 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.
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 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  Beets are the #1 most hated food in the world. If you ever want to reaffirm your sanity — something I feel the need to do on a fairly regular basis these days — go to the Yelp forum “What’s your worst picky eater story?” Rebecca H: I used to work as a Personal Assistant for a woman who was going through an "orange phase" meaning she would only eat things that were orange. As part of my job, I made her dinner three times a week. What a pain to try to come up with three all orange meals! Chang L: i like to eat mushy things. mushy cereal (i let the milk sit for at least 1/2 hr), mushy bananas (the one with a ton of brown spots), mushy cucumbers (i freeze them, then defrost them) Johnny L: Were you born without teeth? Deeeeeee: I think most people are born without teeth, Johnny. My point is — and stop me if you’ve heard this — people eat the darndest things. And they can get pretty fanatical about it.  You won’t be surprised to hear pickiness usually starts during childhood. In her wisdom, Mother Nature hardwires infants and toddlers to be reluctant about experimenting with new tastes and textures. "If you're a caveman and you're two or three years old, it's not a great thing to be running around and eating berries off all the different trees," says Marcia Pelchat of the Monell Center, which researches taste and smell. Now scientists at Monell are learning our preferences probably start in the womb, when the foods your mother eats become part of your flavor repertoire long before you draw your first breath. My mom actually liked broccoli and so do I. Coincidence? Apparently not. “Obviously my mother liked ice cream,” Rich observed when I shared this factoid. For many, the fun train goes off the rails the moment solid fare appears. After six months of giving kids warm, cozy milk in soft breasts or bottles, suddenly we’re demanding they open their mouths so we can shove in metal implements loaded with mushy, overcooked peas. Is it any wonder they express their sentiments by flinging the green glop at the wall?  The brave new world of baby-led weaning, as demonstrated by my sister-in-law's grandniece, Olivia. “I was visiting my baby granddaughter,” a friend told me this week. “At mealtime, her mother set out little separate mounds of brightly colored food — mango, avocado, sweet potatoes — on her high chair tray. The child was encouraged to touch them, smear them around, play with them, taste them, and eat what she wanted.” “Does that get a little … messy?” I asked, picturing mango dripping from the ceiling and the dog happily lapping up mounds of sweet potato in the corner.  The canine community is wholehearted in their support of baby-led weaning. “Well, yes. They have to put a tarp down under the high chair at every meal. But it’s the latest thing. It’s called baby-led weaning.” Not having kids or grandkids, I’m seemingly the last to know about this newfangled notion that kids will eat better all their lives if they start with real food and make their own choices. I grew up in the era of processed mush laced with sugar, salt, and MSG, baby food that’s still the norm in much of America today.  In the 20th century, America's moms were told — often by doctors — that modern processed foods were better for their kids. Families in other parts of the world often stick with traditional fare. Italians, for instance, tend to start kids off with fresh vegetables and cheese drizzled with olive oil. Yes, I’ve already put in a request to come back as an Italian in my next life. Think rookie eaters will find it hard to stomach mozzarella, broccoli, and olive oil? Inuit kids begin their food journey consuming nuk-tuk made of seaweed, seal, and caribou. The Chinese give babies rice with fish, carrots, seaweed, eggs, and pork. In Kenya, the little ones join the rest of the family in chowing down on the sweet potato ngwaci. Japanese babies get rice with fish, yogurt, fruit, and vegetables. In other words, most kids get whatever mom and dad are eating. Until a hundred years ago, all kids ate and drank like miniature adults. "Coffee was extremely popular for children in the 19th century. And they sometimes drank alcohol, although that was getting less popular by then," explains food historian Dr. Helen Veit.  (And that's why we no longer give children coffee.) In the early twentieth century, all sorts of “experts” began admonishing parents to do better. Baby food manufacturers insisted processed products were safer and more nutritious than fresh. Doctors advised parents to give kids milk — as much as a quart a day if they could afford it — for strength. To build them up further, parents were told to provide snacks. That’s when “children started rejecting food for the first time,” said Veit. “They no longer were hungry when they started dinner." That created endless arguments at mealtime — and an opportunity for Madison Avenue to join in the fun. Advertisers claimed the solution was kid-friendly foods — the ones being marketed directly to children during Saturday morning cartoons. I remember sitting with my brothers chanting the catchphrase “I want my Maypo!” We actually hated this maple-flavored instant oatmeal, but we couldn’t resist chanting the slogan in the obnoxious tone of the kid in the commercial. Thinking back, it’s a wonder any of us lived to adulthood. Lots of people old enough to know better develop quirky food fetishes. Elvis Presley loved the Fool’s Gold Loaf: an entire loaf of bread hollowed out and stuffed with a jar of peanut butter, a jar of jelly, and a pound of bacon. He was also a big fan of the honey-fried peanut butter and banana sandwich. I actually sampled one (although sadly, not with the King himself) and it tasted pretty good. But once was enough. Steve Jobs lived almost entirely on dates, almonds, and a huge number of carrots. "Friends remember him, at times, having a sunset-orange hue," writes his biographer Walter Isaacson. French author Honoré de Balzac used to drink fifty cups of espresso a night, saying, “Ideas begin to move like battalions of the Grand Army of the battlefield. And the battle takes place." Unfortunately, the battle was too fierce even for his strong constitution. He died of caffeine poisoning at the age of 51. The history of food madness goes on and on.  I taste-tested spackle — fried spam covered in molasses — when stocking the Apocalypse Chow food locker. Rich said if a disaster strikes, he'd rather subsist on rats and wood shavings. The fact is, nobody makes dietary choices based solely on logic. My college roommate ate nothing but purple food because she believed it had the best karma. I can only assume this was a rumor started by all the ingredients of other colors, as a way to avoid winding up on the dinner plate. However whacky our choices, one of the great pleasures of adulthood is being able to make our own decisions about food. I don’t know what the karma rating is for mashed, overcooked peas, but I can tell you this: anybody who tries to shove a spoonful in my mouth is just asking for trouble. You have been warned.  Pizza is the #1 favorite food in the world. These pizzas, from Durres, Albania, were among the best I've ever tasted. FYI I'm heading off to a family reunion in the mountains and won't have any internet access for a while. I'm not sure when or whether I'll put out a post next week. But you can be sure I'll come home with lots of stories to tell. YOU MIGHT ALSO ENJOY Well, that was fun! Want more?
Sign up to receive updates when I publish new stuff. LEARN MORE ABOUT FREE UPDATES HERE  Great luggage always has an exciting backstory. I remained in blissful ignorance of the catastrophe until just after checking into the hotel. Dazed by the long drive and stunning heat, I just wanted to drop off our stuff, grab a little lunch, and dress for our friends’ country wedding. Rich walked around to the back of the car, popped open the hatchback, and peered inside. “Where’s your suitcase?” “What? It’s right there.” No, it wasn’t. There was an awkward pause. I clearly recalled him saying, “Would you like me to take your bag out to the car?” To which I replied in the affirmative. I’d assumed he was volunteering, but had it been a rhetorical question, along the lines of “Would you like to taste test chocolate for a living?” In the bustle of closing the house and throwing things into the car for the trip, I hadn’t given my suitcase another thought. And clearly neither had he. An oversight that was obviously coming back to haunt us now. It wasn’t a complete disaster. My dress was on a hangar in the back seat. And having traveled luggage-free before, I knew I could survive without my nightgown and other small luxuries. But it was a bit daunting to think of showing up for a wedding without jewelry, decent shoes, a handbag daintier than my baggy satchel, and a sweater (because California nights always turn cool). My first response? I laughed. And then I said, “Looks like we’re going shopping!” But where? On our brief drive through the small town of Cloverdale, California, all I’d seen were a few ancient diners and a Dollar Store.  