If at first you don’t succeed….so much for skydiving.
— Henny Youngman.
I have always liked writing emails to people – which sounds weird, I know. For me, it is like writing a letter – something people used to do but do not do anymore. I used to look forward to getting letters, and I enjoyed writing the replies – trying to think of ways to write about what I was thinking or what was happening in a way that was interesting, or funny – or at least, not boring as hell. Writing something funny, or interesting, or at least not boring as hell – that seems to me a laudable goal for any writing project. Anyway, welcome to my first blog.
Years ago, when I went to Poland, the icon of the Black Madonna at the Jasna Góra monastery in Częstochowa, was one of my must-see sites. It is the most venerated Catholic shrine in very Catholic Poland. Legend has it that this icon was painted during the time of the apostles, by St. Luke the Evangelist. It has been at Jasna Góra since the fourteenth century, surviving many wars and at least one attempted theft.
The legend goes that in 1430, Hussites stormed the monastery, took the icon, and loaded it into a wagon. The legend continues that when the Hussites tried to drive the wagon away, the horses refused to move. In frustration, one of the Hussites struck the icon two times with his sword. When he tried to strike it a third time, he fell over, consumed first by pain and then by death.
I really wanted to see the Black Madonna. I was staying in Kraków, and Częstochowa would be an easy train ride. I got on an early train from the Kraków Główny train station and set out for the shrine.
I sat across from a priest – an American. When I told him where I was going, he told me that I was crazy to think that I would get anywhere near that shrine on a Sunday morning. It would be completely mobbed. I should make other plans.
I grew up on Long Island, in the shadow of New York City, one of the greatest cities in the world. Not for nothing, but in the seventeen years that I lived there, I like to think that I learned at least a little something about crowd control. There was no way that I was going to miss seeing the Black Madonna.
I got off the train and walked to Jasna Góra. I found a site map, studied it, and then did what any savvy traveler would do. I scoped the place out, walking around the perimeter and through part of the interior, carefully observing potential paths and potential bottlenecks. Then, I did the only rational thing.
I followed the little old lady.
There was just something about the woman. I don’t remember exactly how I picked up on this, but it seemed clear enough that her goal was the same as mine. I followed her. The little old lady soon realized what I was doing. If she thought she was about to lose me, she would motion to me, pointing and gesturing, to keep me on track.
The little old lady bobbed and weaved – and I bobbed and weaved right behind her. For senior citizen, I must say, she moved really well. Finally, she went the wrong way up an exit ramp. She motioned to me, crooking her finger, beckoning me to follow. I continued not far behind her, until something got in my way – a big, Polish security guard.
OK, that’s it. Game over. I’m screwed. He spoke no English but made it very clear that I was now to follow him. I had visions of a Polish police station or – worse – a Polish jail cell. I was terrified. Most Polish hotels were spartan enough in 1993; I didn’t want to imagine what awaited me in an actual jail.
The security guard did not lead me into a squad car. He led me right up to the icon – about 20 feet in front of the Black Madonna! He then said something to me in Polish and walked off. Before I realized what was going on, I had to sit, because Mass was about to start and there were now a ton of people behind me.
I sat through my second Mass that Sunday morning and then turned to leave – and there he was again – the big Polish security guard. He crooked his finger for me to come. My stomach sank, and, terrified, I complied. The security guard led me to the back of the shrine, to a box of holy cards. He gave me one – and appeared to wish me a good day.
Scarcely believing my liberty, I all but ran out of Jasna Góra. Once I realized I was safe, I grabbed some lunch and got the next train back to Kraków. I relaxed in the threadbare elegance of — by European standards — a ridiculously cheap first class train cabin, the kind that existed in Communist and barely-post-Communist Poland.
I have told this story to many people, and they usually smile when I tell it – except for two different people on two separate occasions. They each gave me a slightly exasperated look and asked hadn’t I realized that the security guard wanted money? If I had realized that, I would have gladly given him some! Anyway, I found really funny that both of these comments came from Catholic priests.
