestsellerThe Premonition: A Pandemic Story, a nonfiction thriller about the public health community grappling with the twin threats of Covid and human folly. It’s about problem-solving in the midst of crisis, a process known as “building a plane while it’s flying.” I think we all know what that feels like. These days we seem to lurch from one catastrophe to another, praying to find a moment to catch our breath, or if God can spare the time, maybe even a small miracle. 
When a friend gave me this tea towel on Sunday, I picked up the Good Book and checked the relevant passage (John 2:1) but details were skimpy. A comment in an online forum said, “Dump the water on a grape vine. Collect the grapes. Make grape juice. Ferment into wine. Since Jesus is on the metaphysical plane (god level) he is time and space irrelevant so that process takes zero time.” Hmmm, doesn’t sound like I’m going to be able to duplicate those results. There are so many things we are destined never to know. As the saying goes, “Life is not a problem to be solved but a mystery to be lived.” Who said that? Google attributes it to Friedrich Nietzsche, Soren Kierkegaard, Joseph Campbell, Clive Ollies, the Japanese poet Osho, Dune author Frank Herbert, Thomas Merton, Gabriel Marcel, Alan Watts, A. A. Milne, and the poet Yeats. So who actually said it first? Your guess is as good as mine. Or Google’s. 
Hmmm, is the killer confessing before the crime, right on the t-shirt? Or is this just another red herring? Photo: Etsy
I’ve given up expecting answers about my hazardous bathing suit and Cash, the Houdini of kittens. In fact, I’m embracing the chaos. “Experience,” says The Premonition, “is making the same mistake over and over again, only with greater confidence.” Here’s to making all new mistakes, learning from them, and living the mystery. Well, that was fun! Want more? Sign up to receive an alert when I publish new stuff. GET FREE UPDATES HERE Or just send me an email and I'll put your name on the list. enjoylivingabroad@gmail.com YOU MIGHT ALSO ENJOY  The Bill Pickett Invitational Rodeo has expanded opportunities for cowgirls to shine in what's often a male-dominated arena. "I love to see a young girl go out and grab the world by the lapels,” wrote Maya Angelou. “Life's a bitch. You've got to go out and kick ass.” Last Saturday, I had a rip-roaring time watching young girls, mature women, guys of all ages, and various broncos and bovines — all kicking some serious ass. Rodeo riders flew through the air and crashed to the ground with alarming frequency and bone-jolting thuds. Incredibly, every one of them leapt back onto his feet, grinned, bowed to the crowd, and ran off to chase down his escaping horse, with sympathetic applause ringing in his ears. I was at the Bill Pickett Invitational Rodeo, dubbed “One of the Greatest Shows on Dirt.” America’s only touring African-American rodeo is a rollicking good time, two days of riding, roping, barrel races, and bucking broncos. Growing up in the West, I’ve attended plenty of rodeos; as a youngster I even rode in a few kids’ events. I remember just enough to appreciate how skilled the performers were — and to recall what it’s like to go flying off a horse just when you least expect it.  Leaning against the back of the mobile rodeo museum. Photo: Rich McCann Why an African-American rodeo? I’m so glad you asked. It turns out 25% of cowboys in the Old West were Black — I know; the movies never tell you that, do they? — and now their descendants are reclaiming their heritage. Thousands were brought west as slaves to drive cattle over long distances to northern markets. After Emancipation, many hired on to do the same work as free men. The pay was lousy, conditions were rough, and prejudice abounded. But lots preferred the cowboy life to the jobs they’d likely find in cities, such as making deliveries or operating elevators. “The word cowboy was first used in the West to describe slaves,” says Larry Callies, founder of the Black Cowboy Museum in Texas. “There were house boys, field boys, and cow boys.” White men doing the same work were called cow punchers, cattle men, or cow drivers. But when Hollywood — never a stickler for accuracy — started making Westerns in 1903, writers decided cowboy was catchier, and it stuck.  Bill Picket, whose parents were former slaves, was one of the few Black cowboys who achieved fame and fortune in the Old West. Photo: Library of Congress “The Black cowboy wasn’t misunderstood. He was left out and unspoken about,” says Callies. And that goes double for Black cowgirls. “My entire life I’ve been ignored,” says Brianna Noble. “The only time I have not been ignored is when I am sitting on the back of a horse. It seems like nobody can ignore a Black woman on a horse.” When Noble rode at the head of a Black Lives Matter protest in Oakland in 2020, she made headlines around the world.  