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I left my $ in San Francisco

It is an expensive, very expensive city. Having lived in Europe for so many years, I was shocked. I assumed that nothing – with the exception of Switzerland — could be more expensive than the French Riviera where I now live.

San Francisco proved me wrong. Following are some costs I found outrageous:

One scoop ice cream cone in SF, $8.50 (3 euros or $3.24 at my local ice cream shop)

1 small box of Tylenol 500mg (pain reliever like paracetamol) $8. The equivalent here about 2 euros, $2.16

1 glass of house wine in a restaurant, $14. At restaurants I frequent here, usually from 5 to 8 euros, $5.40-$8.64.

In both San Francisco and southern France, prices vary from one locale to another. In most cases, however, San Francisco seems over the top. I was surprised to learn that prices in much of the US may not be significantly less. While walking through a supermarket with my brother Steve, I asked, “How can people afford these prices?” “They can’t” he answered. “That’s why Trump will become president.” Hope he’s wrong.

The above costs were bad enough, but the whopper for me was $16,700 for emergency room treatment and a night spent in “observation” at the University of California San Francisco hospital.

I tripped over a scooter parked half way on the sidewalk, fell, broke my wrist and smashed my face. Hence the hospital.

Scooters are often parked on the sidewalk. I was looking across the street and did not notice the beast. Photo model: Steve Koester

I do not have Medicare, nor American health insurance. In France I benefit from socialized medicine (most costs covered), but I have a travel/medical insurance. Let’s hope I get reimbursed.

The San Francisco visit was not vacation. I went to see my brother Tom who had been diagnosed with terminal cancer. Sadly, he has since passed away, but I am grateful I had the opportunity to spend time with him. He was a special guy, very kind, generous and liked by all.

Fisherman’s Wharf. Tom’s apartment was not far from here.

Due to the accident, my stay in San Francisco was not as long as planned. I had a cast from my wrist to my elbow and had been told to come back to the orthopedic clinic in two weeks. Fortunately, after a week I returned to France and saw a specialist. The wrist should have been operated on immediately after the accident, I learned. The doctor was concerned that due to the time delay, the surgery might not be completely successful. I am lucky. So far, all is on track.

The surgery here has cost nothing. I will need to pay the specialist his fee: 370 euros (about $400). There would have been no extra charge for a regular hospital staff doctor. Surgery in the US? That price tag would have added a heart attack to my woes.

The hospital bill was overwhelming. Abby, the very caring intern assigned to me, insisted on numerous X-rays and cat scans. A cat scan of my head; $3,288; cat scan of spine, $4,734; shoulder X-ray, $402, plus other X-rays. The charge for one night in observation, $6,780. Not much happened. I slept.

There were plenty of other hefty charges. This was a simple broken wrist. What happens to those in the US who have serious medical conditions and no medical insurance? It’s criminal – both the exorbitant charges and the lack of insurance for all.

Enjoying a fabulous San Francisco pizza.

On the positive side, an aspect of the US I relish is people: friendly, helpful, smiling. As I lay on the sidewalk with a bloody face and painful wrist, passers-by were eager to offer assistance. I was alone, in pain, in shock, not to mention somewhat frightened. As readers of this blog know, I have recently had far more serious mishaps. I feared the worst. The concern from strangers was comforting.

One couple, nurses, determined I had broken my wrist. The young woman gently wiped blood from my face. Her partner called an ambulance. Someone asked if I had been riding the scooter. OMG! Had that been the case, I would not be writing this blog

From taxi and Uber drivers to waiters and waitresses, from nurses to hotel personnel, I found people interesting, delightful, and not shy to converse and tell their stories. A taxi driver from Vietnam, now a citizen, told me how he came to the US. An Uber driver related the details of his job. A young Moroccan who pushed me in a wheel chair at the airport was happy with her job but missed her country.

They came from distant lands, not just those mentioned above. Mexico. China. Philippines. Ethiopia. Turkey. Nigeria…. Hard working folk, not drug addicts, rapists and criminals. Immigrants make the US. I can’t imagine how San Francisco would survive without them.

As I read somewhere, the country is a quilt, far more interesting than a boring sheet.

My San Francisco visit left little time for sightseeing. If circumstances had been different and I had had time to experience the city’s attractions, perhaps I would have left my heart there too, not just my $.