This week, there was an article in the New York Times about Alan Alda using ChatGPT to write a scene based on a classic M*A*S*H episode.
That gave me an idea. Here is what I asked ChatGPT.
Write me this SNL Weekend Update scene: Roseanne Roseannadanna answers a letter from a Mr. Richard Feder of Fort Lee, NJ, who writes in with the question: What is ChatGPT? Should I be afraid to use ChatGPT? Will ChatGPT try to take over my life? Jane Curtin disparages the advice – and Roseanne. Roseanne finishes by singing a song written by her computer programmer aunt, Joanna Roseannadanna.
Here is what ChatGPT wrote for me:
[Opening music plays as the camera shows the Weekend Update news desk, where Roseanne Roseannadanna is sitting, holding a letter in her hand.]
Roseanne: [clears throat] Alright, we’ve got another letter here from a Mr. Richard Feder of Fort Lee, New Jersey. And he writes, “Dear Roseanne Roseannadanna, what is ChatGPT? Should I be afraid to use ChatGPT? Will ChatGPT try to take over my life?”
[Roseanne puts down the letter and leans into the camera.]
Roseanne: Well, Richard, first of all, let me tell you, ChatGPT is not some kind of monster that’s going to take over your life. It’s just a tool to help you with whatever you need. So don’t be afraid to use it!
[Jane Curtin rolls her eyes and interrupts.]
Jane: Oh, come on, Roseanne. You can’t seriously believe that. ChatGPT is just another way for big tech companies to spy on us and control our every move.
[Roseanne looks at Jane, clearly annoyed.]
Roseanne: [sarcastically] Oh, yeah, because Google, Facebook, and Twitter haven’t been doing that for years.
[Jane shakes her head and crosses her arms.]
Jane: [disparagingly] Well, at least they don’t pretend to be helpful like ChatGPT does.
[Roseanne ignores Jane’s comment and turns back to the camera.]
Roseanne: Now, before I go, I want to share a little song with you all. It was written by my Aunt Joanna Roseannadanna, who just happens to be a computer programmer.
[Roseanne clears her throat and begins to sing, off-key.]
Roseanne: Oh, ChatGPT, you’re my favorite AI. You answer my questions, and you never tell a lie. You help me with my work and my daily strife. Oh, ChatGPT, you’re the best thing in my life.
[Jane puts her head in her hands, and the camera fades to black.]
When people think of international travel, they think of the glory that is Rome, the beauty that is Paris, the exotic majesty of the Taj Mahal, the excitement of a Kenyan safari. They think in poetry. The details of getting there and being there are often prosaic – like taking off your shoes to go through airport security, changing money, or navigating unfamiliar streets.
The Taj Mahal is poetry. Pooping is prose.
When you travel, you probably take it for granted that a toilet is a toilet and that’s that. But no. That is not that. Sometimes “that” is not even a toilet.
During my first trip away from family, at Boy Scout camp, there were no toilets. There were latrines – dark, smelly, disgusting latrines. All of a sudden, the bathroom at home that I shared with six other people felt like the height of luxury. After sneaking off and scoping the grounds of Camp Yawgoog, I found an office. I realized that somewhere inside that office, there must be a toilet – and there was.
My scrawny 13 year old behind did not touch a latrine for the rest of that trip. Once I found something that resembled “normal”, I felt no need for my behind to embrace the abnormal.
Compared to a latrine, the toilets of Central and South America seemed almost welcoming – for as much as anyone could imagine a toilet to be welcoming. They were exactly like the toilets one would see anywhere in the United States or Canada. They were “normal” – which is more than can be said for the plumbing systems to which they were attached. Even in most of the big cities, the plumbing cannot handle paper of any kind, including toilet paper. In these places, you will find a wastebasket next to the toilet, for used toilet paper. Ick! Gross.
In the mid eighties, I took my first trip to Japan. A few months prior, I had been to Hong Kong and had noticed nothing unusual, by American standards, about the bathrooms that I found in hotels, restaurants, and in tourist areas. I expected Tokyo and its environs to be more of the same. Mostly it was – until it wasn’t.
