Steven Harper's Blog, page 3
August 14, 2025
The CSR Good-Bye
I joke about the Midwestern Good-Bye, where the phrase, "Well, I guess we better be going," doesn't actually mean you're leaving. It means you still have to work your way through two or three more conversations before you finally walk out the door. This can take anywhere from 15 to 45 minutes.
I've noticed that another group of folks do the exact same thing. I suppose we should call it the Customer Service Representative Good-Bye. It goes like this:
ME: Great! That's everything I need. Thanks.
CUSTOMER SERVICE REPRESENTATIVE: You're welcome. Would you say that we have resolved your problem today?
ME: Yes. That's all I need.
CSR: Great! Is there anything else I can help you with?
ME: (wanting to say, "What part of THAT'S ALL I NEED did you misunderstand?"): Nope. That's everything.
CSR: If you would like to take a survey detailing the kind of service you got today, just stay on the line.
ME: No thank you.
CSR: Is there anything else I can help you with today?
ME (wanting to say, "Change the cat box"): Definitely not.
CSR: Okay, well, thank you for calling Beelzebub Life Insurance. I hope you have a good day.
ME: Thank. Bye.
CSR: Don't forget the survey!
ME: Right. Bye!
CSR: Again, thank you for calling Beelzebub Life Insurance. Have a good day.
ME (wanting to say, "How many good days are you going to wish me?"): Thanks. Bye!
(click)
It's gotten so bad that I've taken to shortening the script to this:
ME: Great! That's everything I need. Thanks.
CUSTOMER SERVICE REPRESENTATIVE: You're welcome. Would you say that we have resolved your problem today?
ME: Yes. Bye!
(click)
Sheesh.
comments
I've noticed that another group of folks do the exact same thing. I suppose we should call it the Customer Service Representative Good-Bye. It goes like this:
ME: Great! That's everything I need. Thanks.
CUSTOMER SERVICE REPRESENTATIVE: You're welcome. Would you say that we have resolved your problem today?
ME: Yes. That's all I need.
CSR: Great! Is there anything else I can help you with?
ME: (wanting to say, "What part of THAT'S ALL I NEED did you misunderstand?"): Nope. That's everything.
CSR: If you would like to take a survey detailing the kind of service you got today, just stay on the line.
ME: No thank you.
CSR: Is there anything else I can help you with today?
ME (wanting to say, "Change the cat box"): Definitely not.
CSR: Okay, well, thank you for calling Beelzebub Life Insurance. I hope you have a good day.
ME: Thank. Bye.
CSR: Don't forget the survey!
ME: Right. Bye!
CSR: Again, thank you for calling Beelzebub Life Insurance. Have a good day.
ME (wanting to say, "How many good days are you going to wish me?"): Thanks. Bye!
(click)
It's gotten so bad that I've taken to shortening the script to this:
ME: Great! That's everything I need. Thanks.
CUSTOMER SERVICE REPRESENTATIVE: You're welcome. Would you say that we have resolved your problem today?
ME: Yes. Bye!
(click)
Sheesh.
comments
August 10, 2025
Ghosts and Cookies
So I'm reading this YA novel about some teens who are hunting a ghost. The book is clearly supposed to be eerie and spooky. The ghost in question is evil and malicious. The problem is, the ghost, an old woman, keeps fading in and offering people cookies.
Yeah, you read that right. The spooky, evil spirit shows up with a plate piled high and says, "Cookies!" And everyone yells in fright and runs away.
It's unintentionally funny. I wonder what on earth the author was thinking. Cookies are about the least scary thing a ghost could offer you. Even the word "cookies" sounds cute. It keeps yanking me out of the story. We don't know yet why the evil ghost offers cookies, but I have the feeling the cookies were involved in someone's death. How horrifying. Except ... COOKIES!
comments
Yeah, you read that right. The spooky, evil spirit shows up with a plate piled high and says, "Cookies!" And everyone yells in fright and runs away.
It's unintentionally funny. I wonder what on earth the author was thinking. Cookies are about the least scary thing a ghost could offer you. Even the word "cookies" sounds cute. It keeps yanking me out of the story. We don't know yet why the evil ghost offers cookies, but I have the feeling the cookies were involved in someone's death. How horrifying. Except ... COOKIES!
comments
August 3, 2025
The PAE
I'm home from the hospital again! What was it this time? A prostatic artery embolism, or PAE. The word "embolism" sounds bad, I know, but here it's a good thing, so you can restart your heart. :) If you want the long definition of PAE, it's easy to find on Google. The short version is that it's a way to treat benign prostatic hyperplasia (growth of the prostate that often interferes with bathroom function). During a PAE, the doctor inserts a series of silicone beads into the arteries that feed parts of the prostate. This restricts blood flow and shrinks the prostate, easing or ending the bathroom problems. The procedure is performed with a catheter inserted through the upper thigh, like catheters cardiologists use for balloon angioplasty in the heart. For a wonder, the procedure went great, both physically and emotionally. I was so relieved at how it went that I was shaky afterward. I stayed awake during the procedure—no anesthesia, no anterograde amnesia—and the entire team from the nurses to the PAs to the doctor was solicitous, empathetic, and always kindly aware of my particular needs and fears. They made every possible accommodation cheerfully, with an "Of course! We're happy to help" attitude. This is the exact opposite of what I generally experienced in the urology clinic, and I can't describe how wonderful that contrast was. Here's the super-long, gory details version. I'm posting this because I process emotional events by writing about them and because I want to remember. I'm putting it behind a jump-cut so you can skip and jump to the final outcome it if you like.
( Read more... )Here's the final outcome: I'm glad beyond glad that I refused Versed and stayed awake throughout the procedure. More than once, I waffled on this, and came very close to saying, "Fuck it—just take the Versed." But in the end, I decided a little boredom was better than post-amnesia anxiety. I know what happened during every moment. I know what the doctor did, what the nurses did, and what the students did. I saw that the entire staff was solicitous and worried about me being comfortable and anxiety-free instead of just pretending to be until I was knocked out and reverting to snarky, "he's a bag of meat" behavior. I know that this staff was kind and nice, and it made a total difference. This procedure went a thousand times better than any I've ever had, and I really needed that. I didn't realize how much I needed it until I got home and thought back on it. I actually started to tear up a little over it, the relief was so profound. So what about the recording? I didn't give it to Darwin. I just put the recorder in its box in my desk drawer. I'm not going to listen to it. I don't need to—I know what happened. Does this mean I won't use it next time? I still don't know. But I do know that I'll be asking to stay away with fentanyl instead of forgetting with Versed.