Palace of Fine Arts. I enjoyed a walk in this beautiful area.

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A Picture is Worth 1,000 Words

Since I have been doing nothing exciting to write about, this will be mainly a photo blog.

The heat and humidity here in southern France have been too much for me. Fortunately, my apartment building has a TDF (to die for) pool. I swim and do my pool rehabilitation exercises every morning, then spend the rest of the day in the comfort of my air-conditioned apartment. It gets monotonous.

At 9 a.m. I am often the only one in the pool. Heaven!

Not just the heat, but the crowds also keep me home bound. I live in a vacation paradise. The beaches are packed. Finding a parking place is as challenging as finding a contact lens in the sea. A tranquilizer is required to negotiate the traffic.

It is in the French DNA to take vacation in July or August, with August being the preferable month. This applies to all – not just families with children which is understandable.

A bachelor lawyer I know has closed shop for all of August. Friend Karen bought an apartment in the spring. She is having it renovated, but all work stopped in mid July and will not continue until September. Vacation time.

My physical therapist is “en vacance “ for the entire month. (The French get five weeks of paid vacation per year, plus lots of holidays.). It’s best not to get sick in France in August. Your doctor will likely be on the golf course or beach somewhere far off. Your favorite pharmacy, bakery, butcher shop – likely closed until September.

Fortunately, the “rentree” ( when kids go back to school) is around the corner. Life will return to normal soon.

Following are random photos retrieved from the innards of my computer. Most are from fascinating trips husband Bob and I had the fortune to enjoy. We loved to explore far off lands, learn about different cultures, and meet the locals. It was all fun and enriching.

Before long I hope the beach will be like this.

Peillon, France. I went there on July 9 to commemorate the 1 year anniversary my beloved Bob’s death. We had been there many, many years ago.

In the medieval garden at the Chateau of St. Agnes, France

Beauty in the canton of Valais, Switzerland

Sultan Qaboos Grand Mosque, Muscat, Oman

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Cooking with a View

This was a cooking class like no other –and I have been to many. The setting:
A precise row of seven white plastic tables and chairs on a terrace overlooking a sumptuous pool with the Mediterranean and the Italian town of San Remo below. Breathtaking. How was I supposed to concentrate on dicing garlic in this seductive ambiance? I wanted to stroll around, sink my feet into the thick grass blanketing the hillside, explore the gardens, take photos. A swim would have been a delight, too.

But we, myself and five others, came to conquer Indian cooking, that is several specialties of this spicy cuisine. We were at the home of Jeryl, the American founder of the Benvenuto Club of San Remo which sponsored the event.

Our teacher: energetic Asif who calls himself “Anglo, Afro, Asian.” He was born in Tanzania of Indian parents, but as a child moved with his family to England. He and his Italian wife Cinzia, a yoga and dance teacher, now live in Italy where they work together on events. He also teaches drums, in addition to “vegan cooking,” often with Cinzia.

The day began with chai, tasty tea with milk and the distinctive flavors of cinnamon and cardamom. “I will give you the skills, showing how to chop… We will move forward from there,” he said, as we enjoyed our morning chai.

Asif has “his history” tattooed on his arm. Ganesh on top with an African mask and the 99 names of Allah on lower arm. His heritage is Muslim, but he does not practice the religion.

“Cooking is smelling, tasting and feeling. Also, memory. Food creates memories.” As the day wore on, we did lots of tasting.

We prepared five different dishes, beginning with potato pakoras, a common street food in India, and tamarind chutney. Most were favorites of his “Mum, ” and he often referred to her techniques.

He mixed up the pakora batter using gram flour which is made from black chickpeas, and water, whisking until ribbons formed. He then added cumin and garam masala.

We each had a potato to peel and slice very thin. He demonstrated the way to position the knife, tip pointed downward. “Let the knife do the work.” My slices were not that skinny. I compared them to those of my friend Kate at the table next to me. Hers looked perfect. Damn.

Ludovica, center, and her mother Jeryl watch pakora preparation.

Asif heated a large frying pan half full with oil. “Don’t let it smoke,” he cautioned.

The fun, messy part –dipping each potato slice in the gooey batter to thoroughly coat. We used his batter to coat our slices, which also coated our hands, then one by one dropped the slices into the hot oil.