I was in a public restroom somewhere – I forget where – and needed a bathroom. I needed a stall and as one would expect, there was a small row of stalls, each containing a perfectly normal toilet. However, I quickly left when I realized that there was just one thing missing: toilet paper. I went to the other stalls – and had no luck there either. I began to discover that while most restrooms had toilet paper, some did not. It has been many years since that first trip to Tokyo, but I remember being told that there had been a custom where people would bring their own paper to a public toilet.
I did a bit of research and am happy to report that this is no longer the norm. Virtually all public bathrooms in Japan will have toilet paper, like you would expect in any country with modern facilities.
However, even in a modern country, in older buildings, one can find old style features. In Japan, that could mean encountering the old-style Japanese toilet, sometimes referred to as toilette à la turque. With a French name like that, one might expect something elegant – perhaps even a bit exotic, since à la turque means Turkish-style and conjures up images of the East. The toilette à la turque has an interesting design feature that may appeal to the germaphobe. With this sort of toilet, one’s nether cheeks touch neither seat nor bowl. However, there is a definite downside to this arrangement:
As you can see, with the toilette à la turque, there is no physical contact with the apparatus, but that is only because you are forced to squat like an animal to do your business. Others may feel differently, but this does not appeal to me. I’d much rather line the seat with a ton of toilet paper to ensure no actual contact is made with the horror that is a public toilet seat than do that. While squatting may be a great way to add an extra thigh exercise to your workout regimen, call me crazy, but I’d rather find someplace else to exercise than a public toilet.
Japan has more than atoned for this sin by its adoption and then subsequent improvement of another European style bathroom plumbing appliance. It applied its own tradition of engineering, innovation, and electronic excellence to take that humble appliance to new heights, previously unknown. I refer to the bidet, which has now been transformed into the modern washlet.
Photos by Christopher Lupone
Although I had long heard of the washlet, I experienced it for the first time only a few years ago. I checked into the Palace, a posh San Francisco hotel that did not disappoint, even in the smallest detail, even in the bathroom. After my long flight, when I opened the door to seek relief, I found that I had opened the door to a whole other level of comfort that had to this point in my life somehow eluded me.
Since most homes and businesses cannot easily add space to a bathroom to accommodate a bidet, Toto – the premier Japanese toilet manufacturer – decided to retrofit the toilet. The toilet seat is replaced by the washlet, which is attached to the water line and contains a retractable wand in the center. Upon the touch of a button, the wand extends and water shoots out. The pressure and the position of the water stream are adjustable by touching a button. The more deluxe units installed at the Palace also included a drying feature and even a remote control.
I understand how the drying feature can be useful – not that I actually used it much. (Hot dryers can cause chapping – and who wants chapped skin there?) However, I found the remote control rather strange. The washlet controls are attached to the unit itself. What benefit is there from an additional set of controls, let alone a remote? My brother, another fervent fan of the washlet, wondered about the novelty effect of having a loved one adjust the water pressure and wand position from across the room. However, we both agreed that there is a lot that could go horribly wrong in that scenario.
In any case, at the Palace I had been introduced to what was indeed truly a royal flush. I have since installed a basic Toto model in my home. A Japanese washlet is the nicest thing you can do for your backside, ever.
In the Netherlands, the toilet is far less regal, but, so the Dutch might tell you, far more practical. In the Netherlands, many of the toilets are built with toilet shelves. I do not refer to a shelf above the toilet or beside the toilet but rather inside the toilet, integral to the bowl itself.
When you sit on the toilet, the shelf is directly underneath your backside. Liquid quickly slides off the shelf and into the pit of the toilet. Solids are detained on the shelf until flushed. When I saw this for the first time, I thought it’s almost as if the Dutch want to examine what comes out of them.
Doing a bit of reading, I discovered that is exactly what the Dutch want to do – or, at least, that is indeed the shelf’s purpose. If a Dutch person is not well and seeks some supplementary data about their health, they have no further to look than their own toilet shelf. It’s all right there. If the doctor inquires about the state of their bowels, the Dutch, courtesy of their special toilets, are better equipped to reply than, for example, someone in New Jersey.
