First, an apology. For all of those who travelled from near and far for our Merano summer party last Saturday, I’m sorry that I wasn’t able to put in an appearance. If you give me a moment, I’ll explain my absence. Also, if you’re a lover of cats or find them devious, self-centred and just plain wrong, you might want to look away now.
Our story starts early last week in Lisbon. Mom and I are visiting a friend at her apartment for drinks and a catch-up on some work and social matters. The main reception room is an eclectic mix of modernism and crafts, the space is warm and welcoming and the Portuguese bubbly is perfect for a Tuesday afternoon. A couple of our host’s colleagues will join us a bit later, so for the moment it’s just the three of us and three animals – a dog and two cats. They shall remain nameless. The dog is small and curious and well behaved. One of the cats is busy grooming its crotch and the other is on my lap and looking for attention. I’m having none of it. “He’s the one in charge,” announces our host. “He kind of keeps everyone in check.” There is hair all over my navy shorts and now the cat is digging its nails into the seersucker as it tries to get comfortable. This carries on for about 15 more seconds until he realises that he’s not going to get anywhere and that a glass of Portuguese effervescence might end up in his eyes. Off he goes.
Mom and host are talking about ceramic lamp bases and shades and there’s a question about whether we should stay inside for drinks or venture out. “It’s so lovely here,” I say, “why don’t we just stay in?” Our host agrees and refills the glasses. This is a cue for the cat to go and jump on mom’s lap and start his routine. “He likes to visit everyone,” says the host. “But sometimes he can be a little bit naughty and scratch or bite.”
My mom smiles and I can read the speech bubble above her head. “And you allow this little beast to take centre stage in social settings?” She reaches for her glass but then jolts backwards. “Did he bite you?” I ask. “Mmmm,” my mother replies, pressing her hand. “Are you bleeding?” My mom nods and the cat is scolded in Portuguese by our host (as if that’s going to change its behaviour) and then she’s off to get some alcohol and a bandage.
We carry on talking for a bit but we have a 05.55 flight to Zürich in the morning and I can tell that my mom is uncomfortable and wants to go. We say our goodbyes, jump in a cab and head home. On the way, I inspect mom’s hand. It’s a little bit swollen and she says that it’s throbbing. Back at the apartment, I make an ice pack and have mom settle down on the sofa. We’re up and at ‘em around 04.30 (yes, we live very close to the airport) and somewhere over France I notice that mom’s hand and wrist is becoming more swollen. We touch down in Zürich and I drop a note to Dr Stucki, our family GP.
Headline: Mom bitten by cat
Body copy: Dear Dr Stucki, I hope all is well and your summer is shaping up nicely. We just touched down from Lisbon. Mom was bitten by a friend’s cat yesterday. It’s become quite swollen. Thoughts?
Within about 15 minutes Dr Stucki has written back and suggests a visit as soon as possible. We drop our things at home and head to her practice in town. By now the hand is starting to look puffy. Dr Stucki takes one look, her eyes wide, and says that she’ll do a blood test, administer a tetanus shot and go hard on antibiotics. “Cat bites, the worst,” she says. “Let’s keep an eye on it and let me know if it changes or gets worse.”
The following morning, I’m up early for a flight to Berlin and take a peek at mom’s hand before heading for the train. It’s considerably worse. In fact, mom’s forearm looks like a mortadella. Photos are taken and sent to the doctor and by the time I land in Berlin mom has been taken to emergency and there’s considerable concern about how rapidly the arm has become infected. I finish my business in Berlin, have a long talk with the doctor and head to the airport. He says that if the antibiotics don’t kick in then they will need to open up the arm and clean it out. He says that he’s concerned about an infection to the tendons. By 21.00 I’m back in Zürich and going straight to the hospital. Mom is in good spirits and watching CNN. I return the following morning to find the bags packed and mom ready to go. “Where do you think you’re going?” I ask. “The doctor is going to come by and tell me that it’s all fine. Then we can go to Merano,” she says. “Ummmmmm, we’ll see about that,” I say, looking at her hand and puffy forearm.