Make a double batch, he suggested. They are so good you will eat them as they are cooked. We couldn’t resist, taking one then another from the finished batch. When all were cooked, we moved on to tamarind chutney.

This requires a jar of concentrated tamarind paste, available in Asian stores. The prep is simple. Just add water, salt, sugar and chili powder to the paste in a pan and bring to simmer. Stir and taste until you have a perfect balance of sweet and sour. Here is where tasting is essential. You may need more sugar. You may want to turn up the heat (as in taste).

Before moving on to curry, we took a break to savor more pakoras with the chutney. The combo was a delicious hit with all.

Ginger and garlic are the base of curry, Asif told us. We had to dice both as well as an onion. He demonstrated nifty techniques to simplify the procedures. Sharp knives are essential. We had been told to bring chopping knives, a peeler and a large frying pan. He used his steel to fine tune our knives. Unfortunately, mine needed more serious sharpening. I’ll add that to my never-ending to-do list.

He emphasized the importance of a very fine (tiny) dice of garlic and ginger lest you come across a chunk when eating the curry. Again, Kate outdid me with miniscule bits of garlic and ginger. I was jealous. What is her secret?

She explained that her husband cooks and she does the prep. Dicing and slicing are tasks which she has perfected. I have never had the patience for perfection, nor did I think a piece of ginger or garlic would be so bad.

We each had a portable gas stove with one burner on our table. We were given pots to cook the curry which began with caramelizing the onions in oil. To prevent burning, small amounts of water were added as needed. Then came the ginger and garlic which cooked briefly before adding cut up tomatoes — and spices.

We had been given five small plastic bags, each containing a different spice: garam masala, coriander, cumin, basaar (an extra hot Pakistani curry powder) and turmeric.

“In Italian cooking you get amazing flavors with four ingredients. In Indian cooking you can use 13 or 14 different spices,” Asif noted.

After the curry mixture simmered for what seemed like a long time, chopped spinach and chickpeas were added for more simmering, this time with the pot lid on. Throughout the process, we tasted, ours and the curry of others. Seasoning was adjusted accordingly.

While the simmering continued, we struggled with chapatis (flatbread): mixing the dough, kneading until clumps formed, breaking off chunks, forming into small balls, and, with a rolling pin, flattening the balls into circles. Our dynamic teacher showed us an easy method to roll and obtain perfect circles. Kate mastered it. I failed. My chapati looked like amoeba on steroids.

Kate rolls dough. Mary flours her perfect circle chapati,

Asif then showed us how to cook the circles (or giant amoeba) in oil in our frying pans. He also prepared rice, sharing his secrets for a perfect result.

It had been a long day of cooking. We were hungry. We sat around a large round table and enjoyed our culinary creations: spinach and chickpea curry with rice and chapati. There were ample portions of curry to take home.

I was not the star of the class, but I had an enriching, delightful day. I picked up some helpful tips and relished the ambiance.

Back at home, since I am neither a vegan nor vegetarian, I added pieces of sauteed chicken breast to my curry mixture. Shame! It was tasty, and Asif was right. The curry tasted better the second day. The flavors of all those spices had mellowed

“Food to me is joy,” he said. “It brings smiles to people’s faces.”

We were all smiles after a fun day of learning, tasting, and eating, especially with that spectacular view for inspiration.

Cooks’ view: San Remo and the Mediterranean

For more recipes and how-to demos, see Asif and Cinzia on You Tube.

Another cooking adventure: Read about my experience at Cordon Bleu

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Check out my recipes here

Hotel California II

For background, see previous post « Hotel California „

Improvement. Madame Cadre ( MC, big boss) was true to her word when she promised me a « nice surprise » after the obligatory 3-week waiting period at this rundown rehabilitation center. My original room had neither toilet nor shower. The surprise: a « luxurious « room with both. And, I still have access to the broken balcony with the spectacular view.

View of Golfe-Juan on the Mediterranean from the balcony

The physical therapy staff also granted me an upgrade: an electric wheelchair to replace the hand operated one I had been given. It was huge, intimidating, shabby, old – not like the smaller versions most residents had. « It’s very easy. Just like driving a car , » I was told.