In Europe, even in public bathrooms, you will usually find a toilet brush in a stand next to the toilet. I never really thought much about that until I was in Munich. I spent a long weekend with a German friend of mine there. He invited me to lunch at his office. After I got to the office building and found my friend, I needed to find a bathroom. Outside the men’s room, there was a sign, in English, asking people to “respect the dignity of the toilet” (or something like that.) The sign really confused me. I had always thought of a toilet more in terms of utility than dignity.
After returning to my friend’s cubicle, I had to ask – what’s up with the sign?
He replied, more than a bit condescendingly, “That sign is for our American friends, so they know what the brush next to the toilet is for.”
This led to a lecture about bathroom cleanliness, in particular about Americans, toilet bowls, and the “skid marks” they leave behind. This brief lecture was followed by a discussion, which ended with my friend asking me what I do in the US when visiting someone’s house and there is no brush handy.
I remember replying, “I usually flush, take some toilet paper, wipe the marks, and flush again.”
We (mercifully) moved on to the next topic and went to lunch.
I spent part of the afternoon thinking about my friend’s arrogance during his toilet lecture. It had a lingering effect on my mood. I resented where the conversation had gone.
That night, my friend took me out to have a few beers. He bought the first round, and I bought the second. When the second round arrived, rather than say “Cheers!” or “Prost!”, I raised my glass, looked my host right in the eye and there, in the middle of a Munich beer hall, said, with gusto, “L’chaim!” It was the most subversive thing I could think of to say in the middle of a Munich beer hall.
I felt – dare I say it? – a flush of satisfaction. My mood improved.
And no, I do not remember what the toilets inside the beer hall looked like.
After spending two years in fear of getting COVID, I got COVID. It began with fatigue, and then segued into nausea, followed by a 101.5F fever. (See what happens when you get older – your medical travails become writing fodder.) I tested negative. The next day I remained tired and just a bit nauseous – but I still tested negative. Thank God, I thought, since I was not at home. I was in Florence, Italy – and I needed COVID like I needed a hole in the head.
Tuesday – Day 1
I started feeling really tired. Maybe an afternoon expresso would revive me – but no. I tried to take a nap. I also noticed that I was beginning to feel rather warm.
I went out and bought a thermometer. I had a fever of just over 100F. I took a COVID test – and the result was negative.
I canceled my dinner plans and stayed in. The fever peaked at 101.5F. Oh, crap – do I have COVID?
Wednesday – Day 2
I tested negative again for COVID – what a relief! I had no fever but felt really tired – like I-can-barely-move tired. It killed me – but I effectively canceled my ticket for the Uffizi Gallery for Wednesday morning, just to remain in bed.
I did rally later and went out for a nice meal – bistecca fiorentina at Sostanza, a nice trattoria off the beaten track but only about a 10 minute walk from the center of town. (It helps to get good restaurant recommendations from a Mediterranean cookbook writer – thank you, Robin Ellis.)
Thursday – Day 3
Thursday morning, I tested myself again. While the test was being processed, I went to breakfast. I figured it was probably negative anyway.
I tested positive – which was a problem, since I was supposed to fly home to the US the next day.
The first thing I did was call American Airlines to reschedule the flight. I told the woman on the phone that I tested positive for COVID.
She told me that I needed to bring my test results in person to the airport.
“I assume you mean that I should come with the positive test result once I am recovered and test negative, right?”
“No, you must come before your [originally] scheduled flight.”
“OK, let me get this straight: you want me to come to the airport – with COVID – and interact with your colleagues at the airport?”
“That’s our policy.”
“I’d like to speak to a supervisor please.”
The supervisor basically echoed the underling – all but saying we have to weed out the liars. However, as luck would have it, my ticket was changeable – so I changed the flight to be one week later.