Under ordinary circumstances, I'd have loved to check out this 1923 diner, but that afternoon I was a woman on a retail mission. Rich drove along Cloverdale Boulevard — slowly, so we didn’t blink and miss anything — and I spotted a sign saying “Cloverdale Retail Therapy.” Inside I found the kind of general store where you can buy scented candles, cowboy boots, beach bags, and — yes, thank the Lord — clothes and jewelry. The proprietor, quickly grasping the nature of the emergency, threw herself into the hunt and helped me find the right jewelry, purse, and sweater. I didn’t think cowboy boots would do my outfit any favors, so I resigned myself to wearing my grubby espadrilles. As it turned out, the wedding was not only the most glamorous I’d ever been to, it was the most glamorous I’ll ever go to. My friends had purchased a nineteenth-century power plant which had been converted into a spectacular home. There was enough champagne to float the Spanish armada. The food was divine. To make sure we didn’t take ourselves too seriously, we were all issued kazoos to provide a ragtag version of the Wedding March. I wondered what the folks who’d built the power plant would think if they could see it now. Repurposing old buildings is an art, and it always warms my heart to find one transformed into something so wonderful. We’re going to be seeing a lot more of this in the years ahead as cities struggle to find new uses for offices vacated by remote workers. Right now San Francisco has 18.7 million square feet of empty office space to play with, and I hope some of the solutions are as creative as these. I’ve never had occasion to repurpose a whole building, but a lot of my home furnishings come from flea markets, yard sales, and second-hand shops. I'm always on the lookout for unwanted treasures that can be saved from the landfill and adapted to new service — the more unexpected the better.  Using an old car as a planter? Sure, why not? This one sits proudly on a street in Krakow, Poland. Now isn’t that more exciting than just going down to Ikea and buying stuff that looks like everyone else’s? To be fair to Ikea, they are doing their best to keep their products out of the landfill, starting with their Buy Back & Resell program. If you have fully assembled, fully functional Ikea furniture you no longer want, they’ll take it off your hands and pay you between 30% and 50% of the retail price, depending on the condition. They’ve been doing this in the UK and Ireland for a while, and in April they launched the program in 37 US stores. Their goal is to become a “circular” business by 2030 — that is, to produce all products with materials that are 100% recycled, remanufactured, refurbished, or reused. Amen to that. I’ve certainly bought my share of Ikea furniture and admire its practicality, but I generally prefer home furnishings with more character. That goes for the garden, too. In the summer of 2020, Rich and I used our quarantine time to clear out an overgrown patch of the yard for a seating area. To screen it from the narrow strip of land separating our house from the next, we wanted a slender door. After a massive online search, Rich found one that had originally graced a children’s bathroom in a mid-century Midwestern school. I added a decorative toper I found on Etsy, sanded and primed the door, painted it, varnished it, and figured my job was done.  The door when it went up in 2020 To my dismay — and considerable annoyance — the paint began bubble and peel almost at once. Repeated attempts at repainting only seemed to make it peel faster, until by this spring it looked as if something inside was trying to claw its way out. When a woodworker friend came to lunch, I showed him the disaster. He exclaimed, “Karen, you could easily fix this.” I sincerely doubted it, but I listened with interest until he got to the part about removing the inset plywood panels that were absorbing too much water and retrofitting new wood in their place. At that point, it was clear the project was way beyond my meager skills, and my eyes glazed over. Rich, however, embraced the project with unbridled enthusiasm. “And think of all the money we’ll save, not having to buy a new door.” Yes, you know where this is going. So far he’s purchased three bottles of stripper to remove 60 years’ worth of yellow, green, orange, blue, gold, brown, and white paint, a cement stripper wash, five disposable tarps, six KN95 face masks, a box of disposable gloves, two clamps wide enough to encompass the width of the door, sandpaper, epoxy, something that looks like pressed tin but is made of a synthetic material, four buckets, three bags of rags, and some polyurethane sealer. He’s been working on it for two months and is just now down to bare wood.  The door in May 2022 I suspect, eventually, it will be finished, and the sweat equity will make the little door all the more precious. In much the same way, my Cloverdale accessories will always have a special place in my wardrobe, thanks to the frenzied effort that went into finding them. “The things we love,” said Thomas Aquinas, “tell us what we are.” Apparently Rich and I are all about not-quite-lost causes and loony backstories, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Have you ever salvaged objects, buildings, or potential social disasters? Tell me your story in the comments below. YOU MIGHT ALSO ENJOY