A couple of hours later, the doctors give mom a semi “all clear” but she’ll need to stay on the antibiotic drip for another evening and can leave the next day. I return Saturday morning and consider, ever so briefly, doing the five-hour drive to Merano but mom needs to rest, so I move into nurse mode and we end up having a cosy Saturday evening at home.
One week on and I’m happy to report that mom has recovered, though her right (painting) hand is still a little tender. But she’s back swimming in the lake and back in front of her canvases. The moral of this story is very clear. Cats are generally bad news, not to be trusted and will never be celebrated in the pages of Monocle – this I can promise.
Fancy a friend in Lisbon that doesn’t bite? Our charming City Guide is just the ticket.
Stockholm
It’s Sunday morning and we’re heading out for a stride around the city. The route is generally the same every visit and takes in sturdy embassies, funkis-style apartment buildings, a local shopping mall for a coffee and a spin around the grocery store, a few large parks and then more fine residences and diplomatic compounds.
Before heading out I ask the gentleman running reception if the weekend papers have arrived and he says that The New York Times in print is a thing of the past in Sweden and that he doesn’t know when the FT Weekend will show up. “It should have been here by now but you never know these days,” he says with a frown. “Everyone wants a newspaper on the weekend and we’d like some alternatives but there aren’t any.” We exchange a few more words on the topic and as I head for the door he says: “Maybe time for you to launch one, Tyler.”
The idea occupies my thoughts for the rest of the walk, the weekend and the past week. It’s not the first time that I’ve considered the idea but 18 months ago, with other projects on the go, I took it off the back burner, put it in an airtight container and placed it at the rear of the fridge. Now I feel that it needs to thaw out and get some air. Would you buy an English-language paper or are you happy with your current offer? Do you even need paper with so much available on screen? Does it need to be delivered or would you make the trip to the kiosk to secure a copy? On my way back to the hotel I pass the newsstand on Karlaplan plaza and there’s a healthy stack of the FT Weekend piled up at the cashier. I grab two copies (one for Mom too) and head back to the hotel. I’m happy to tuck it into my tote for the trip to Bahrain but something is missing.
Dubai International Airport
It’s just after midnight on Monday morning and I’m waiting for my connection to Bahrain. The Emirates First Class lounge is sprawling and not a thing of beauty. It’s too bright for the hour, it’s understaffed and there are few places to properly recline. One thing the carrier does well is support its local printers by offering an array of editions from all corners of the world – but there’s something missing here, too. What is the English-language news outlet for the Gulf in print and digi that’s best in business, culture, style and more? Is it Abu Dhabi’s The National? Supposedly things are happening at the Khaleej Times but I can’t find a copy. Is this another media opportunity?
Bahrain
What a gentle landing – in more ways than one. The airport is human scale and I’m off the plane, through customs and into the car in about five minutes. It’s around 03.00 and the football pitches are full of young men kicking balls around but the route to the hotel is reasonably quiet. I’m greeted by Mohammed, a well-groomed Bahraini, who shows me up to the room and tells me that all is prepped for what promises to be a busy day ahead. I snatch about five hours of sleep, meet my colleagues Davy and Mikey and off we go. Bahrain is not Qatar or the UAE or Oman – it’s tiny, easy to manage and by midday I’m starting to like it.
Down some streets I feel like I might be in Beirut’s Hamra and then there are flashes of glitz and the Gulf as we know it. The working day ends with a few hours at the barber and then shifts to dinner at the just-opened Brasero Atlántico and rolls onto an impromptu house party at a wonderful 1980s villa in Yateem Gardens complete with 02.00 shawarma delivery.
Bahrain is generous, welcoming, dense in parts and wide open in others, scruffy in some corners while perfectly polished elsewhere. I like it, I want to see more, meet more Bahrainis and explore more modernist compounds – but the flight to Dubai, then on to Paris, is boarding. More soon.