Sadly, my hotel room could only be extended one night. Elena, the hotel manager said, under Tuscan law, because I am fully vaccinated and boosted, I am not required to quarantine. That said, I didn’t plan to go out – but I did get another place to stay.
[Post-script: much later, I learned that Elena was either mistaken or lying. Although I found that the current Tuscan law does indicate that the rules are different for the fully vaccinated/boosted, you still have to quarantine for 5 days.]
After doing a lot of looking online, I found an entire AirBnB apartment for just under $100 a night. It looked adorable and was owned and managed by an AirBnB superhost. It was available starting tomorrow.
Meanwhile, at the hotel, Elena, the hotel manager, left a tray by my door with a tea kettle, tea bags, and a plate of cookies. What a sweetheart.
The rest of the day was littered with phone calls and emails. Finally I settled down to L’Amica Geniale on RaiPlay. I understood bits and pieces but got the general gist – thanks to turning on the Italian subtitles and stopping to read when I got confused. I had to look things up a lot, though. I’ve never worked so hard to watch a TV show. (I’ll rewatch it with English subtitles when the episodes appear on HBO.)
I’ll leave the packing ‘til morning.
Friday – Day 4
I moved into the AirBnB apartment. It has everything I could need. The back of the place is even heated! Oh, the front is heated, too – except that the law in Florence is that the radiators get turned off on 1 April. And that’s no April Fool’s joke! Fortunately, the back of the apartment – where the living room and the bedroom are – have an air conditioner which doubles as a heater. At least there is that.
The bathroom is in the front of the house – and the outdoor temperature tonight was in the thirties. At 9 pm, when I went from the back of the apartment to the front, I wore my winter coat. I don’t want to think about what it will be like to shower tomorrow!
The landlady texted and asked how things were going. She said if it’s still cold tomorrow in the front of the apartment, she would turn on the central heating. (Maybe Tuscan law is an April Fool’s joke?)
And what did she mean if it’s still cold in the front of the house, I thought? How is this even a question? It’s going to be 39F outside tonight. The unheated part of the apartment is not going to be comfortable. I guess I’ll wait ‘til the afternoon to shower. Whatever, I’ll grin and bear it for tonight.
At one point, I thought – I’ll feel better if I put on a sweater. Then I realized, I’m already wearing a sweater.
I called my doctor’s office to see if a vacation supply for my medications could be sent to a pharmacy here in Florence. The woman who answered the phone seemed to have a lot of difficulty spelling the names of the prescriptions. “I’ll go to ‘the Google for’ help.” As soon as she put the definite article ‘the’ before ‘Google’, I knew this was not going to end well. It didn’t. I got a call back later from a nurse that said the doctor cannot write prescriptions for Italy.
I just sent Marie a list of my prescriptions and over-the-counter meds – as well as an address of a local FedEx place where I can pick it up. I figure I will be well enough by Monday for another short cab ride.
Marie later sent me the information from FedEx including the tracking number. The package weighed nearly three pounds and cost $299.50 to send. This made me think of Hillary Clinton’s book “It Takes a Village”. It takes a village? After a certain age, frankly I think sometimes it takes a medicine chest.
(P.S. There is no surprise, Marie said. Rather than ship me the pills I needed, she shipped me everything, in their original bottles. She said, rightly, that if anything happened during shipping, it would be better if everything were properly labeled.)
Saturday – Day 5
Other than being tired and a bit congested and phlegmy, I was OK. By good fortune, I discovered that there is a pharmacy about two doors down from my apartment. I looked up the Italian word for congested and phlegmy; it’s catarro. All of a sudden, a little bell dinged in my head, somehow dodging various enlarged sinus membranes in the process. I remembered this word from British novels that I never understood. So that’s what catarrh means! Catarrh is what one has when you are of the upper class, living in the realm of the Queen. Congested and phlegmy is what you have when you are of the middle (or lower) middle classes living in Queens – or, in my case, from Long Island but living in – yee-hah! – Texas.
I spent a good chunk of the day trying to deal with online supermarket delivery sites.