Well, that was fun! Want more? Sign up to receive notices when I publish new stuff. LEARN MORE ABOUT FREE UPDATES HERE  Will cutlery soon seem as quaint as buggy whips and rotary phones? “When you come to a fork in the road, take it.” Yogi Berra My sister-in-law’s new rescue dog — whose previous life was pretty grim — arrived with an ingrained habit of eating so fast it made her ill. Now Sophie gets her kibble in a slow feeder bowl designed with special ridges and pockets that require hunting for every bite in a sort of maze. These days her meals are considerably more leisurely and easier to digest.  Slow feeder bowls stop meals from becoming a feeding frenzy. No, I’m not suggesting you buy a slow feeder for your kids or grandkids. Sadly, the human tongue just isn’t up to the task. But it’s apparent that when left to our own devices, we humans have a Sophie-like tendency to wolf down our food. One of the major tasks of civilization has been to slow down our meals so we can savor them properly. Until the mid-sixteenth century, most Western Europeans were perfectly happy with what the French call service en confusion, platters of foods tossed helter-skelter on a table while everyone grabs what they wanted and eats with their fingers. Like modern pizza nights, only with messier food and no napkins. When forks burst on the scene, this newfangled contraption was viewed as the devil’s implement. I mean, just look at the shape — straight out of Hades, right?  Celebrity chef Guy Fieri strikes a devilish pose. Early efforts to introduce forks went down in flames. In the year 1004, Greek Princess Maria Argyropoulina shocked the civilized world and her bridegroom, the son of the Venice Doge, by using a fork at her wedding. She had her eunuchs cut up her food and then she daintily lifted each bite to her mouth with this strange pronged instrument. The wedding guests gasped, scandalized. “God in his wisdom has provided man with natural forks—his fingers,” said one irate clergyman. “Therefore it is an insult to him to substitute artificial metal forks for them when eating.” When the princess died of plague two years later, Saint Peter Damien told everyone who would listen it was the Creator’s response to the fork incident. “This woman’s vanity was hateful to Almighty God; and so, unmistakably, did He take his revenge. For He raised over her the sword of His divine justice, so that her whole body did putrefy and all her limbs began to wither.” Yikes! As you can imagine, that put a damper on fork usage, and for nearly 500 years people continued eating with their fingers and wiping them on their clothes in god-fearing righteousness. It was the Italians who first broke ranks, embracing the fork’s ability to gather up pasta more efficiently. The French continued to turn up their collective noses at these unholy utensils. According to popular legend, all that changed in 1533 when the fourteen-year-old Florentine princess Catherine de Medici married the future King Henry II of France. She supposedly brought along several Italian chefs and immediately had everyone cooking with garlic and truffles, and picking up forks to eat manicotti and lasagna. That's so not how it happened. For years Catherine was largely ignored by everyone who mattered because her husband was so besotted with his mistress, Diane de Poitiers, that his teenage queen was pushed into the background. Catherine didn’t bring any Italian chefs with her and was probably too busy trying to survive and, if possible, get pregnant with a royal heir to worry overmuch about what was happening in her kitchen.  The wedding of Catherine de Medici and the Duc d'Orleans (later King Henry II) presided over by her uncle, Pope Clement VII. Painting: Jacopo Chimenti da Empoli The Italians in Catherine's entourage, nostalgic for home cooking, found a surprising number of kindred spirits at the French court. In those days, the French were often in Italy engaging in minor warfare with various city-states. In between all the fighting, laying siege, pillaging, looting, and occasionally running for their lives, the French sampled the local food. They liked what they found and brought back fresh ideas, such as serving meals in courses, baking with butter — once ignored as “poor people’s fat” — and eating mushrooms. Catherine’s dowery included several dozen dinner forks crafted by the great Italian silversmith Benvenuto Cellini, and these gradually appeared on the dinner table. The French courtiers teased each other mercilessly over the amount of food they spilled learning to use the goofy new implements, but they eventually got the hang of things. Soon fashionable guests were showing up at dinner parties carrying a cadena, a specially made box (like those of dueling pistols) containing their personal fork and spoon.  