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Thailand or Bust

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Scene on a Bangkok Canal

Because Martine and I usually eat at different times, there is a pile of Lonely Planet guidebooks at my right elbow on the kitchen table. Recently I picked up the Lonely Planet guide to Thailand and have been devouring it with interest.

I have never been to Asia, mostly because of the language barrier. In Thailand, the language barrier is even more pronounced because they have their own alphabet, which resembles tightly circumscribed insect tracks. Despite the difficulty, I find their culture fascinating—not to mention their cuisine!

It’s fun to fantasize about future trips, even if one never takes them. In fact, you can call me an armchair traveler who just happens to have visited some fascinating places around the world in Europe and the Americas. Martine seems to be uninterested to joining me in any distant travel (unless it be to Hawaii and, perhaps, Canada); so I would have to go it alone.

As long as I am physically able to travel, I would be happiest if I were able to indulge in my wanderlust. Right now, the biggest problem is not health, but lack of money.

Martine Is Back!

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UCLA Santa Monica Medical Center

After spending some five days in a hospital room, Martine was finally discharged today. She feels good, and there is no longer an issue with low sodium levels in the blood. The medical name for this is hyponatremia. According to the Mayo Clinic website, signs and symptoms can include:

  • Nausea and vomiting
  • Headache
  • Confusion *
  • Loss of energy, drowsiness and fatigue *
  • Restlessness and irritability *
  • Muscle weakness, spasms or cramps *
  • Seizures
  • Coma

On Tuesday, Martine was suffering from four of these (marked above with asterisks). In the hospital, she was immediately put on intravenous electrolytes which, over the space of two days, restored her condition to normal. Then she was kept on for observation for a couple more days to make sure her blood levels were normal.

What caused this? Martine thought it was that she accidentally took a second dose of Pilocarpine 2% ophthalmic solution for glaucoma two hours after taking a first dose. Although one physician I talked to in the emergency room said this couldn’t be the cause, the literature accompanying the drug indicated that it was indeed possible.

Whatever the cause, I am convinced that the treatment was correct.

The human body is a strange and wonderful thing, and doctors are not infallible. We tread a narrow path over two abysses. Thankfully, Martine is okay for now.

Hiatus

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Martine at the Zimmerman Automobile Driving Museum

I have not posted any blogs during the last three days because Martine was hospitalized on Tuesday. By accident she took a second dose of powerful glaucoma eye drops instead of the medication she intended on taking. The result was weakness, dehydration, and a host of other symptoms that required an ambulance trip to the UCLA Santa Monica Hospital where blood tests revealed that the sodium levels in her blood were dangerously low.

For two days, Martine was literally non compos mentis—not in her right mind. On Tuesday night, as she was waiting in a temporary patient treatment area for a hospital bed to be assigned to her, she was shaking like a leaf and was barely able to recognize me.

When I returned home, I was shattered. Was this the beginning of something critical, or possibly fatal? On Wednesday, she was slightly better as the hospital worked at raising the sodium level in her blood. But she was still not quite right in her mind: She kept attempting to get up to go to the bathroom while multiple tubes were connected to her body. She kept insisting “This is a free country!”

In the end, a licensed vocational nurse was delegated to keep her safely in bed. I visited her twice, but she forgot that I was there. Fortunately, yesterday and today saw a return to the Martine I knew and loved. Essentially, she is still in the hospital mainly for observation to make sure that her blood work stabilizes.

At home, I was too upset to read or write; so I have just watched the Paris Olympics endlessly.

It looks as if Martine will probably be discharged tomorrow. I hope so: I desperately want to return to our normal lives.

My Cities: Paris

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Place Denfert-Rochereau in Paris

My last name is Paris, although I have not a drop of French blood in my veins. In Hungarian, my last name is Páris, pronounced PAH-reesh. On my father’s Czechoslovakian passport when he emigrated to the United States in 1929 (bad timing), his last name was shown as Parisej. When I asked him about this, he said the dominant Czechs always messed with Slovak last names.

There was a time when I was anti-French. This reached its height in 1976, when my Laker Airlines flight to London first stopped at Paris’s Orly Airport. We were all deplaned and made to go through security by the French police. When one of the officers wanted me to open up the back up my Olympus OM-1 camera and expose the film that was loaded, I refused and remarked rather snootily, “Je ne suis pas Carlos le terroriste!” Somehow, the officer smirked and let me continue without sending me to the guillotine.