Later in the day, there was heat! The landlord and I had chatted earlier in the day, and she was most accommodating. (Most accommodating? That sounds almost as British as catarrh.)
I spent the rest of the day lying around.
Sunday – Day 7
Heat is ephemeral, I learned – and I should not have been shocked. Following in the tradition of small European hotels, it shuts off at night and is not necessarily on all day either. Oh well, they supplied a down comforter that kept me quite comfortable at night – and I was able to control the heat in the back of the apartment. I’ll hole up there.
I’d complain but I know that the reality here is that energy has gotten really expensive. A lot of European gas – especially in Germany and Italy – comes from Russia. The owner of the hotel where I stayed last week in Sulmona told me that his monthly energy bill is usually 1000€. Last month, it was 1800€. People are being hit hard.
I decided that unless it becomes downright cold inside the apartment, I’d keep my mouth shut and a sweater on.
Monday – Day 8
Long story shortened: my package with medications was tied up in Italian customs. FedEx told me it was Marie’s fault for not requesting “a broker” within FedEx to assist in case of customs problems. Italian customs said that a “sanitary certificate” – which I think really means “health certificate” – must be obtained, and that’s something a broker could have helped with.
I asked how could Marie possibly know to ask for a broker to help with customs issues? She did tell FedEx clearly what she was shipping – and all the medications were in their original containers, with the labels intact. FedEx should have known to assign one of their brokers for potential customs issues. Marie paid FedEx $299.50, and they messed up.
Not only won’t I get my package today, FedEx said that I will have to pay extra for the “sanitary certificate”. I asked FedEx how much that would be; the agent didn’t know but said he would “refer that question to their team.”
No, this could not be escalated any further; I must wait.
At the end of this twenty minute phone call, the agent asked me would I stay on the line to complete a brief survey? I wisely declined to say what I was thinking – that is, to tell him which orifice to cram his survey and how hard – and just said good-bye.
Oh – and I did ask Marie what the surprise was. She included two bagels in the package. Of course, they don’t ship well, but I loved the thought. What the Italian customs agent who opened the box thought – well, that I can’t even begin to imagine.
Meanwhile, I went to the pharmacy almost next door to my apartment, to see if they could advise me. They said there is a medical clinic nearby. I looked it up, and it appeared to be a free clinic – a free clinic less than a hundred yards from my front door. That immediately made me think of the Lupanare (i.e., whorehouse) that I saw in Pompeii. If only there had been a free clinic just 100 yards away from that.
The pharmacy said they do walk-ins – and they open at 8 pm. That seemed weird – maybe I was not understanding clearly in Italian what was being said. As it turns out, I did understand. However, due to COVID, there were no walk-ins allowed; I had to call first.
Automated phone systems are no fun in English – but imagine dealing with one in a foreign language? After calling twice, I managed to get the gist – that I should just hold the line and I would be connected to someone who could help – and that I was call #14 in the queue.
A nice Italian lady was patient with me, even when I asked her two or three times to repeat herself. She connected me to a doctor.
I managed most of the call with the doctor in Italian – with much difficulty – before asking toward the end if we could finish in English. The doctor said to come by in an hour.
In an hour, I walked in – and 15 minutes later, I walked out with written prescriptions for everything I needed.
Next step: find a 24 hour pharmacy. Luckily, the AirBnB apartment I rented had several of them listed on an information sheet in the front hall. I figured the most likely place to start would be the one in the main train station at Santa Maria Novella. If something happened and I could not express myself well enough in Italian, there would more likely be someone behind the desk who speaks English.
Florence, although a tourist haven, is not exactly a hoppin’ metropolis at night. This is the Santa Maria Novella train station at night:
At the entrance to the 24 hour pharmacy, I found this note, saying that from 20.00 (i.e., 8:00 pm) to 8.00 am, you have to go around to the side, near the taxi stand.
I went around to the side, near the taxi stand – which was not pretty:
I wondered if I was in the right place – ‘til I saw this:
I rang the bell. Someone asked me what I needed. I said prescriptions. He said put the ricetta – the written prescription – into a basket that came out through the hole in the wall.