If you were heading to a fancy dinner party in sixteenth century Paris, you'd pack cutlery like this. The British held firm, continuing to despise forks as unmanly, proudly eating with their fingers for another 100 years. Then in 1633 Charles I declared, “It is decent to use a fork.” History buffs will remember Charles as the controversial king who ran afoul of everybody and was beheaded for treason, ending the monarchy and making England a republic. He is generally viewed as among worst kings ever inflicted on the realm. But a sound man on forks. Since then forks have been showing up everywhere and taking on all sorts of shapes and functions. The Victorians went overboard creating special versions for spearing lettuce, fish, mangos, olives, pickles, and bread in a basket, to name but a few. The late nineteenth century sprang the spork (half spoon, half fork) on an unsuspecting public. Sporks became popular in the 1960s, and everyone attempted to figure out how to manage this awkward hybrid, which could stab your tongue if you tried to sip soup, yet had such stubby tines eating spaghetti was a hopeless struggle. Nowadays sporks are most often found in prisons, school cafeterias, and budget airlines.  Disney's Toy Story 4 included this spork character called "Forky," Apparently he wasn't ready to accept the spoon side of his identity and had self-esteem issues. How are forks likely to fare in the future? Some suggest they may be on the verge of extinction. “The rise of casual dining, convenience foods and drive-throughs means that for the first time since the 1500s we regularly eat complete meals with our hands,” observes food writer Chad Ward. “Forks and knives may again become the source of confusion and social unease.”  Americans eat 20% of their meals in the car. Photo: Getty Images Say it ain’t so! Because if the fork has given us anything (besides fewer stains on our clothing and tablecloths) it's a sense of eating as an occasion worthy of thoughtful preparation and leisurely consumption. We don’t need a slow feeder bowl, or a staff of eunuchs peeling our grapes, to dine in civilized manner. All we have to do is follow the lead of Princess Maria Argyropoulina, Catherine de Medici, and other pioneers who had the courage to buck prevailing trends and pick up a fork at the dinner table.  Oh no! Our statue of San Pancracio, Seville's patron saint of health, suffered an accident this week, possibly knocked over by the neighbor's cat. At the same time, Rich had a rebound, testing positive again for Covid. Coincidence? That's for future historians to decide. San Pancracio has now been glued back together and Rich is testing negative again. Whew! Well, that was fun! Want more?
Sign up to receive notices when I publish new stuff. GET MORE FREE UPDATES HERE I do my best with technology, but occasionally readers report snags when signing up for the blog or stop getting notices each week, usually due to spam filters. If that happens, send me an email and I'll fix it. enjoylivingabroad@gmail.com  Munich's cathedral floor bears the actual footprint of the Devil himself. Or so they say. Photo: theregoesrose.com “Travel is no longer just about ‘going somewhere.’ Coming out of such a long period of constraints and limitations, 2022 will be the year we wring every bit of richness and meaning out of our experiences.” Christie Hudson, Expedia I’ve been getting lots of emails from readers with questions about making the most of 2022’s wider travel opportunities. In an effort to keep up, this morning I was skimming a NY Times article. Hmmm, yes, as expected, “fewer restrictions … hotels with robots … sexual healing.” Wait, what? That’s a travel trend right now? Yes indeed, says the wonderfully named Schlomo Slatkin, a rabbi and relationship therapist who runs retreats in exotic locales offering “no blame, no shame” couples therapy. “Going away is really powerful, because changing the relationship requires a paradigm shift. The lockdowns brought out a lot of maintenance issues in relationships that need to be addressed.” Helping people rescue relationships that have run aground on the rocks of the pandemic — that’s a bit outside of my wheelhouse. I can, however, speak to the question of finding richness and meaning in our journeys. For instance, several readers have asked, “How can I keep my husband interested? All through Europe he keeps saying, ‘If you’ve seen one cathedral, you’ve seen them all.’”  