Not for me. The monster took off like a missile, reminding me of those bumper cars at amusement parks. I hated them. I frequently got stuck, a perfect target for others to crash into. No one crashed into my wheelchair, but I had three collisions into walls. Major collisions. My broken leg took the hit. I was nervous. I can do this, I told myself, and concentrated on mastering the speed controls. Too late. The powers that be took it away from me. I was delighted.

Hotel California, properly known as Helio Marin, is rehabilitation facility in Vallauris, France, specializing in the treatment of amputees and those with serious, multiple injuries.

After my third surgery for a complicated break of the femur (first repair broke after six months) and a semi-paralyzed arm resulting from a failed reverse shoulder replacement of a broken shoulder, this was said to be the best place for my recovery.

Picnic at Helio Marin with my faithful visitors: Jo, Sir Dickens, Angi and Erika

I soon learned that my injuries were minor compared to others. Many much younger residents are recovering from ski, bicycle, surfboard, car and motorcycle accidents.

Horrendous accidents.

Emmanuel, 40s, crashed his bicycle into a car. He broke his spine, tibia, ankle and hip. „I had six surgeries within 10 days,“ he told me. One surgery lasted seven hours.

The serious cyclist, who has ridden as many as 250 kilometers in one day, likes to ride the challenging costal mountain terrain in this region. He has been at Helio Marin since December, but is beginning to walk and will go home soon. He looks forward to getting back on his bike.

Aladdin, 26 , races around in his electric wheelchair as if training for a wheelchair Formula I. He had taken leave from his job at the tech company Amadeus to visit „ 26 countries“ by car. He was celebrating super success. On weekends he worked as a salesman in Monaco for a „ super yacht“ company. (Starting price $15 million). He had made a sale.

While driving in rural Greece, he hit a pig. The airbags inflated. He lost control and slammed into a wall. He broke his spine and spent six weeks in an Athens hospital only able to move his eyes up and down, back and forth, to indicate yes and no.

He remains positive, always smiling, chatting with others. He likes Snickers bars, and offered me one. Another time he presented me with his French fries from a delivery order. A welcome treat. No fries served here. Aladdin is an inspiration.

Tahar is a retired gardener originally from Tunisia. He said he is the only amputee here who lost a leg in an accident. The others are victims of diabetes. He lives in Grasse, the perfume capital of France, and was using a rotary tiller to tend the roses for the upscale cosmetics firm, Lancôme. His foot slipped into a hole and his leg got caught in the blades. Like Aladdin, he has a warm and welcoming smile. He was eager to tell me about his various gardening jobs, which he obviously loved. No self-pity, but he did say learning to walk with a prothestic leg is very difficult.

Patrick, 43, broke his spine in a whooper motorcycle accident. I often see him sitting outdoors in the sun after lunch. He told me about his accident and said he was not expected to live. In addition to losing feeling and movement in his legs, an arm is damaged and the accident has affected his voice. He is originally from Iceland, but lives in Menton with his partner and four-year-old daughter. A doctor told him he would not walk again which infuriated him. „How dare he ruin my hopes.“ He intends to seek other opinions.

Gerard, 19, broke both femurs attempting a ski jump. He fell, and the skis landed straight up, tails in the snow. The bindings did not release. Like me, he has had femur surgery and rods have been inserted to stabilize both legs.

Jean Michel, early 40s, was whacked in the neck with his surfboard. He was immobile. „I could have drowned.“ His buddies saved him as well as emergency surgery for a compressed spine. „I was very lucky,“ he said.

Of course there are many older patients like me, victims of falls.

In the late 19th century heliomarine sanitoriums were established to treat tuberculosis patients. They were near the sea to profit from the sun‘s rays and sea air. Those remaining, like Helio Marin in Vallauris, are now rehabilitation facilities.

The stepped concrete structure of Helio Marin was designed by architect Pierre Souzy and completed in 1937. It is unique and had to be considered avant garde almost 100 years go.

Unfortunately the building has been sadly neglected. There was talk of tearing it down and building a luxury hotel. The site is spectacular. However, due to its age the building is a protected structure and can only be used for medical purposes.

I had to wonder if that old electric wheelchair they gave me had been rescued from the dusty recesses of the attic. Nevermind, as one on line reviewer wrote:

„In spite of the delapidation, the care and staff are good, and that‘s the most important. „

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With visitors Ralph and Gayle. They brought me balloons and a rose.