Since then, I began to admire France more and more. My girlfriend, Martine, was born in Paris. My favorite novelists (Honoré de Balzac and Marcel Proust) are French. Subsequently, I visited Paris twice with Martine, staying first near Place de Clichy and then on the Left Bank near the Eiffel Tower.

I fell in love with Arthur Rimbaud, Blaise Pascal, Paul Eluard, François Villon, Emile Zola, Albert Camus, Patrick Modiano, Jean-Pierre Manchette, Nicolas Poussin, Antoine Watteau, Claude Lorrain, Auguste Renoir and his cinéaste son Jean, Jean-Luc Godard … Oh, hell, the list goes on damn near forever! In the end, I did a 180.

Public Transit Map of Paris

Now with the opening ceremony of the 2024 Paris Olympics, I am more impressed than ever with the French. In a handful of brilliant images, France reminded us who and what they were, and what they meant to the world.

Whenever I read a French novel, I am never without a copy of Paris Pratique Par Arrondissement in my lap, so I can follow the action street by street, neighborhood by neighborhood. It’s almost as if I considered Paris as more than just another city: It is a city I revere, a world city.

Bad Food

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Want to Live a Short Life?

If one looks at what Americans eat, it’s easy to be pessimistic about their health. Scads of fatty fast foods kept on the edge of acceptability by strange petrochemicals, gallons of super-sweet brightly colored beverages, loads of sugar and salt in everything—it’s not a happy prospect.

On Memorial Day weekend, Martine and I went to a Greek festival in the San Fernando Valley. We were shocked to find that, within a short few years, the ability of the church kitchen volunteers to produce good Greek food has declined precipitately. I’ve always loved fried calamari, but what I got was super thin slices of calamari with heavy, slightly burnt breading.

Go to the supermarket, and you will find whole aisles of what purports to be food and is all to frequently of low or no nutritional value. And that is what tends to predominate in the shopping carts of the people in line in front of me. It appears that more and more people are buying prepared food and not bothering to put ingredients together in the kitchen and cook them.

I think that the Covid epidemic is partly responsible. Curiously, it had the opposite effect on me. I started cooking more—and enjoying it more! The only unfortunate thing is that Martine and I are heading in different directions insofar as food is concerned. No matter, I think it’s important to compromise so that, in the long haul, we both get what we want.

The Paprika Connection

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Otto’s Hungarian Deli in Burbank

Things were starting to get serious. I was running out of Hungarian paprika, and my supplier of füstölt kolbász (smoked Hungarian sausage) had gone out of business months ago. Normally, I am not a big fan of what I call Eurochow, but in the case of Hungarian cuisine I make an exception.

In Greek mythology, there is a character named Antaeus, who would “challenge all passers-by to wrestling matches and remained invincible as long as he remained in contact with his mother, the earth.” Likewise, I have to remain in contact with my Hungarian roots. Plus, unlike me, Martine is a hardened carnivore; and Hungarian cuisine is definitely a cuisine for carnivores.

On Saturday, Martine and I drove out to Burbank, where, in the middle of a residential block, sits Otto’s Hungarian Import Store and Deli. We used to go there more frequently, but lately Martine has been reluctant to go on long drives due to a pinched nerve in her back.

Fortunately, Otto’s had some good kolbász and big jars of Szegedi and Kalocsai sweet Hungarian paprika. And since Martine had been such a good sport about coming along, I got her some dobos torte and dios baigli.

Road Trip

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Tortoise at the Santa Barbara Zoo

Because of all the rain we’ve been having, Martine and I haven’t gone on any road trips lately. Today, we drove to Santa Barbara, had a great seafood lunch, and went to the Santa Barbara Zoo. Unlike the Los Angeles Zoo, there are usually fewer than 10,000 visitors present; and consequently there is about 76% less chance of having an infant stroller destroy your ankles.

Mind you, there were many small children in attendance. But that is to be expected at any zoo. It’s one of the few places one can take one’s small progeny and allow them to act like kids without inflicting too much damage to the animals and other visitors.