Perhaps the husband in question doesn’t fully appreciate just how quirky these old cathedrals really are. While theoretically built to praise the glory of God, they’re often monuments to human ego, one-upping the neighbors, finding a place to put all the weird stuff your ancestors brought back from the Crusades, making sure some miracles get attributed to the saint underneath the altar, and housing objects of local pride. In short, if you know how to read them, cathedral walls can be as sensationalist as today’s tabloid headlines. Say, for instance, you’re touring Modena, the lovely Italian town that gave the world Pavarotti, cars such as Ferrari, Lamborghini, and Maserati, and fancy balsamic vinegar. You might breeze through the cathedral without ever noticing the object that kicked off the War of the Bucket in 1325. At the time, the Holy Roman Empire and the Roman Catholic Church were locked in a power struggle for control of Europe. Modena backed the Empire; neighboring Bologna supported the Vatican. The two city-states engaged in many scuffles and skirmishes, with a few buildings torched here, an unlucky soldier ambushed there, and plenty of bravado and braggadocio all around. Then a few merry pranksters from Modena’s army had the bright idea of sneaking into downtown Bologna and stealing the wooden bucket from the city’s main well. As soon as they were back outside the gate, they brandished their trophy with appropriate expressions of derision and took off home.  Apparently "Thou shalt not steal" doesn't apply to buckets. The one that launched the war has spent eight centuries in Modena's cathedral — and astonishingly has never once been struck by lightning. Bologna demanded the return of their property. Modena jeered. Bologna said to give it back or else! Modena scoffed. Goaded beyond endurance, the Bolognese declared war on Modena. Bologna assembled 30,000 foot soldiers and 2000 mounted cavaliers and marched to the advantageous high ground near what’s now the town Zappalino. Modena gathered just 5000 foot soldiers and 2000 horsemen on the plane below — but these were battle-hardened veterans who knew a thing or two about tactics. And by now, they were pretty fed up with the Bolognese attitude. It was just a bucket, for heaven’s sake! Where was their sense of humor? Time to get this over with. A few frenzied hours later, the surviving Bolognese were running for their lives, making a mad dash back toward their city’s main gate with Modena’s army whooping, hollering, and nipping at their heels. Modena’s troops then held a mock horserace in front of the enemy’s gate and tossed snarky remarks over the battlements at the seething Bolognese.  Modenese soldiers returning home in triumph from the War of the Bucket. Photo: History.net After wallowing long and hard in their victory, Modena packed up to head home. Some versions of the tale claim that at this point they stole another bucket from a nearby well and waved it at Bologna in a mocking manner. I wouldn’t put it past them. The original bucket is locked away inside the cathedral, but the replica is on permanent display, a reminder that you mess with Modena at your peril. Of course, much of the real drama revolves around religious relics, which are bits of a saint’s body or possessions that are believed to have miraculous powers. For instance, the dried blood of St. Januarious, patron of Naples, is said to liquify in emergencies and is credited with saving the city from the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius in 1631. Nice work, Januarious!  Using materials available in Medieval times, modern scientists have recreated a substance that looks like dried blood and liquifies when shaken. Many vials of "miraculous blood" have been debunked. The Church won't let this one be opened for testing. Paris claims possession of the actual crown of thorns placed on Jesus’ head during his last hours; it was in Notre Dame until the fire, when it was taken to the Louvre. More dubious sources suggest his beating heart lies beneath the Basilica of the Sacred Heart. Naysayers question the validity of many relics, including the three different foreskins said to have survived from Jesus’ circumcision (all were debunked). And what a miracle it would be if all six of St. John the Baptist’s heads (held in the Umayyad Mosque in Damascus, Rome’s San Silvestro in Capite, Munich’s Residenz Museum, Amiens Cathedral in France, a chapel in Antioch, Turkey, and a parish church in Tenterden, Kent) proved to be real. And then there are the impossibly anachronistic sculptures on Salamanca’s cathedral. Hidden among the sixteenth