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( Read more... )Here's the final outcome: I'm glad beyond glad that I refused Versed and stayed awake throughout the procedure. More than once, I waffled on this, and came very close to saying, "Fuck it—just take the Versed." But in the end, I decided a little boredom was better than post-amnesia anxiety. I know what happened during every moment. I know what the doctor did, what the nurses did, and what the students did. I saw that the entire staff was solicitous and worried about me being comfortable and anxiety-free instead of just pretending to be until I was knocked out and reverting to snarky, "he's a bag of meat" behavior. I know that this staff was kind and nice, and it made a total difference. This procedure went a thousand times better than any I've ever had, and I really needed that. I didn't realize how much I needed it until I got home and thought back on it. I actually started to tear up a little over it, the relief was so profound. So what about the recording? I didn't give it to Darwin. I just put the recorder in its box in my desk drawer. I'm not going to listen to it. I don't need to—I know what happened. Does this mean I won't use it next time? I still don't know. But I do know that I'll be asking to stay away with fentanyl instead of forgetting with Versed.
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July 23, 2025
Avoid Partners in Internal Medicine
When I moved, I transferred care to a new primary care clinic called Partners in Internal Medicine. I was getting along decently with my new doctor David Weidendorf there. Very nice.
Also important to know is that I have occasional neck and shoulder pain. When it flares up, I see a chiropractor, and after a couple sessions, the pain always goes away.
Further important is that when I retired, my insurance changed. Now I need a doctor's referral in order to see a specialist. This kind of thing is usually routine--you call the doctor, and they give the referral so you can make the appointment.
The pain flared up, and I tried to see a chiropractor, only to learn that I needed a doctor's referral first, so I called the doctor's clinic to ask for one.
"We don't give referrals for chiropractors," said the nurse. "Chiropractors don't go to medical school. We'll refer you to physical therapy. though."
"No," I said. "I don't need physical therapy. I only need a couple sessions with a chiropractor. The sessions work, they're short, and they take walk-ins. PT sessions last a long time each and they want you to come in three times a week for a month. And it's hard to get a decent appointment slot. I don't need to deal with any of that. I just need a chiropractor."
The nurse's tone became snippy. "We don't refer to chiropractors."
"Well, since you don't refer to chiropractors--who I know can solve my problem--I assume that means YOU can perform that function instead, so let's make an appointment for you to treat my neck and back pain. When's your next available?"
"We don't do that here. We'll refer you to a physical therapist."
"Nonetheless, I want to make an appointment to talk to the doctor."
"Sure. What location, Ann Arbor or Canton?"
"It doesn't matter--this can be done over video."
"We don't do video appointments."
Pause.
"You don't do video appointments?"
"We don't."
"You don't refer to chiropractors, and you don't do video appointments," I repeated carefully. "Are there any other standard medical services you don't perform or refer for?"
"No, that's it."
"Maybe there's a list I could look at, just to be sure."
"There isn't."
"So we're operating on your memory. Could I see the clinic's policies, please? You can email them to me or mail them in hard copy."
Now she was getting icy. "I'm afraid we don't do that."
"So there ARE other services you don't provide."
She got very annoyed with me after that. I hung up. After some hunting, I found a new doctor. I hope this one works out better.
The moral here is, don't become a patient at Partners in Internal Medicine in Ann Arbor or Canton. They're snobby and they're dismissive of patient concerns. Avoid.
comments
Also important to know is that I have occasional neck and shoulder pain. When it flares up, I see a chiropractor, and after a couple sessions, the pain always goes away.
Further important is that when I retired, my insurance changed. Now I need a doctor's referral in order to see a specialist. This kind of thing is usually routine--you call the doctor, and they give the referral so you can make the appointment.
The pain flared up, and I tried to see a chiropractor, only to learn that I needed a doctor's referral first, so I called the doctor's clinic to ask for one.
"We don't give referrals for chiropractors," said the nurse. "Chiropractors don't go to medical school. We'll refer you to physical therapy. though."
"No," I said. "I don't need physical therapy. I only need a couple sessions with a chiropractor. The sessions work, they're short, and they take walk-ins. PT sessions last a long time each and they want you to come in three times a week for a month. And it's hard to get a decent appointment slot. I don't need to deal with any of that. I just need a chiropractor."
The nurse's tone became snippy. "We don't refer to chiropractors."
"Well, since you don't refer to chiropractors--who I know can solve my problem--I assume that means YOU can perform that function instead, so let's make an appointment for you to treat my neck and back pain. When's your next available?"
"We don't do that here. We'll refer you to a physical therapist."
"Nonetheless, I want to make an appointment to talk to the doctor."
"Sure. What location, Ann Arbor or Canton?"
"It doesn't matter--this can be done over video."
"We don't do video appointments."
Pause.
"You don't do video appointments?"
"We don't."
"You don't refer to chiropractors, and you don't do video appointments," I repeated carefully. "Are there any other standard medical services you don't perform or refer for?"
"No, that's it."
"Maybe there's a list I could look at, just to be sure."
"There isn't."
"So we're operating on your memory. Could I see the clinic's policies, please? You can email them to me or mail them in hard copy."
Now she was getting icy. "I'm afraid we don't do that."
"So there ARE other services you don't provide."
She got very annoyed with me after that. I hung up. After some hunting, I found a new doctor. I hope this one works out better.
The moral here is, don't become a patient at Partners in Internal Medicine in Ann Arbor or Canton. They're snobby and they're dismissive of patient concerns. Avoid.
comments
July 10, 2025
Barbecue Fuckery
I rarely write about books, movies, or restaurants I don't like. I'd rather spread the word about the ones I DO like. But today I just have to make an exception.
I mean, how can you fuck up barbecue?
For supper on my last full day in Washington DC, I strolled down the street from my flat to a nice row of shops and restaurants. The smells outside Fat Pete's Barbecue were enticing, so I went in. The fuckery started the moment the door shut behind me.