I think this is just what Maya Angelou was talking about. Brianna Noble grabbed the world by the lapels when she rode Dapper Dan at the head of a Black Lives Matter protest in Oakland, California, in 2020. Photo: Shira Bezalal When railroads made long cattle drives obsolete, many Black cowboys joined the rodeo circuit. One of the most successful was Bill Pickett, who invented a type of steer wrestling known as bulldogging. Inspired by the way cattle dogs subdued unruly animals, Pickett would spring from his horse, bite the bull on the lip, and fall over backward, taking the startled animal down with him. It was a real crowd pleaser, as you can imagine. Inexplicably, the lip-biting technique has been dropped from modern bulldogging; apparently today’s cowboys aren’t keen. Go figure. And tenderhearted readers concerned about animal safety will be happy to learn a recent study showed the chances of the bull being injured during steer wrestling (with or without biting) are just four one-hundredths of one percent — 0.0004. Pickett became a celebrity, starring in rodeos, making movies, and performing for the British royal family. In 1989 he became the first Black cowboy inducted into the ProRodeo Hall of Fame. When Colorado promoter Lu Vason decided to launch an all-Black touring rodeo in the 1980s, choosing the name was a no-brainer. Vason passed in 2015; his widow, Valeria Howard-Cunningham, is now CEO.  With Valeria Howard-Cunningham in the saddle, and a majority-female leadership team, the Bill Pickett Invitational Rodeo has expanded opportunities for cowgirls to shine in what's often a male-dominated arena. To open Saturday’s rodeo, the announcer’s voice boomed out, “Please stand for the Black National Anthem.” Didn’t realize there was one? You’re not alone. But every one of the 5,000 people at the rodeo that day knew it; all stood respectfully, and lots sang. We continued standing, heads bared and bowed, for the Cowboy’s Prayer. And then the fun began. Horses and riders poured into the ring. One cowboy held the African-American flag, another the Stars and Stripes. Buffalo Soldiers sported uniforms honoring nineteenth century Black regiments. Within minutes somebody took a tumble off his horse, and everyone leaned forward to watch, enthralled, as the frisky beast raced around eluding capture for quite some time. That rider wasn’t the last to go flying off into the dust, especially during the bronc riding. Originally testing the skills needed to break a wild horse to saddle, this involves jumping on the back of a semi-feral horse that’s trapped in a chute then released. It’s goal is to fling you off as soon as possible; yours is to cling on, one handed, for eight seconds. Lots of horses came out the winner in this event. Calf-ropers, who ranged from 72 to 12 years old, each lassoed a calf, leapt to the ground, and tied its legs. The youngest rode like greased lightning — or as the announcer put it, “He’s so fast he could play ping pong with himself.” The barrel races were equally thrilling, with competitors tearing around metal drums in a cloverleaf patten. One contestant was a grandmother who’d suffered a stroke. "What got her through," said the announcer, "was her determination to be well enough to compete in this event." She rode into the ring looking stiff and uncertain; the horse, picking up her hesitation, sidled a little. “That’s all right,” said the announcer affably. “You just take your time. No rush.” The crowd seemed to hold its breath. And then the rider collected herself, touched her heels to the horses flank, and they were off. She didn't set any land speed records, but it was a respectable showing, and she earned a rousing cheer. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves hugely. This was very much a family event, with little kids underfoot, girls and women dressed up in their flashiest Western wear, guys showing off cowboy boots and Stetsons, and lots of steely-eyed grandmothers making sure even the most obstreperous toddlers and teens behaved themselves. In an era when every Little League game seems to degenerate into fistfights, lawsuits, and death threats, it was tremendously heartening to be in such a peaceful, easygoing crowd. An atmosphere of kindness, respect, and good humor prevailed throughout the day, and I was treated with friendliness at every turn. My only disappointment was that the stalls selling barbecue, catfish, and fried chicken had such long lines that I never did get lunch; Rich and I had to survive on kettle corn and beer. As I left, people waved and said they hoped I’d come back next year. You bet. I marveled again at life’s serendipity. I’d happened on a story about this rodeo, gone on impulse, and gotten back some of my faith in humankind, just when I needed it most. Once again Ralph Ellison’s words rang true for me: “The world is a possibility if only you’ll discover it.” Well, that was fun! Want more?