We’ve been visiting the Santa Barbara Zoo for upwards of twenty years, so we were saddened to hear that the two Asian elephants, Sujatha and Little Mac, died in 2019; and the zoo is not planning to replace them. Instead, their large compound is now an Australian “walkabout.”

On the way back, we took the pleasant and very rural California 126 to avoid the usual traffic jam around Oxnard and Ventura. We stopped at Francisco’s Fruit Stand in Fillmore to buy some honey, strawberries, and mandarins. I was shocked to find that taking 126 and I-405 in Santa Clarita takes no more time and eats up no more miles than taking either the Pacific Coast Highway to U.S. 101 or taking U.S. 101 all the way.

Unfortunately, Martine was in considerable pain from a pinched nerve in the back that has been bothering her for several years and getting progressively worse. Unless she finds a way of ameliorating her condition, we may not be able to go on many more trips together.

Jack Sprat

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Hatch Chiles Being Roasted on a Grill

You have no doubt heard the old nursery rhyme:

Jack Sprat could eat no fat,
His wife could eat no lean.
And so between them both, you see,
They licked the platter clean.

Martine and I are similarly a study in contrasts. She’s a Republican; I’m an independent Libtard. She has irritable bowel syndrome (IBS), so she pretty much cannot eat anything that has a vowel in its name. I, on the other hand, love highly spiced foods, preferably including my favorite vegetable: hot chile peppers. Somehow we manage to get by despite the differences.

I think it all started with my childhood: My father was a member of the American Independent Party and a staunch supporter of George C. Wallace and his racist platform. I was originally a Democrat, but got tired of the whole circular firing squad thing. So I tend to vote Democratic—but not always on the local level and always as an Independent (No Party Affiliation)..

Somehow I think the contrasts help maintain our relationship, which has been going fairly steady for the last three decades or so. I won’t say it’s been going strong, but steady will do just fine, and I will accept it.

The Man With the Hyperactive Head

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My dentist always twits me about my chewing my teeth into oblivion. I do not think I grind my teeth at night, but she thinks I do. And there are the ruined sites of three of my long lost upper teeth. two bicuspids and a molar. She also thinks I live on a diet of jalapeño chile peppers.

In truth, there is something violent about my visage. Take my sneezes: They are so powerful that I have to be prepared to go to the bathroom after a sneezing fit. I find facial tissues to be useless, as I tend to blow them to smithereens. Like my father, I frequently rupture a capillary when I erupt. In my case, it’s usually in my left nostril.

Then there are my sinuses. Whenever there is a major change in the weather (which in L.A. means just about always), I turn into mucus man. I frequently wake Martine up with my snorting, sneezing, and nose-blowing. As she has a tendency to be insomniac, she usually requests that I transfer my drainage to the couch in the living room.

Then, too, my eyelids are constantly irritated with blepharitis. In certain times of the year, usually winter, spring, summer, and fall, my eyelids itch and generate an annoying discharge.

What’s next for me? Great gobs of earwax sticking out of my ears? Saliva that roars like a waterfall? Is my head just too damned loud?

Talking Politics

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As Thanksgiving Day approaches, millions of families will confront their weird uncles whose political beliefs are 180° away from yours. What makes it worse is that we are living during a period in which people take a position and vociferously defend it, thinking it is right because, after all, they believe in it. And their beliefs are, of course, sacred.

Looking back over my life, I do not recall ever having been convinced by anyone’s contrary political, religious, or other opinions. It seems that our times are not conducive to producing facts or cogent reasons. We can produce a great deal of heated discussions full of vituperation.

I have always been close to people whose opinions were contrary to mine. It began with my father, who supported George C. Wallace for President and voted a straight American Independent ticket. (I got back at him by dating a pretty young Black pediatrician with a Harvard MD).

Now I live with a woman whom I love, but who is a Republican who listens to right-wing shock jocks on KABC Radio and who, in all probability, votes for Donald Trump. (If you do not know me, Trump is a candidate I would have no compunction about stabbing in a vital organ with a knife liberally smeared with dog shit.)

Do I talk politics with Martine? No. Do I talk politics with my friends? Not if I can help it, even though my friends have similar beliefs like my own.

Life is too short to wreck it by engaging in political discussions that go nowhere. And nowhere is where most of them go.

So eat your turkey and mashed potatoes and present a smiley-face to relatives who want to establish a new Reich in Washington.