The restaurant was relatively crowded for a weeknight, with an upper level and a lower level that were mostly full. But there was no one at the door to steer me toward a table. I waited for a few minutes, then wandered over the bar and asked about seating.
"Oh," said the bartender, as if the idea of customers wanting to sit at a table had never occurred to her. "You can sit over there if you want."
Okay, then. I sat. A server came and handed me four different menus: a much-abused daily menu of computer-printed pages, a beer and wine menu, a pasta menu, and a barbecue menu. This put me off from the start. I don't like wading through thirty pages to figure out what to order.
I finally settled on pulled pork with potato salad, cornbread, and cole slaw. I also ordered a cocktail called a Strawberry Surprise because it had amaretto in it and I like amaretto quite a lot. I also asked for water.
The server brought me disposable eatingware in plastic wrapping, another bad sign. The server also brought my water. It was in--and I'm not making this up--a plastic Dixie cup. It was just enough water to knock back a couple of pills. They were stingy with WATER? I should have left right then, but I stuck it out. Mistake.
My food arrived in due course. (Foodie friends, you may find this section like a car wreck you can't look away from.) It was awful, from top to bottom.
The pulled pork barbecue had no barbecue sauce on it. Nothing. It had been flavored with a little salt, and that was it. I stirred it around to see if any sauce was puddled on the bottom. Nope. Bland as a Christian rock band. When the server came to check on me, I asked for some barbecue sauce. This request, like the request for a seat, was treated with a surprised look. Barbecue sauce in a barbecue restaurant? Who would want that? She left and returned with a teeny plastic cup of skimpy sauce. I drizzled it over the pork and tried again. No change. The sauce had no flavor. It was like eating fatty Styrofoam.
Meanwhile, we also had the potato salad. It was wrong in every possible way. The flavor wasn't too bad, but the potatoes were in chunks too big to eat in one bite, and the cheap eatingware was too wimpy to cut them up. I think there were a few cucumbers swimming in there, begging for the release of death, but they were drowned out by the watery, nasty sauce that covered them. It had the consistency of thin gravy, but none of the taste.
Next I tried the cole slaw and actually spat it out. It was one of the vilest things I had ever put in my mouth, and feel free to joke about that as long as you keep mind how awful that cole slaw was.
The cornbread was covered in Saran wrap, which took considerable time to undo and told me that the stuff wasn't very fresh. It came with minuscule bits of butter. The bread was actually halfway decent, but it was cakey and sweet, and it couldn't make up for the awful that came with it.
And then there was the drink. The Strawberry Surprise was a surprise in that it had no strawberry in it. It was basically club soda with a dash of amaretto and a lime garnish clinging apologetically to the rim of the glass.
Usually I laugh good-naturedly at bad restaurants. "Oh well--they tried." But in this case, I just couldn't find it in me. Pete's had signs all over proclaiming they'd been declared the best BBQ in DC, and aren't we wonderful? No, they weren't. Truthfully, it all came across as arrogant. The servers treated me like an afterthought, or even an intruder, compounding the problem. This place is easily in the bottom three of Worst Restaurants I've Eaten In Ever.
Avoid.
comments
I mean, how can you fuck up barbecue?
For supper on my last full day in Washington DC, I strolled down the street from my flat to a nice row of shops and restaurants. The smells outside Fat Pete's Barbecue were enticing, so I went in. The fuckery started the moment the door shut behind me.
The restaurant was relatively crowded for a weeknight, with an upper level and a lower level that were mostly full. But there was no one at the door to steer me toward a table. I waited for a few minutes, then wandered over the bar and asked about seating.
"Oh," said the bartender, as if the idea of customers wanting to sit at a table had never occurred to her. "You can sit over there if you want."
Okay, then. I sat. A server came and handed me four different menus: a much-abused daily menu of computer-printed pages, a beer and wine menu, a pasta menu, and a barbecue menu. This put me off from the start. I don't like wading through thirty pages to figure out what to order.
I finally settled on pulled pork with potato salad, cornbread, and cole slaw. I also ordered a cocktail called a Strawberry Surprise because it had amaretto in it and I like amaretto quite a lot. I also asked for water.
The server brought me disposable eatingware in plastic wrapping, another bad sign. The server also brought my water. It was in--and I'm not making this up--a plastic Dixie cup. It was just enough water to knock back a couple of pills. They were stingy with WATER? I should have left right then, but I stuck it out. Mistake.
My food arrived in due course. (Foodie friends, you may find this section like a car wreck you can't look away from.) It was awful, from top to bottom.
The pulled pork barbecue had no barbecue sauce on it. Nothing. It had been flavored with a little salt, and that was it. I stirred it around to see if any sauce was puddled on the bottom. Nope. Bland as a Christian rock band. When the server came to check on me, I asked for some barbecue sauce. This request, like the request for a seat, was treated with a surprised look. Barbecue sauce in a barbecue restaurant? Who would want that? She left and returned with a teeny plastic cup of skimpy sauce. I drizzled it over the pork and tried again. No change. The sauce had no flavor. It was like eating fatty Styrofoam.
Meanwhile, we also had the potato salad. It was wrong in every possible way. The flavor wasn't too bad, but the potatoes were in chunks too big to eat in one bite, and the cheap eatingware was too wimpy to cut them up. I think there were a few cucumbers swimming in there, begging for the release of death, but they were drowned out by the watery, nasty sauce that covered them. It had the consistency of thin gravy, but none of the taste.
Next I tried the cole slaw and actually spat it out. It was one of the vilest things I had ever put in my mouth, and feel free to joke about that as long as you keep mind how awful that cole slaw was.
The cornbread was covered in Saran wrap, which took considerable time to undo and told me that the stuff wasn't very fresh. It came with minuscule bits of butter. The bread was actually halfway decent, but it was cakey and sweet, and it couldn't make up for the awful that came with it.
And then there was the drink. The Strawberry Surprise was a surprise in that it had no strawberry in it. It was basically club soda with a dash of amaretto and a lime garnish clinging apologetically to the rim of the glass.