Sign up to receive updates when I publish new stuff. LEARN MORE ABOUT FREE UPDATES HERE Or just send me an email and I'll put your name on the list. enjoylivingabroad@gmail.com  Yurts have been around for 3000 years, and so have some of the cooking methods used by their owners. “Congratulations! I think you’ve managed to find the blandest food on the planet,” I remarked to Rich as we hurtled down the highway. “It says here they mostly eat plain boiled mutton, with no seasoning. If they’re feeling frisky they might cook up the bones, fat, organs, and head of the sheep in horse’s milk with root vegetables and salt. Apparently they put salt in everything, including the tea.” We were heading to a hole-in-the-wall said to serve genuine Mongolian food. “Big deal," you may be thinking. "I’ve eaten at one of those Mongolian Barbecue Pits — they’re all over America!” It turns out those slightly kitschy stir-fry palaces have nothing to do with Mongolia — or barbecue, for that matter. The so-called Mongolian BBQ trend started in 1951, when comedian Wu Zhaonan fled from Beijing to Taiwan during the Chinese Civil War. To survive, he opened a food stall and called it Mongolian because he knew his preferred name, Beijing Barbecue, was too politically sensitive; his home town had just been declared the capital of Communist China, Taiwan's enemy. His food stall was a huge hit until it was wiped out in a typhoon, at which point he gave up cooking to pursue a successful career as a stand-up comedian. Others picked up on the popularity of “Mongolian barbecue” and ran with it.  A so-called "Mongolian Grill" in Texas. Photo: Luna 715 So it turns out very few people outside of Mongolia itself have actually tasted the real deal. Rich heard about an authentic place in nearby Richmond, and as we drove there, I was skimming Lonely Planet’s guide. My first impression? Mongolian food wasn’t going to take the culinary world by storm. “If you get a chance,” advised the guide, “don’t miss the opportunity to try boodog, blowtorched marmot (prairie dog), a delicacy of the steppes.” “Tell me I’m not going to eat blowtorched prairie dog,” I said to Rich. “No, no. This place’s big specialty is khorkhog.” It’s pronounced “whore-hog,” which I felt was unlikely to enhance its popularity. “You start,” he continued, “by killing a sheep.” “Tell me I’m not going to be killing a sheep.” “You put chunks of sheep meat into a pot with horse milk and root vegetables, and cook it a long time. It has to be ordered in advance, so we won’t be having it today.” I managed to contain my disappointment at this news.  To make khorkhog and other dishes, including boodog (blowtorched prarie dog), rocks are heated in the fire then added to the meat to help it cook. When it's time to eat, you pass the hot, greasy rocks from hand to hand. It's supposed to be good for your health. How? Still researching this. “The place we’re going is called Dumpling House,” Rich said. “I’m always up for dumplings. Will there be vodka?” “Why?” “Lonely Planet says it’s traditional to interrupt meals for rounds of vodka. Apparently before taking a swig, I’m supposed to dip my left ring finger into the vodka, flick it in the air four times to honor the sky gods in the four cardinal directions, and then wipe my finger across my forehead.” Mongolian eating obvious had its exotic side, and by now I was imagining Dumpling House as a smoky yurt with a colorful door, surrounded by vast open plains and herds of sturdy horses and nervous sheep. This is what I found. On the positive side, a restaurant in a strip mall was unlikely to require customers to do their own butchering or blowtorching. I climbed out of the car and went inside, only to find the place completely empty. Eventually a woman appeared, and for a short time confusion reigned. Once I’d gotten the hang of her accent, and she’d gotten over her shock at seeing non-Mongolians on the premises, we got down to business. I asked about various dumplings, all of which seemed to be deep fat fried. This was unwelcome news, as I was trying to eat a little healthier than usual; my annual physical was looming on the horizon, and I was hoping to avoid awkward conversations about my cholesterol. Finally she said, “Momo?” And pointed to a picture of doughy steamed blobs; the description included the world “vegetable.” “Momo,” I agreed. “And two beers.” Making a heroic effort not to imply in any way that I was a complete blockhead, she pointed to the drinks list, from which alcohol was conspicuously absent. “OK,” I said, “Ice tea.” She disappeared back into the kitchen.  