A few minutes later, he asked me for 18€. I put that into the basket – and he sent back 2 of my medications as well as my written prescription.
To get the rest of them filled, I went to another pharmacy. The view was a bit better there:
The pharmacy was next to a café on the main square, Piazza del Duomo. Sadly, this pharmacy had none of the other medications. He said those would be hard to get at night – but they can be ordered in the morning and I’d likely have them in the afternoon. I went home, to bed.
Tuesday – Day 9
I got the rest of the prescriptions from the pharmacy 2 door down from my apartment – a two week supply for everything. The total cost was just over 9€.
Meanwhile, I received an email in Italian from someone at a customs consulting company, asking me about the contents of the package and how it would be used. I replied, in Italian, that the contents of the package are for me/for my personal use and that it contains prescription medications, over-the-counter medications – and two bagels.
I plan to spend as much of the day lying on the couch as possible. I will give myself another COVID test tomorrow – fingers crossed.
Wednesday – Day 10
I tested positive again for COVID. Naturally I started freaking out but I knew I had to act quickly to sort out my situation. I successfully managed to reschedule my flight, originally in 2 days, for 9 days later. Unfortunately, I could not extend my AirBnB apartment rental. That was hardly a surprise – since next week is Holy Week (i.e., the week before Easter.).
I managed to find another apartment for only about $30 more a night. Given that it will be Holy Week, I counted my blessings that I was able to find it on such short notice. It’s a little smaller but looks potentially better equipped. Not that it matters at this point, but the apartment is apparently about a 5 minute walk from the Duomo. Perhaps I’d appreciate that more when I’m feeling better.
The apartment had no reviews – but was owned (managed?) by an AirBnB superhost with great reviews. I figured that was a good sign. It’s not like there was a lot available in the lower price ranges – and, at $127 a night (with all fees included), it was hardly expensive.
I continued to spend lots of time just lying down resting. As I looked up from the sofa out at my little private courtyard, I wondered what tomorrow would be like.
Thursday – Day 11
As I suspected, the new place is smaller – mostly just two long rooms – but better equipped. It has a bigger bathroom and a more functional kitchen – with a small convection oven/microwave combo. The building is old but grand – and the apartment was just renovated.
Oh, and check out the ceilings in those two long rooms – the kitchen/dining area and the bedroom, respectively:
…not bad for $127 a night!
The internet here is much slower – but it works well enough to watch television online. (I have been binging M*A*S*H reruns. It feels comforting.) I was tired. I sorted out getting food and getting a few more home rapid antigen tests.
Philipp, my manager at work, reminded me that the tests I brought with me are comparable to PCR tests – and pick up really small viral loads. I did some research and saw that to return to the US, an rapid antigen test is acceptable – although, not from a home test.
The home rapid antigen test showed that I was still positive.
Friday – Day 12
I am starting to feel better – less tired, a bit less headachey, a wee bit less congested. I did a few hours of work, so I am not Deluged with emails and tasks upon my virtual return on Monday. (I am working from here on Monday.)
Marie told me that FedEx told her if she wants the package back, she’ll have to open an account with FedEx so they can bill her. I told her to tell them what they can do with the package.
I will test myself tomorrow. If I test negative, I will go out and explore a bit. Fingers crossed…
Saturday – Day 13
I took another home rapid antigen test – and it was positive, again. I’m not sure if that makes me an underachiever or an overachiever. No – that makes the damn virus an overachiever. F*** the virus! According to the US Center for Disease Control website, 10 days after my fever, I am probably no longer contagious. Still, I’ll play it safe today and lay low. I’ll take a walk outside this evening – with my N95 mask securely in place, just in case.
To add insult to injury, for the last 2 days, my stomach has been out of whack. Some supermarkets here have some nice stuff. I have been subsisting on bread, tea, corn flakes, and lactose free milk.