Usually I laugh good-naturedly at bad restaurants. "Oh well--they tried." But in this case, I just couldn't find it in me. Pete's had signs all over proclaiming they'd been declared the best BBQ in DC, and aren't we wonderful? No, they weren't. Truthfully, it all came across as arrogant. The servers treated me like an afterthought, or even an intruder, compounding the problem. This place is easily in the bottom three of Worst Restaurants I've Eaten In Ever.
Avoid.
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Washington DC: Thursday, Part II
The weather was kinder today. Clouds blocked the sun and it was much cooler, though it was still a hot day. I set out, determined to see SOMETHING worth seeing today.
I didn't dick around this time. I went straight to the Library of Congress.
The LoC isn't really a library. It's a museum of American books. You don't get to wander the stacks, but the library has put a bunch of interesting library artifacts on display for visitors. The big, vaulted central room and the gallery above it were impressive. It's more like a cathedral than a library, and that was on purpose. Back when the LoC was built, libraries were venerated institutions dedicated to learning for all. It was religious, in its way. Hence the impressive architecture.
It was also very crowded. Yesterday the Archives and the MAH had only a sprinkling of visitors, so I was surprised at the big crowd at the Library. Why was it more popular? No idea.
I poked around to my satisfaction and realized I was starving. I'd skipped breakfast, and it was already way past lunchtime.
Outside, I found a hole-in-the-wall diner. It was as narrow as a Dutch house, and it was crowded. I had to squeeze past other diners to get to the counter, where I ordered a club sandwich and fries. The server brought me the fries the moment they came out of the fryer, so they were hot and crispy and perfect. The club sandwich was delicious, too. I think this diner was one of the high points of Washington!
That done, I headed back to the National Mall to see what trouble I could get into. To my surprise, Capitol Hill was open for business, so I went in.
I should mention here two features of every national building in Washington DC. First is that admission is free to all of them. Second is that you have to go through airport-level security to go into any of them. I understood why, but when you've removed your belt for the third time in one day, you get aggravated.
Anyway, I wove through security at the Capitol and had a look-see.
The inside was more like a train station than a government building. There were lines for this and that, and crowds of people sloshing from one side to the other. Lots of statues. I started to explore, and then stopped. I didn't feel good. Emotionally, that is. I really, really didn't want to be there. Why? The current administration. I just couldn't stomach being in the same building as the current Congress. So I left. I'd been in for maybe ten minutes.
Outside, there was a guy sitting in a chair under an umbrella. He was wrapped in white bandages from head to foot. A sign at his feet explained that he was in day three of a hunger strike. I felt like I should offer him words of support or something, but I didn't feel comfortable with the idea for some reason, so I didn't.
Next, I went to the Supreme Court building. Is it weird that the Supreme Court building has a gift shop? Yes. Yes, it is. The lobby area is really another museum, and you can also join tours. There are signs everywhere about LIBERTY and FREEDOM and RULE OF LAW. I felt angry and nauseated at the sight. So I turned my back and left. So much for that.
I was done. I just couldn't stand the thought of examining yet another display expounding the glories of the American government and its emphasis on freedom and liberty and justice. Not when the current administration was destroying every one of those ideals. It was time to go back to the flat.
The buses weren't running right--some kind of breakdown somewhere--so I treated myself to a nice, air-conditioned Uber and rode back to the flat, chewing over what had just happened.
comments
I didn't dick around this time. I went straight to the Library of Congress.
The LoC isn't really a library. It's a museum of American books. You don't get to wander the stacks, but the library has put a bunch of interesting library artifacts on display for visitors. The big, vaulted central room and the gallery above it were impressive. It's more like a cathedral than a library, and that was on purpose. Back when the LoC was built, libraries were venerated institutions dedicated to learning for all. It was religious, in its way. Hence the impressive architecture.
It was also very crowded. Yesterday the Archives and the MAH had only a sprinkling of visitors, so I was surprised at the big crowd at the Library. Why was it more popular? No idea.
I poked around to my satisfaction and realized I was starving. I'd skipped breakfast, and it was already way past lunchtime.
Outside, I found a hole-in-the-wall diner. It was as narrow as a Dutch house, and it was crowded. I had to squeeze past other diners to get to the counter, where I ordered a club sandwich and fries. The server brought me the fries the moment they came out of the fryer, so they were hot and crispy and perfect. The club sandwich was delicious, too. I think this diner was one of the high points of Washington!
That done, I headed back to the National Mall to see what trouble I could get into. To my surprise, Capitol Hill was open for business, so I went in.
I should mention here two features of every national building in Washington DC. First is that admission is free to all of them. Second is that you have to go through airport-level security to go into any of them. I understood why, but when you've removed your belt for the third time in one day, you get aggravated.
Anyway, I wove through security at the Capitol and had a look-see.
The inside was more like a train station than a government building. There were lines for this and that, and crowds of people sloshing from one side to the other. Lots of statues. I started to explore, and then stopped. I didn't feel good. Emotionally, that is. I really, really didn't want to be there. Why? The current administration. I just couldn't stomach being in the same building as the current Congress. So I left. I'd been in for maybe ten minutes.
Outside, there was a guy sitting in a chair under an umbrella. He was wrapped in white bandages from head to foot. A sign at his feet explained that he was in day three of a hunger strike. I felt like I should offer him words of support or something, but I didn't feel comfortable with the idea for some reason, so I didn't.
Next, I went to the Supreme Court building. Is it weird that the Supreme Court building has a gift shop? Yes. Yes, it is. The lobby area is really another museum, and you can also join tours. There are signs everywhere about LIBERTY and FREEDOM and RULE OF LAW. I felt angry and nauseated at the sight. So I turned my back and left. So much for that.
I was done. I just couldn't stand the thought of examining yet another display expounding the glories of the American government and its emphasis on freedom and liberty and justice. Not when the current administration was destroying every one of those ideals. It was time to go back to the flat.
The buses weren't running right--some kind of breakdown somewhere--so I treated myself to a nice, air-conditioned Uber and rode back to the flat, chewing over what had just happened.
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Washington DC: Thursday, Part I
My appointment at the Embassy of Latvia wasn't until late morning, giving me plenty of time to get there. Thanks to my earlier trip with my trailblazing cousin Elaine, I already knew exactly where to go and what to do, but I was still anxious. I've dealt with Eastern European bureaucracies before (see blog entries re: Adoption of Ukrainian Boys), and I know someone always throws you a stumbling block you couldn't predict, or they show you the fine print that shows you were supposed to bring a notarized copy of Form 482615a-5, or you had to prove you could tap dance. If I was turned away at the embassy for a paperwork error, I wouldn't be able to get my passport until the next time I was in Washington, and it's not a place I visit randomly.