century carvings around the main door there’s an astronaut in a spacesuit. Naturally this has given rise to endless speculation about time travel, alien visitations, and ancient prophecies. Incredibly, not one of those theories is true; the figure was added during repairs in 1992. As is the custom with cathedrals, sculptor Jeronimo Garcia was given permission to add a few touches of his own and decided to have some fun. Just about every cathedral houses a spooky crypt, and few are creepier than the one below Vienna’s St. Stephen’s cathedral. During the Black Death (bubonic plague) of 1735, the eight cemeteries abutting the cathedral were emptied, and 11,000 bodies, old and new, were dumped into catacombs beneath the cathedral. Not surprisingly, the stench became so unbearable nobody was showing up for mass. What to do? A few unlucky prisoners were dispatched to go down and rearrange the remains, removing flesh and stacking bones neatly, skulls over here, femurs over there, etc. They never completed the task, so deeper sections remain in horrific disarray. In a more upmarket section, you’ll find the Ducal Crypt, which for some unfathomable reason contains 60 jars of imperial intestines, including the stomach of Empress Maria Theresa. (Suggestion: visit at Halloween.)  St. Stephen's in Vienna is creepy even before you descend to the crypt. Photo: Haunted Vienna My point is that cathedrals aren’t all about boring tributes to pious saints; they chronicle bizarre and blood-curdling chapters of our collective past. It's easy to scoff today, but many of these traditions have given countless generations a thrilling sense of connection with mystical forces beyond human comprehension. And they can add some excitement to your visit, too. Do a little research ahead of time, and you may find enough lurid tales to fascinate even the most reluctant travel companion, turning “just another cathedral” into a rich and meaningful adventure you’ll talk about for years.  Ouch! This unusual gargoyle on Salisbury Cathedral is both a functional downspout and a device to ward off evil spirits. Speaking of warding off evil spirits, I am happy to report that Rich and I have recovered from Covid. We are testing negative and back among the living. Yay! Many thanks to all of you who wrote to wish us well. YOU MIGHT ALSO ENJOY  The famous Montparnasse derailment of 1895 is a good reminder that no matter how bad things are now, they can always get worse. It’s not often you get to introduce someone to America for the very first time, and in the beginning I thought it all went rather well. Our teenaged goddaughter Ana arrived from Europe after an East Coast stopover, and she seemed gobsmacked to discover the West Coast is so . . . Western. We took her to Nicasio, an old rancher’s roadhouse among the dairy farms and cattle pastures, where a live band belted out rhythm & blues. We had to explain everything from the jackalope head above the bar to what Billie Joe MacAllister threw off the Tallahatchie Bridge. Her eyes were like saucers. Doubling down on the Western theme, we went to Rich’s sister’s ranch, where Ana saw longhorn cattle, met the family horses, and rode the ranch cart around wide open spaces. There was even a brief encounter with a cowboy — Stetson, spurs, silver belt buckle, the whole megillah. You’d have thought we’d introduced her to a Martian. “A real cowboy,” she said in awe. “I didn’t think they existed.”  This curious longhorn wanted to get a good look at us, so she moseyed over to the trough and pretended to drink. Turns out there wasn't any water in the trough at all. It was about this time that I began to get just a teeny bit concerned about my tickly throat. I always assume it’s just allergies, and it usually is, but just to be on the safe side, I’d taken a Covid home test before heading to Rich’s sister’s ranch. Negative. Whew! And yet after we got home, I started to feel kind of funky. Next morning I tested again. I think you can all guess where this is heading.  Uh-oh. After two years and two months of keeping this particular wolf at bay, it finally bit me. Damn. Of course, testing positive now, after double vaxxing and double boosting, doesn’t hold the same terrors it would have two years ago, or even last summer. I counted myself lucky. Yes, I was sick, but it was no worse than many a respiratory infection from my past, with the addition of the muzzy-headedness known as Covid fog. I decided to reconfirm with an official test, available at the pop-up hut around the corner. All I had to do was make an appointment online. Easier said than done! The form took forever: symptoms, insurance, credit card, photos of Medicare card, how many of my library books were currently overdue … OK, maybe not that last one, but just about everything else they could imagine. I filled it out five times, and it kept kicking back, insisting I couldn’t pay for the rapid test I wanted because I had Medicare. “This makes no sense. Must be my Covid fog,” I told Rich. “Let me try.” Two minutes later he was back. “You have an appointment in two hours.” “How did you do it?” “I lied. I told them you didn’t have Medicare.” The man’s a genius.  