TTP disease course is independent of myeloma treatment and response
Authors: Craig C. Hofmeister, Ming Jin, Spero R. Cataland, Don M. Benson, Haifeng M. Wu
Journal: American Journal of Hematology (2010)

To the editor: You know that wonderful feeling of clueless anticipation you get when you are on your way to a movie that you know nothing about but you know will be good?That is, what I was feeling last saturday on the bus ride to Dozza, a tiny hill town about an hour and a half east of Bologna.My original plan that day was to go to Florence, which I have heard is a decent place.My strictest policy during my time here is to say ''yes'' to every opportunity (within reason), and when my friend Jenny suggested we check out Dozza, I figured I might as well tag along.Even Jenny did not know what this town had to offer.She had been told by some ''Uncle Paul'' that she could not leave Bologna without seeing Dozza and thought she did follow his advice.There were four others, myself included, who chose to trust Jenny's, or rather her uncle's, instincts, and we met up in the center of Bologna to catch the first of three busses that would supposedly be taking us into the hills.Really I had no clue what the travel plans would entail, but I enjoyed the feeling of having my day be steered by an uncle who, for one reason or another it could have been an addiction to some local vintage had taken a liking to this town.I passed out on the third, and longest, bus leg, and when I woke up I was informed that we had long ago missed our stop and were getting off.Nothing like the sense of forced adventure.One step off the bus and I knew I was no longer in Kansas, or even Oz for that matter.Emilia-Romagna, the flat, agricultural region of the Po Valley in which Bologna is situated, is not known for its Tuscan hills, primarily because those hills are in Tuscany.That morning, however, we found ourselves looking out over the kind of plush, extensive vineyard countryside that would give any landscape artist heart failure.Granted it was winter, and the grape vines that extended for miles over the hills did not have any fruit, nor did they look like they could grow fruit at any time in the near future.It was beautiful nonetheless, and I took a moment to think the best of the people at home who sent me here.However, that moment of gratitude and respite ended abruptly, replaced by a creeping sense of cold and confusion.We had never reached our intended destination and were actually in the middle of nowhere.A sightly nowhere, but nowhere all the same.Looking down the road, we saw a sign that said ''Dozza: 3 km,'' and decided to walk the short distance.The winding country road reminded me of Goshen, Massachusetts (where a close friend of mine lives), the Western New England farm feeling replaced with that of the Italian wine country.The vineyards seemed to stretch on forever, sloping over the hills and dotting the horizon.I still had no idea what to expect of Dozza, but I was sure that any town in this setting was bound to be stunning.After about 20 min of walking, we arrived at the town wall and learned immediately why this town had earned a reputation.It is covered in murals.These are not ancient relics of a distant age, nor works of famous modern artists.They are just pretty paintings, contributed regularly by well-regarded Italian artists, that line the walls of what is already a charming town in a glorious setting.Ranging from portraits to the more abstract image, the murals revealed a lot about the kind of person who would choose to call this place home.Honestly, how many of us, other than artists, live submerged in a world of art?We started to explore the town, which, like Nantucket out of season, was eerily silent.Here or there, a head might pop out of the long row of yellow, pink, and orange houses that ran up and down the narrow streets, but mostly there was no one around.Part of this, we realized, was due to lunchtime, that most holy part of the Italian day, completely set aside for eating and napping.So why not eat with them?We found a small, tavern-like osteria and tucked into a meal of mostly regional specialties.In Northern Italy, pasta is often replaced by polenta, which I have come to enjoy tremendously.For those of you who have never tasted a good polenta, the experience is really fulfilling.When it is done right, the polenta, a creamy corn paste, takes a while to congeal, leaving a solid 15 min for you to wolf down the gooey splendor that seems to coat the lining of your innards as it goes down.A bit like putting on a warm jacket from the inside of your body.I ordered polenta al ragu `, the meat sauce that Bologna made famous, and was thoroughly pleased with the result.