I set out. The day was still hot, but it was cloudy, so it was bearable. I skipped breakfast on the grounds that I didn't want to have an activity in there with an unknown time variable, and anyway I wasn't really hungry.
As with Elaine on Tuesday, I arrived at the embassy about 20 minutes early, so I wandered about for a bit, admiring the other embassies. When I returned for my 10:40 appointment, I found a woman and a man already waiting at the door. They were--she was--also applying for a passport.
"My appointment was for twenty minutes ago," she said. "They're behind."
So I sat on the lip of a flower bed to wait. Eventually, another couple emerged talking animatedly in Spanish, which I found interesting. Latvian citizenship attracts refugee descendants from all over! The first couple went in, and I continued to wait and wonder what I might have overlooked. It was a nerve-wracking time. But finally, the couple emerged and left. I hit the door buzzer and told the metallic voice I was here to apply for a passport.
The lobby and the clerk were the same as Tuesday, of course, but this time it was me with the application. The clerk spoke to me in Latvian, and again I had to admit I didn't know the language. The clerk was clearly exasperated. She must spend most of her day in that particular mood.
"I never had the chance to learn it," I said, "and that saddens me."
The clerk wasn't having any of it. "You understand that we're here on Latvian soil [technically] but we can only communicate in a foreign language, not in Latvian."
I thought about telling her about the time I was in a student tour group in Germany. The group had students from Turkey, Greece, America, France, and Italy, and the only language we all had in common was German. So I, an American, conversed with my hotel room-mates, who were Turkish, in German. I thought that was pretty cool, actually, and I wanted to tell the clerk so, but I decided against. She might take it the wrong way.
I passed my forms over, and she glanced at them only briefly before turning to her computer. No sign I'd missed something. Small sigh of relief. I knew I had everything in order, but I was still glad to get the confirmation.
"What is your height in centimeters?" the clerk asked abruptly.
I was ready for this, and had looked it up yesterday. "180," I said.
Here, the clerk defrosted a little. "You prepared," she said, sounding a tiny bit impressed. I took the victory.
She took my fingerprints, had me fill out a couple of FedEx slips for delivery of said passport, snapped up $180 dollars from me, and took my picture, all from behind her glass enclosure.
"You're all set," she said, and turned back to her computer. I was dismissed.
I left like a schoolboy slinking out of the principal's office. But outside, I gave myself a personal happy moment. The last step was done! I took a selfie with the Latvian Embassy sign and went on my way.
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I set out. The day was still hot, but it was cloudy, so it was bearable. I skipped breakfast on the grounds that I didn't want to have an activity in there with an unknown time variable, and anyway I wasn't really hungry.
As with Elaine on Tuesday, I arrived at the embassy about 20 minutes early, so I wandered about for a bit, admiring the other embassies. When I returned for my 10:40 appointment, I found a woman and a man already waiting at the door. They were--she was--also applying for a passport.
"My appointment was for twenty minutes ago," she said. "They're behind."
So I sat on the lip of a flower bed to wait. Eventually, another couple emerged talking animatedly in Spanish, which I found interesting. Latvian citizenship attracts refugee descendants from all over! The first couple went in, and I continued to wait and wonder what I might have overlooked. It was a nerve-wracking time. But finally, the couple emerged and left. I hit the door buzzer and told the metallic voice I was here to apply for a passport.
The lobby and the clerk were the same as Tuesday, of course, but this time it was me with the application. The clerk spoke to me in Latvian, and again I had to admit I didn't know the language. The clerk was clearly exasperated. She must spend most of her day in that particular mood.
"I never had the chance to learn it," I said, "and that saddens me."
The clerk wasn't having any of it. "You understand that we're here on Latvian soil [technically] but we can only communicate in a foreign language, not in Latvian."
I thought about telling her about the time I was in a student tour group in Germany. The group had students from Turkey, Greece, America, France, and Italy, and the only language we all had in common was German. So I, an American, conversed with my hotel room-mates, who were Turkish, in German. I thought that was pretty cool, actually, and I wanted to tell the clerk so, but I decided against. She might take it the wrong way.
I passed my forms over, and she glanced at them only briefly before turning to her computer. No sign I'd missed something. Small sigh of relief. I knew I had everything in order, but I was still glad to get the confirmation.
"What is your height in centimeters?" the clerk asked abruptly.
I was ready for this, and had looked it up yesterday. "180," I said.
Here, the clerk defrosted a little. "You prepared," she said, sounding a tiny bit impressed. I took the victory.
She took my fingerprints, had me fill out a couple of FedEx slips for delivery of said passport, snapped up $180 dollars from me, and took my picture, all from behind her glass enclosure.
"You're all set," she said, and turned back to her computer. I was dismissed.
I left like a schoolboy slinking out of the principal's office. But outside, I gave myself a personal happy moment. The last step was done! I took a selfie with the Latvian Embassy sign and went on my way.
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Washington DC: Wednesday
Wednesday in Washington. The heat wave continues.
Today was my long day, the one day when I had no appointments or other engagements. It was to be my main day to tour the city. There's no way to see even a zillionth of Washington in one day, so I'd narrowed it down. I'd spend the morning at the Smithsonian and the afternoon at the National Archive and the Library of Congress. Then, if I had the energy, I'd try another museum.
Best laid plans...
First, the accidental good thing. I passed a department store and remembered that it was supposed to rain later. An umbrella would be a good idea. I popped in and bought one. Then I realized that I'd have to carry it all day unless I wanted to go all the way back to my flat to drop it off. I decided to carry it. Good decision, it turned out.
The sun was blazing, punishing, and relentless. It slammed into me the moment I exited the Metro, and I had several blocks to walk to the Smithsonian. I kept to the shade of the buildings as much as I could, but I was seriously sweating by the time I arrived.
The Smithsonian was closed.