I masked up, shuffled around the corner, and presented myself at the hut. I was coughing and sneezing so badly I could tell the medical technician was thinking, “Why bother, honey? I can tell from here how this is going to come out.” But we went through the ritual and reconfirmed my positive status. My husband and house guest sensibly decided it was time for a road trip. In an excess of caution they wore masks and kept the car windows open as they rolled across the Golden Gate Bridge and meandered around San Francisco, giving Ana her first glimpse of the city. Rich navigated Lombard Street, “the crookedest street in the world,” and showed off such famous landmarks as Fisherman’s Wharf, Chinatown, and Alcatraz before stopping at a taco truck for lunch.  Lombard Street is not for the faint of stomach. “What did Ana think of San Francisco?” I asked him later. “She was excited and enthusiastic about everything. Kept shouting ‘Wahoo!’” Ana may have loved her San Francisco tour, but she wasn’t keen to spend more time at our place — or as we were beginning to refer to it, the Plague House. By a stroke of enormous good fortune, she had friends in the area who, learning of her plight, offered her safe haven. She took off, and who could blame her? Meanwhile, I began taking the antiviral Paxlovid, said to reduce Covid’s severity and duration. Did it help? Who can really tell? All I know is I’m getting better. The main side effect is a strange, persistent, metallic taste in my mouth. After rigorous yet totally unscientific testing, I’ve determined that that the best way to offset the yucky taste, if only briefly, is by eating graham crackers. I pass it along for what it’s worth.  And then Rich tested positive. As deeply sorry as I was to hear it, my life perked up considerably. Rich and I no longer had to mask up around each other or sleep in separate rooms, and instead of being banished to the bedroom, I now had free run of the house and garden. My germs could do no further harm to him or anyone else. As we’d notified everyone in our orbit of my illness, nobody was coming within a mile of us. After a few miserable days, Rich felt somewhat better. His biggest complaints? A sore throat, for which he is taking copious amounts of lemon sorbet, and the metallic taste caused by the Paxlovid, for which he takes yet more lemon sorbet. It’s a tough regimen, but he’s bearing up manfully.  Rich believes ice cream cures just about everything. Here he's enjoying gelato in Parma, Italy, during our 2019 Mediterranean Comfort Food Tour. Rich also had some Covid fog, which is why I was a bit worried when he decided we ought to use this time productively and fill out our absentee ballots for the upcoming election. They’d just arrived by email, and we opened them up and did our best to make sense of them. It took us hours to study the list of candidates, find the candidate statements online, read them, read them again because we’d already lost the thread, and then go over them once more. We studied the photos, made snarky remarks, read the candidate statements a final time, and picked someone. Then we’d move on to the candidates for the next public office. At the end I said, “So, we’ve voted for Obama for president and Nixon for dog catcher. I think that went rather well.” Two days ago we started feeling strong enough to go for short, slow walks around the neighborhood, heavily masked and taking good care not to get within thirty feet of anyone. “Shouldn’t we be ringing a bell and shouting, ‘Unclean! Unclean!’ — you know, like medieval lepers?” I asked. “Not with my sore throat.”  I'm thinking of ordering this from Etsy and hanging it on the front door. Rich and I are slowly getting better, but this morning’s home tests confirmed that neither of us is out of the woods yet. Ana is off on her next adventure — an internship on an organic farm. It’s not far away, but I don’t think we’ll be seeing her or anyone else any time soon. For now, we’re puttering around the house and garden, reading, trying to find something on Netflix we haven’t seen three times, and waiting it out. So that’s the story of my week. How was yours? Well, that was fun! Want more?
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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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