Don't have a pot handy? In Mongolia, it's common to hollow out an animal skin, stuff it with meat and hot rocks from the fire, wire it shut, and use a blowtorch to singe away the fur and cook the meat inside. Any strong flame will do; in the olden days, they used torches made from sticks. “How am I going to honor the sky gods?” I asked Rich. “Somehow finger flicking with iced tea doesn’t feel right.” Over the next half hour, the restaurant slowly filled with people, all of whom wore ordinary American clothes but had the kind of rugged faces that suggested they could easily have ridden in across the steppes on horseback with their hunting eagles.  Mongolian burkitshi have been using eagles to hunt small mammals for 4000 years. Today, they still do it wearing traditional clothing. Photo: National Geographic When a middle-aged couple escorted a fragile-looking old man to the corner table, the head cook came out to greet them. She was magnificent, a stocky woman who walked with the ponderous grace of a sumo wrestler and surveyed her queendom with a stern eye. I could easily imagine her gutting a sheep with one hand while blowtorching a meat-stuffed animal skin with the other. At last the iced tea arrived. I took a sip; it was loaded with sugar and lightly laced with salt. I was still reeling from that flavor sensation when the food showed up. Six giant white blobs squatted on the platter, accompanied by a sort of tangy coleslaw and a little pot of hot sauce. I picked up my fork and carved out a bite of the momo's dense boiled dough, which somehow managed to be both fluffy and chewy. Eventually I found the filling, a walnut-sized glob of stewed onion, cabbage, and potato.  One momo each was all Rich and I could manage; we took the rest to go. “Whatever you do,” Rich gasped in the strangled tone of one who has just regained the power of speech, “do not try the hot sauce.” I would love to be able to tell you that real Mongolian cuisine is marvelous, and it is — for those raised on it. This was hearty fare, skillfully prepared. What it lacked in gourmet seasoning it more than made up for in protein and carbs — a practical diet for the harsh life of the steppes. You need something stronger than arugula and veggie burgers when you drive herds across the Gobi Desert on days when it's twenty below zero. Everyone around me was tucking in to their dinner with enormous enthusiasm. “We should come back,” Rich said. I stared at him in astonishment. He added, “This is a meat culture. What were we thinking, ordering vegetables? We should try the khorkhog.”  Khorkhog is a meal that will really stick to your ribs. “But the menu says it contains nine to ten pounds of meat,” I protested. “I can barely get through one momo. Why don’t you bring your Navy buddies here?” Rich was delighted with the idea and is planning to pitch it to the guys; this manly meal seems right up their alley. As for me, I confess I’ll be happy skipping this particular culinary adventure. Rich has agreed to take photos and provide a full report; I’ll share the highlights in a future blog post. Meanwhile, if you find authentic Mongolian cuisine in your neck of the woods, try it and tell me how you like it — and whether you think it will become America’s next comfort food craze. Сайхан хооллоорой (Click to hear this Mongolian version of bon appétit.) Well, that was fun! Want more? Sign up to receive updates when I publish new stuff. LEARN MORE ABOUT FREE UPDATES HERE YOU MIGHT ALSO ENJOY |
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This blog is a promotion-free zone. As my regular readers know, I never get free or discounted goods or services for mentioning anything on this blog (or anywhere else). I only write about things that interest me and that I believe might prove useful for you all to know about. Whew! I wanted to clear that up before we went any further. Thanks for listening.  Karen McCann
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I'm an American travel writer based in Seville, Spain and currently visiting my home state of California. Wondering how to navigate travel's new normal? Sign up for my blog so you can get free updates as the situation unfolds. 
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