Or rather, that big castle building that everyone thinks of when you say "Smithsonian" was closed for renovation. A helpful sign suggested that disappointed tourists visit one of the other Smithsonian museums nearby. I trudged sweatily to the Museum of American History, which was wonderfully air-conditioned. The MAH was diverting, but I already knew most of the history it explained. The displays were interesting enough, but I'd come to see the famous American artifacts like the Spirit of Saint Louis and Lincoln's chair from Ford's Theater. Well, whattayagonnado? I explored the MAH to my satisfaction, then headed toward the National Archive and the Library of Congress.
Here's where the umbrella came in. At this time of day, the sun was overhead and the building shadows were non-existent. I promptly put up my new umbrella. If I hadn't had it with me, I would have been forced to go back "home," or hide inside another building for a few hours.
To get to the LoC by foot, you have to pass by (or through) the National Mall, so I explored that on the way. It's massive. Photos don't give you the sheer scale of the place. I've seen smaller prairie farms. Trees line the sides of the grassy part, and I gratefully kept to their shade. I walked the entire length of the mall toward Capitol Hill. At one point, I stopped at a little cafe, the only one in sight, and bought a can of Coke for $4.50. It was worth it.
I found the National Archive first. Here the main thing to see are the originals of the founding documents: the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and the Bill of Rights. They're kept under glass on the third floor under an echoing rotunda. The documents are faded to the point of near illegibility. I was barley able to make out John Hancock's signature. But it was still impressive to see them. There was also a letter from Abraham Lincoln, in his own handwriting, demanding emancipation for enslaved people. I felt like I was reaching back in time and touching Lincoln when I read his words from his own hand.
I got restless later, though, and remembered that the flat was basically across the street from the National Zoo. They closed in a couple of hours, but hey--admission was free, so I wasn't losing anything by going.
Hoo boy.
When you enter the National Zoo, you find yourself at the beginning of a long, wide brick avenue. You walk down it and walk and walk and walk. Bamboo thickets line the thing so you can't see anything but the avenue. Why bamboo? Pandas! The pandas are the jewels in the crown, the stars of the show, the gooey center of the lava cakes. And they don't let you forget it. Every few feet there was a panda sign, a panda cafe, a stand selling panda merch. We have pandas! Did you know we have pandas? Come see the pandas!
I kept walking and walking and walking. No wildlife at all. Were there any actual animals in this zoo? I finally came across a gap in the bamboo barrier that revealed I was actually on a bridge above the elephant enclosure. Two elephants, far below and far away, hosed themselves with dust. That was it.
I kept on going. Everywhere I went, though, I found empty enclosures. No sign of any animal life. Not a sausage. A sign said the sloth bear was being attended to by the vet, but that was it. The hell?
At last I came to the panda house. The big one. The grand finale. You can probably see where this is going.
In the panda house, there was exactly one panda happily munching bamboo behind glass. That was it. From the advertising, I'd expected an entire valley of them like in the third Kung Fu Panda movie. Or at least two of them. Nope. Just the one. And watching it eat was only interesting for about three minutes. At least the building had AC. At this point, I gave up.
I have to say the National Zoo was a huge disappointment. You'd think that, as the NATIONAL zoo of the USA, it would be the best. It would set the standard and make all the other zoos jealous. But really? It was small and uninspiring. It would have been dull even if all the animals had been front and center dancing with little top hats and canes. I trudged back to the flat for my second shower of the day.
The rest of the evening, I caught up on my reading. It was an unfortunately lackluster day.
The biggest problem was the horrifying heat. I'm from Michigan, and I'm used to summer scorchers, but this was another level entirely. It was my own fault, I suppose--everyone knows DC in July is a misery. But the heat was compounded by everything being closed or under renovation.
Or blocked off.
Well, tomorrow was the Big Day--my own passport application. I gathered up the papers I'd need, mapped out my route, and worked out how long it would take to get there. With that small accomplishment behind me, I went to bed.
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Today was my long day, the one day when I had no appointments or other engagements. It was to be my main day to tour the city. There's no way to see even a zillionth of Washington in one day, so I'd narrowed it down. I'd spend the morning at the Smithsonian and the afternoon at the National Archive and the Library of Congress. Then, if I had the energy, I'd try another museum.
Best laid plans...
First, the accidental good thing. I passed a department store and remembered that it was supposed to rain later. An umbrella would be a good idea. I popped in and bought one. Then I realized that I'd have to carry it all day unless I wanted to go all the way back to my flat to drop it off. I decided to carry it. Good decision, it turned out.
The sun was blazing, punishing, and relentless. It slammed into me the moment I exited the Metro, and I had several blocks to walk to the Smithsonian. I kept to the shade of the buildings as much as I could, but I was seriously sweating by the time I arrived.
The Smithsonian was closed.
Or rather, that big castle building that everyone thinks of when you say "Smithsonian" was closed for renovation. A helpful sign suggested that disappointed tourists visit one of the other Smithsonian museums nearby. I trudged sweatily to the Museum of American History, which was wonderfully air-conditioned. The MAH was diverting, but I already knew most of the history it explained. The displays were interesting enough, but I'd come to see the famous American artifacts like the Spirit of Saint Louis and Lincoln's chair from Ford's Theater. Well, whattayagonnado? I explored the MAH to my satisfaction, then headed toward the National Archive and the Library of Congress.
Here's where the umbrella came in. At this time of day, the sun was overhead and the building shadows were non-existent. I promptly put up my new umbrella. If I hadn't had it with me, I would have been forced to go back "home," or hide inside another building for a few hours.
To get to the LoC by foot, you have to pass by (or through) the National Mall, so I explored that on the way. It's massive. Photos don't give you the sheer scale of the place. I've seen smaller prairie farms. Trees line the sides of the grassy part, and I gratefully kept to their shade. I walked the entire length of the mall toward Capitol Hill. At one point, I stopped at a little cafe, the only one in sight, and bought a can of Coke for $4.50. It was worth it.
I found the National Archive first. Here the main thing to see are the originals of the founding documents: the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and the Bill of Rights. They're kept under glass on the third floor under an echoing rotunda. The documents are faded to the point of near illegibility. I was barley able to make out John Hancock's signature. But it was still impressive to see them. There was also a letter from Abraham Lincoln, in his own handwriting, demanding emancipation for enslaved people. I felt like I was reaching back in time and touching Lincoln when I read his words from his own hand.