Hotel California

Welcome to the Hotel California, but it’s a hospital, not a hotel. Nonetheless I instantly thought of that Eagles hit song from 1977 when I entered this bizarre place.

„This could be heaven or this could be hell“

…And she showed me the way

There were voices down the corridor

Thought I heard them say

…”And I was thinkin to myself

Welcome to the Hotel California

Such a lovely place. Such a lovely place.“

My room: Old, shabby, paint chipped walls, a big hole in the ceiling. Ahh— but the view from the 4th floor balcony is splendid with the Mediterranean Golfe-Juan in one direction, and the Bay of Cannes in the other. “A postcard view,” as a visitor said.

I am here for therapy following my third femur surgery since my great fall last June (see a previous post, My Sorry Story). Helio Marin, this facility, has a sterling reputation as a rehabilitation center, although as I looked around that seemed hard to fanthom. I was seduced by the view and figured I could tolerate the depressing room — until I pulled back the plastic curtain and glanced into the minuscule bathroom. NO TOILET.

I completely freaked out. “ There is no toilet in the bathroom,“ I shouted to the aide who had led me to my new home. That is true, she said, but there is a toilet down the hall. What? This is 2024 and the rooms do not have toilets. I was incredulous, thinking back to student days traveling with “Europe on $5 day.” That was then — some 60 years ago. I am old, too old for down-the-hall bathroom treks.

“I cannot stay here.“ I was upset, angry, bewildered. “ I will call the „Cadre“ (big boss),“ the aide said. Madame Cadre (MC) appeared. Medium length, straight dark red hair. Glasses. Stern demeanor. No welcome smile, but a piercing stare meant to instill fear.

I was adamant. I insisted that I needed a room with a toilet, that I could not make the trips down the hall. “Why not? You can walk.“

“Lady, I am in a wheelchair. I can’t walk. That’s why I am here.”

She stated that this was the only room available. Take it or leave it, but she could put me on the waiting list for a better room with toilet.

I was frantic. I called the hospital where I had the recent surgery. They had arranged for me to come here. Please find me a room somewhere else, I pleaded. The woman in social services insisted this was the best place for my recuperation. Just be patient. You will get a better room, she said. The other facility she had recommended had no rooms.

I was stuck. It was either stay here or go home. I knew I was in no condition to go home and take care of myself.

I did not unpack, hoping I would have a better room in a few days. I gazed into the bathroom one more time. No shower either. That too is down the hall. Nothing to do but retreat to the balcony and let the view soothe my troubled soul.

Not for long. MC returned. “What are you doing out there? It’s dangerous, forbidden,“ she screamed. „Get in here.“ I dutifully wheeled myself back inside. This was too much, like a bad dream.

I later learned the balcony, a wide structure with the rooms opening onto it, is like everything here: Old. It is wooden, rotting and in danger of collapse. You can tread lightly at your own risk, but only on the initial portion. The area near near the edge is off limits. When MC departed, I disobeyed and ventured to the edge, the best place for photos. I was not the only one.

The next day I wanted to take a shower and wash my hair, yet there was a problem. I had neither towel nor wash cloth. You are expected to bring your own. How was I to know? During previous hospital experiences, they had been provided. Someone scrounged up a towel for me. I asked an aide if I could have a disposable wash cloth. I know they come in packages of 100. Hospitals use them.

„I have to ask the Cadre“ he replied. Madame’s answer: NO! I was not entitled to a disposable wash cloth. I obviously had not endeared myself to MC. I would be punished.

Originally a plaque supported my broken femur. It too broke and has been replaced by a rod.

According to the Helio Marin welcome brochure, for a fee you can have laundry service. I asked my friendly morning nurse team about it. They only knew of a washing machine and dryer for the use of patients. But, they would ask the Cadre. I told them not to bother, that she did not like me.

“Don’t worry. She does not like anyone.”

Bottom line. Brochure lied. There is no laundry service. The washer and dryer only work with payment by credit card. When I checked in, I had been advised to leave valuables (cash, jewelry, credit cards ) with the office for safe keeping. I did.

Now I had to go back and sign out a credit card to do my laundry. What about detergent?

You can buy it at “Snack”, I was told. Wrong. Snack has no detergent for sale. My dirty clothes had to wait for my friend Karen to bring me detergent.