Sunday – Day 14
Through my unofficial (but amazing) second mom Anneliese, I got the contact information of some friends who had the same problem as me. Through them I learned that you can return to the US with either a negative COVID test or proof of recovery from COVID. I should check my airline’s website. I checked the American Airlines website – which said the same.’
I called American Airlines. I was told that was incorrect. Maybe I misread it? After the call, I double checked. No, I was right. I called again – this time asking not “can I?” but rather “What documentation do I need? Will a doctor’s note suffice?” The representation confirmed this.
I will find a doctor tomorrow.
Monday – Day 15
“If Mommy says, no, ask Daddy.”
I called an urgent care clinic here and spoke to an Italian physician here. I told him that I needed to get something in writing from a physician that I had recovered from COVID. He said it would be against Italian law for him to write me that kind of letter.
I found a British physician who practices – sorry, he’s British, so “practises” – here. He says he does that all the time. I have an appointment for Wednesday morning.
Meanwhile, I took another home test and finally tested negative – so, in theory, I should be fine. However, after the two weeks I’ve had, I’m still going to the doctor.
In case I don’t test negative the day before my flight, the doctor’s letter will be my backup plan.
Wednesday – Day 16
I was in and out of the doctor’s office in 15 minutes. I showed him my positive test, he examined me, and he wrote me my note.
Thursday – Day 17
In the end, I tested negative anyway. I took a high-speed train to Rome, to spend the night before my flight the following day.
I wrote on Facebook that most tourists take pictures of art and architecture. Here, given the local situation and the brevity of the Santiago portion of my trip, most of my pictures are of graffiti, protests, broken glass and other evidence of protests.
This was typical – a boarded up window with some statement slamming the center right president, Pañera. (This one says he can neither buy karma nor avoid it.) Chile is prosperous and modern – but not everyone has prospered. They want change – and have started to protest. Will protest turn into revolution?
Most of the bus stops I saw had their glass broken.
It is said that some people just want chaos, which was not lost on me when I saw this sign – at the Caos Restaurant. This sign asks for no tear gas pellets; pregnant women and children live here.
Here are some miscellaneous signs, spotted around Santiago.
Graffiti was all over the main streets. Protests were not everywhere and all the time – but you never knew when you would find them. From a distance, we saw this one on Sunday at about 1 pm – and avoided it.
Sunday evening we saw something more pleasant – a roller skate/rollerblade/bicycle parade of sorts.
However, we learned that it, too, was a protest.
Although all this is not what we would want to see, I must say – it did not impede us. We were able to get around Santiago without any problems. (Really, I rather liked Santiago – which I’ll talk about in my next post.) However, we were careful – and watchful.
Are you eating right now or about to eat? Please stop right now and read this later.
Marie and I are in Santiago, Chile for the wedding of Rob and Chelsey. This is our first trip to Chile. However, we have been to Honduras, and we have found that they have a number of things in common – for example, how one uses the bathroom.
One does not flush toilet paper here. After being used, it is placed in a wastebasket near the toilet. Apparently, the plumbing cannot handle the paper.
This is made more interesting here due to the nature of our lodging. The B&B that Rob rented for the wedding has shared bathrooms. That wastebasket is shared by people in multiple rooms.
So, rule #1: Don’t flush the toilet paper.
That is really the only rule. However, it seems to me that there are other things one can do, especially in a shared room situation to make this situation more pleasant – or, at least, less unpleasant. Therefore, I have come up with some additional rules.
Rule #2: Before leaving the bathroom, put some clean toilet paper on top of the pile of used toilet paper. (This is especially important for wastebaskets without a lid.) The reason for this rule should be self-explanatory.
Rule #3: Leave orange peels in the wastebasket. This was Marie’s idea. The smell of the orange peels is naturally pleasant. Is this a useful addition to the wastebasket, you ask? I do not know. Marie only mentioned this an hour ago, and I just finished an orange. I’ll have to get back to you on that. OK, …perhaps not. I think I am done talking about this now, gentle reader, and do not feel the need to revisit this topic. However, if you do, please feel free to leave comments and suggestions below.
Random Musings of A Quasi Educated Person 