Outside, I realized I was starving, so I found a place to eat before hitting the Library of Congress. I had to pass Capitol Hill though, so I figured I'd stop by, thinking I could do a little walk-through, I found it surrounded by fencing. No one allowed inside. I wondered what they were afraid of. Visitors were left to stand in the blazing sun and had to content myself with looking at the enormous building from the outside. And it IS enormous. A huge display of wealth and power.
By now, I felt nauseated and a little dizzy, early symptoms of dehydration. I wouldn't make it to the Library at this rate. The nearest building was the Botanical Garden, so I headed over there. That could be kind of fun, I thought. The lobby was life-savingly cool, but the areas with the plants were tropical--almost as warm as outside. I couldn't handle more than a couple minutes. I went back to the lobby and sat on a bench, reading, until I had cooled off enough to continue.
I got restless later, though, and remembered that the flat was basically across the street from the National Zoo. They closed in a couple of hours, but hey--admission was free, so I wasn't losing anything by going.
Hoo boy.
When you enter the National Zoo, you find yourself at the beginning of a long, wide brick avenue. You walk down it and walk and walk and walk. Bamboo thickets line the thing so you can't see anything but the avenue. Why bamboo? Pandas! The pandas are the jewels in the crown, the stars of the show, the gooey center of the lava cakes. And they don't let you forget it. Every few feet there was a panda sign, a panda cafe, a stand selling panda merch. We have pandas! Did you know we have pandas? Come see the pandas!
I kept walking and walking and walking. No wildlife at all. Were there any actual animals in this zoo? I finally came across a gap in the bamboo barrier that revealed I was actually on a bridge above the elephant enclosure. Two elephants, far below and far away, hosed themselves with dust. That was it.
I kept on going. Everywhere I went, though, I found empty enclosures. No sign of any animal life. Not a sausage. A sign said the sloth bear was being attended to by the vet, but that was it. The hell?
At last I came to the panda house. The big one. The grand finale. You can probably see where this is going.
In the panda house, there was exactly one panda happily munching bamboo behind glass. That was it. From the advertising, I'd expected an entire valley of them like in the third Kung Fu Panda movie. Or at least two of them. Nope. Just the one. And watching it eat was only interesting for about three minutes. At least the building had AC. At this point, I gave up.
I have to say the National Zoo was a huge disappointment. You'd think that, as the NATIONAL zoo of the USA, it would be the best. It would set the standard and make all the other zoos jealous. But really? It was small and uninspiring. It would have been dull even if all the animals had been front and center dancing with little top hats and canes. I trudged back to the flat for my second shower of the day.
The rest of the evening, I caught up on my reading. It was an unfortunately lackluster day.
The biggest problem was the horrifying heat. I'm from Michigan, and I'm used to summer scorchers, but this was another level entirely. It was my own fault, I suppose--everyone knows DC in July is a misery. But the heat was compounded by everything being closed or under renovation.
Or blocked off.
Well, tomorrow was the Big Day--my own passport application. I gathered up the papers I'd need, mapped out my route, and worked out how long it would take to get there. With that small accomplishment behind me, I went to bed.
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July 8, 2025
Washington DC: Tuesday
Tuesday was Elaine's appointment at the Latvian embassy. Karina and I went along for both moral support and to be celebratory. I also wanted to observe the process so I'd know what I was in for later!
We met at a Metro station and took a subway to the stop nearest the embassy. We deliberately gave ourselves plenty of time so we could get breakfast. Karina found a nice cafe, and we ate and chatted and kept an eye on the clock.
It was HOT. Boy, was it HOT! Did I mention the HOT? By 9 AM it was already 95 degrees out and humid, humid, humid. Whew! When we emerged from the cafe, we planned our route to the embassy based on what side of the street had the most shade. Fortunately, someone decades ago had the forethought to plant a whole lot of sidewalk trees, so there was a lot of it.
We were on embassy row, and we played "guess the embassy's country by the flag." Elaine usually won.
We arrived at the embassy fifteen minutes early, but they don't let you in until the exact moment of your appointment, so we wandered around looking at other embassies and trying not to melt.
At last we were allowed into Latvia's embassy. It was actually a little disappointing. We weren't allowed into the embassy proper. The lobby area looked a little like a basement church classroom. Small table with utilitarian chairs. Bulletin boards with stuff about Latvia. An easel with a white board on it. The clerk stood behind glass.
Here we ran into a small embarrassment. None of us speak more than a few words of Latvian. All three of us feel a bit cheated here. If our respective parents had spoken Latvian to us as children, we could have grown up fluent in it. But in the 60s, it was what Karina calls "one-way assimilation." You are in America, you speak English! So we didn't learn it, and Elaine had to ask the clerk to speak English. The clerk clearly disapproved, and I suppose I can't blame her. They probably have a lot of new citizens who don't speak Latvian these days, and it must seem ... jarring. But there's nothing for it, so we forged ahead.
Elaine gave her paperwork to the clerk, who went over it and declared it proper. Elaine signed a couple of forms. ("Should I sign my name in English or in Latvian?" she asked. The clerk said, "You only have one signature, so sign it the way you sign anything else.") The clerk took her photo. ("Should I smile?" "No teeth," said the clerk, and the three of us dissolved into laughter, which made it hard for Elaine to get the photo taken.) Elaine paid a couple of fees, and it was done! Her passport will arrive in the mail later.
Outside, Elaine cheered, and Karina and I joined in. Group hug! Group photo! We also noticed one of those little library thingies. It was filled with books about Latvian culture, free for the taking. We each took one.
On our way to the embassy, we had passed a modern art museum. Elaine likes modern art quite a lot, and Karina said she'd been meaning to visit this museum for years, so we decided to check it out. It turned into a very pleasant afternoon of wandering through galleries examining work of all kinds and styles. They had some famous pieces by O'Keefe, Picasso, Matisse, and Renoir, and lots of pieces by artists who were new to me.
After a while, museum overload set in and we decided we'd had our fill of art. There was a lot to unpack and think about. Here, we needed to go our separate ways. There was a long, bittersweet good-bye. Because distance prevents me from seeing them often, I forget how much I like spending time with Elaine and Karina until I'm with them. It's our shared family history and a whole pile of common interests that all create a bonhomie you just don't get anywhere else.
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We met at a Metro station and took a subway to the stop nearest the embassy. We deliberately gave ourselves plenty of time so we could get breakfast. Karina found a nice cafe, and we ate and chatted and kept an eye on the clock.
It was HOT. Boy, was it HOT! Did I mention the HOT? By 9 AM it was already 95 degrees out and humid, humid, humid. Whew! When we emerged from the cafe, we planned our route to the embassy based on what side of the street had the most shade. Fortunately, someone decades ago had the forethought to plant a whole lot of sidewalk trees, so there was a lot of it.
We were on embassy row, and we played "guess the embassy's country by the flag." Elaine usually won.
We arrived at the embassy fifteen minutes early, but they don't let you in until the exact moment of your appointment, so we wandered around looking at other embassies and trying not to melt.
At last we were allowed into Latvia's embassy. It was actually a little disappointing. We weren't allowed into the embassy proper. The lobby area looked a little like a basement church classroom. Small table with utilitarian chairs. Bulletin boards with stuff about Latvia. An easel with a white board on it. The clerk stood behind glass.
Here we ran into a small embarrassment. None of us speak more than a few words of Latvian. All three of us feel a bit cheated here. If our respective parents had spoken Latvian to us as children, we could have grown up fluent in it. But in the 60s, it was what Karina calls "one-way assimilation." You are in America, you speak English! So we didn't learn it, and Elaine had to ask the clerk to speak English. The clerk clearly disapproved, and I suppose I can't blame her. They probably have a lot of new citizens who don't speak Latvian these days, and it must seem ... jarring. But there's nothing for it, so we forged ahead.
Elaine gave her paperwork to the clerk, who went over it and declared it proper. Elaine signed a couple of forms. ("Should I sign my name in English or in Latvian?" she asked. The clerk said, "You only have one signature, so sign it the way you sign anything else.") The clerk took her photo. ("Should I smile?" "No teeth," said the clerk, and the three of us dissolved into laughter, which made it hard for Elaine to get the photo taken.) Elaine paid a couple of fees, and it was done! Her passport will arrive in the mail later.
Outside, Elaine cheered, and Karina and I joined in. Group hug! Group photo! We also noticed one of those little library thingies. It was filled with books about Latvian culture, free for the taking. We each took one.
On our way to the embassy, we had passed a modern art museum. Elaine likes modern art quite a lot, and Karina said she'd been meaning to visit this museum for years, so we decided to check it out. It turned into a very pleasant afternoon of wandering through galleries examining work of all kinds and styles. They had some famous pieces by O'Keefe, Picasso, Matisse, and Renoir, and lots of pieces by artists who were new to me.
After a while, museum overload set in and we decided we'd had our fill of art. There was a lot to unpack and think about. Here, we needed to go our separate ways. There was a long, bittersweet good-bye. Because distance prevents me from seeing them often, I forget how much I like spending time with Elaine and Karina until I'm with them. It's our shared family history and a whole pile of common interests that all create a bonhomie you just don't get anywhere else.
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Washington DC: Monday
I'm in Washington DC this week. Why? I was approved for Latvian citizenship. Latvia grants citizenship to children of Latvian WWII refugees, and my father was exactly that. I spent about a year working on it, doing one thing here and another thing there. And then it was done, and I was declared a citizen! I'm a dual citizen now. This means, by the way, that I can live anywhere in the European Union for as long as I want. So can Darwin, as my spouse. We're also eligible for EU health care.
Anyway, the final step is to apply for my Latvian passport. This requires an in-person visit to the Latvian embassy in Washington DC. My cousin Elaine, whose father (my uncle) was also a Latvian refugee, started applying at about the same time I did, and by sheer coincidence, we got passport appointments at the embassy during the same week! Also, our cousin Karina happens to live in Washington DC. So we decided to make a family event of it. This turned out to be a wonderful idea. I rarely see Elaine and Karina these days, and I'm pretty sure we've never done anything together, just the three of us, in this particular combination, so it was kind of cool to explore that.
On Monday, after a couple bobbles with the flight ("We're delayed by 45 minutes." "Nope! We're taking off in ten minutes!" "Sorry--we're delayed again." "Nope! We're heading out now."), I got to Washington and took a cab straight to Karina's house. I thought it was just going to be a few of us for supper, but what with one thing and another, a pile of other family was included, so it turned into a raucous family dinner party, and I got to meet a whole bunch of relatives and sort-of relatives I didn't know before, which was delightful. And the food was fantastic. No dill, either!*
After a fine evening of catching up and getting-to-know-you conversation, with cheesecake, I headed off to the little flat I'd rented. It's a really cool basement flat that I would have killed to have when I was in college. I conked out hard!
* This is an in-joke for the Latvians in the audience. Dill to Latvians is what gefilte fish is to Jews. You either love it or you hate it, but it shows up at every family gathering.
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Anyway, the final step is to apply for my Latvian passport. This requires an in-person visit to the Latvian embassy in Washington DC. My cousin Elaine, whose father (my uncle) was also a Latvian refugee, started applying at about the same time I did, and by sheer coincidence, we got passport appointments at the embassy during the same week! Also, our cousin Karina happens to live in Washington DC. So we decided to make a family event of it. This turned out to be a wonderful idea. I rarely see Elaine and Karina these days, and I'm pretty sure we've never done anything together, just the three of us, in this particular combination, so it was kind of cool to explore that.
On Monday, after a couple bobbles with the flight ("We're delayed by 45 minutes." "Nope! We're taking off in ten minutes!" "Sorry--we're delayed again." "Nope! We're heading out now."), I got to Washington and took a cab straight to Karina's house. I thought it was just going to be a few of us for supper, but what with one thing and another, a pile of other family was included, so it turned into a raucous family dinner party, and I got to meet a whole bunch of relatives and sort-of relatives I didn't know before, which was delightful. And the food was fantastic. No dill, either!*
After a fine evening of catching up and getting-to-know-you conversation, with cheesecake, I headed off to the little flat I'd rented. It's a really cool basement flat that I would have killed to have when I was in college. I conked out hard!
* This is an in-joke for the Latvians in the audience. Dill to Latvians is what gefilte fish is to Jews. You either love it or you hate it, but it shows up at every family gathering.
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